When other soldiers came up to him, Gregor introduced Kit as "my importunate son," catching her eye and winking when no one was looking. Seven was a young age to bring such a lad into camp, but none of his fellows would have stood for Gregor bringing a daughter along, since girls were seen as little more than a potential burden.
The ruse made no difference to Kit. She didn't long to be a boy. She only felt sorry for people who weren't able to take the full measure of a person because of their sex or what they appeared to be. She never intended to make that mistake.
As they continued preparing for the battle, Kit noticed a commotion at the edge of the camp. In the dim pre-dawn light she thought she saw a cluster of children scatter among the bedrolls.
"Look, Father, perhaps I can practice my sword fighting with one of those children at the end of the day," she said, motioning toward the distant forms.
'Those aren't children. Those are gully dwarves." Gregor spat out that benighted race's name as if it were an epithet. "It's amazing how they turn up sooner or later, no matter what the danger or where you pitch camp."
As Gregor was speaking, one of the gully dwarves had the misfortune to scurry near and start nosing around their equipment. An unpleasant odor wafted from the smallish creature. Moving a step closer, Gregor swung his foot back and gave the gully dwarf a boot that hurled him halfway across the camp. "Pleasure of your acquaintance!" Kit heard the unfortunate creature cry out as it soared. Apparently unharmed and unfazed, the gully dwarf picked himself up and scampered off in the opposite direction.
Kit smiled to herself. Even gully dwarves added to her pleasure at being part of camp life. She was brought back to more pressing matters when Gregor began outlining the battle plan for her.
Swiftwater's outlaws occupied a heavily wooded ridge at the far end of the valley. The location offered the barbarians a commanding view of the landscape to the east. At their backs, the ridge sloped away steeply, offering little cover except for widely scattered rocks. Potential attackers had few options.
Gregor's forces were within striking distance, sequestered among rocks and trees on a sharp rise to the south. So far, they had managed to remain undetected.
Burek had wanted to wait until the hovering storm broke and provided a distraction, obscuring their attack, Gregor explained. Then, being both proud and impatient, the minotaur had wanted to attempt to lead a frontal assault, hoping to draw out Swiftwater and his group from their sanctuary. Part of the hired troops would also circle around and attempt to besiege Swiftwater's camp from the rear, despite the rough terrain.
Gregor had disagreed, and eventually he won the argument. Scouts loyal to the mercenary leader had reported that the barbarians sent out a large foraging party every morning, often with Swiftwater himself in command. Gregor wanted the minotaurs to split up and creep forward along both sides of the valley, under cover of foliage, to just below the ridge where the outlaw band was camped.
When the foraging contingent emerged into the meadow, the minotaurs would cut in from the rear while Gregor and his reserves attacked from the front. With any luck, Swiftwater would be in the surrounded party. Once he was killed, his immediate troops could be expected to panic and flee into the woods. Some of Gregor's soldiers would be hanging back among the trees to eliminate them.
The plan placed the minotaurs in a difficult position, Gregor acknowledged, since there would be close fighting with members of the foraging party, as well as danger from the rear when those who remained at Swiftwater's camp joined the battle. But Gregor's troops would press the attack from all sides and attempt to draw off fire from the minotaurs.
Burek had conceded the boldness of Gregor's scheme. Valiant race that they were, the minotaurs had accepted their risky assignment with dignity. Before they divided up, Kit noticed that the mammoth creatures, outfitted in all their glittering armament, knelt as a group to exchange hushed vows amongst themselves, secret words that no human would ever be permitted to overhear.
The other mercenaries observed their ritual with respect. The long minutes of silence were almost unbearable.
Then, with Burek in the lead, the nearly two dozen minotaurs rose as one and marched off. After them, with great solemnity, came Gregor and his men. Her father was riding a borrowed steed, a silver-gray charger. He had left behind his precious Cinnamon for Kit, so that she would have a reliable means of escape in the unlikely event of a rout.
Her father did not pay her any attention now. His eyes were trained resolutely on the task ahead, his mouth set in a grim line. This was the first time Kit had seen Gregor riding into battle, and that scene was how she would always think of him-proud, erect, invincible.
Trailing them all, serving as little more than a buffer in the battle, were Nolan and his small volunteer brigade of locals. Unlike the more professional soldiers, Nolan's farmers clutched roughhewn clubs and shovels and odd tools. But these could be every bit as deadly as more sophisticated weapons in the hand-to-hand struggle that would follow the first clash.
From the vantage Gregor had chosen for her, underneath the oak tree, Kitiara strained to see the minotaurs moving through the tall grass, past the brush and occasional trees that lined the valley. But she could see nothing.
Suddenly, Kitiara caught the sound of horses snuffling and snorting in the still morning air. Birds flew out from the underbrush on the opposite side of the valley, and a group of roughly forty barbarians filed out of the woods. They rode a high-strung breed of horses renowned for their speed. Kitiara wondered how the minotaurs, who were afoot, would fare against them.
The barbarians sat easily in their saddles. From a distance, they looked to Kitiara to be wearing leather capes decorated with multicolored feathers. She thought she spied their chieftain, Swiftwater, trotting in the lead, stocky and arrogant. Then another of the horde caught her eye. He alone was shrouded like a wraith, his garb devoid of all decoration or color. From his saddle dangled a multitude of vials and potions. A magic-user, thought Kit.
After more than a year of raiding the countryside virtually unchallenged, the barbarians were careless of any possible threat. Their horses seemed to float through the grass. The riders said little to each other as they rode, though the small dogs trotting alongside yapped and growled occasionally.
As the party moved out into the open sweep of the meadow, Burek and his companions burst from the mists that still clung to the lower reaches of the valley. Their wild bellows caused several of the barbarians' horses to rear up in fright, and at least two of the riders lost their purchase and were trampled in the ensuing confusion.
One of the barbarians put a hollow gourd to his lips and sounded a shrill call for help. Already a few men were scrambling from the dense pine trees on top of the ridge behind the minotaurs, alerted by the commotion. Kitiara could see other fighters move to the edge of the trees and start fitting arrows in their bows, taking aim at Burek and his gallant troop.
As the first arrows started flying, Kitiara heard a shout and saw a brigade of her father's soldiers charge up along the sides of the ridge on horseback, forcing the archers to retreat. At the same time, reinforcements swung up on their horses from behind bushes and trees where they had been camouflaged, attacking the advance guard of barbarians from the front. Swiftwater's men, neatly bisected, recoiled in surprise.
Smoke and flame indicated that the magic-user had managed to cast a spell. Up above the melee rose a garish phantasm that dripped blood and flashed horrid yellow fangs. Kitiara knew that it was an illusion intended to paralyze nerves and terrorize opponents. Gregor, with his wisdom of many battles, had predicted this tactic. He and many of his men had rimmed their eyes with an ointment to counteract the spell.