The insect's head swiveled to look up at the blond man. "Spellsinger or not, I
think this one more dangerous than useful. I do not think he will be of use to
us." Jon-Tom went cold and still.
"No, he's not as positive as he sounds." The leader turned imploringly,
smilingly back to the lanky youth. "Please tell Hanniwuz you'll join us."
"I don't see the connection between you two."
"The Plated Folk recognize that among the warmlanders only we humans think like
they do. Only we have the ability to make war with detachment and then to govern
properly. That's our natural right, and the Plated Folk are willing to recognize
that. If we help them, they will allow us to rule in their stead. That will give
them the security they seek."
"You really believe that? Then you people are either dumb or morally bankrupt.
You have no 'natural right' to rule anything. Genetics has worked out
differently here."
One of the other guards said worriedly, "Careful, he speaks magic words."
Candlelight glinted on swords and spears, a sparkling forest of death suddenly
aimed threateningly at Jon-Tom.
"Watch your mouth, stranger!... Don't try magicking us!"
"See the effect he has?" The leader turned to Hanniwuz. "Consider how important
an ally he could be to the cause."
" 'Could be' are the key words, my friend." The insect envoy lifted a hand,
turned his head sideways, and preened his ommatidia. "He remains violently
opposed."
The stocky chieftain walked up to Jon-Tom, who tensed, but the man only put his
hands on the youth's shoulders.
"Listen to me, spellsinger. You have the size and bearing of a warrior along
with your gift for magicking. You could be a leader among us, one of those who
lord it over these lands. The climate here suits not the Plated Folk. They have
need of our services now and they will have need of them when the war is done."
"So they say." Jon-Tom eyed the impassive insect. "It's astonishing how fast a
conquerer can get acclimated."
"Control your first reactions, spellsinger. Think rationally and without
bitterness on what I say. With your stature and abilities you could rule whole
counties, entire reaches of the Lands. A dozen or more cities like Polastrindu
could be under your absolute control. Anything you wanted could be yours for the
asking: riches, fine goods, slaves of any species or sex.
"You are a young man still. What future does your mentor Clothahump offer you in
comparison? A chance to go to an unpleasant death? Is it so very wrong that
humans rule over the animals? So you do not agree with the moral justification
of our cause. Can you not rationalize what it would bring to you personally?
"Think hard, spellsinger, for the Plated Folk are destined to conquer this time,
no matter who or what opposes them. It is easy to support a martyr's death for
others... but what about for yourself? Is that what you have hoped for all your
life, to die young and bravely?" His hand slashed at the air. "That is stupid."
"I don't think your victory is assured just yet," Jon-Tom said quietly, "despite
your"--he caught himself just in time, having been on the verge of saying
"despite your secret magic," and instead finished--"despite all the quislings
you can recruit, and I don't think there'll be all that many."
"Then there are no circumstances under which you would consider joining us?
Think hard! The world can be yours."
"Shit, I wouldn't know what to do with it. I don't..." He stopped.
Seriously now, what did he owe to this world into which he'd been rudely,
unwillingly, and perhaps permanently yanked? If he ever succeeded in returning
to his own place and time, what would he become? A corpulent attorney, fat and
empty of real life? Or a sour, doped-up musician playing cheap bars and
sweet-sixteen parties?
Here he could be one step above a mayor and one step below a god. Weren't all of
them, for all their veneer of civilization and intelligence, nothing more than
oversized animals? Mudge, Caz, Pog, all of them? He considered the way Flor had
occasionally looked at Caz. Was it right that he should consider himself, even
momentarily, in competition for the love of his life with an oversized hare? Was
that less repugnant than cooperation with these people?
Why shouldn't he join them, then? Why should he not look out for himself for a
change?
"That's very good, man," whispered Hanniwuz. "You think. Death, or ascension to
a throne we will create for you. It seems an easy choice to make, does it not?
The day we attack there will be uprisings of humans throughout the warmlands.
They will flock to our cause. Together we shall force these bloated, soft,
smelly creatures back into the dirt where they belong... aahhh-chrriick!"
"I'm not sure--" Jon-Tom began.
Yells and shouts from the other side of the door and all eyes turned in that
direction. Then the opening was full of flying bodies, blood, and steel. Talea
darted in and out of the crowd, her sword taking bites out of larger and more
muscular bodies. Caz wielded a rapier with delicacy but far more ferocity than
Jon-Tom had suspected him of possessing, a furry white demon in the candlelight.
Mudge charged into the thick of the fray, his energy and activity compensating
for his usual lack of good judgment.
Dim light was reflected from fast-moving metal. There were screams and curses
and the sound of flesh hitting stone. Blood hit Jon-Tom in the face, temporarily
blinding him. Flores Quintera towered above the mob, her black mane flailing the
air as she cut with mace and her small saw edge at anyone who tried to get near
her.
Above them all, clinging precariously to a chink in the roof and occasionally
tossing a knife down into the milling cluster below, was Pog.
That explained how the others had tracked him. When the fight in the street had
broken away from Jon-Tom, Pog had thoughtfully left the battle to shadow Jon-Tom
and his captors. Then he'd returned to lead the others to the rescue.
A large, spiked mace rose in front of Jon-Tom's gaze. The man hefting it was
bleeding badly from the neck and sanity had left his face.
"Die then, otherworld thing!"
Jon-Tom closed his eyes and readied himself for oblivion. There was the shock of
concussion, but it was in his right shoulder instead of his forehead. Opening
his eyes he found the mace-wielder sprawled across his legs. As he watched, the
dying man slid to the floor.
Talea stood above the corpse, a knife in each hand, her clothes splattered with
the darker stains of blood. She looked back into the room. Another door had
opened in the far corner. His few surviving captors were retreating via the new
exit. Of Hanniwuz there was no sign.
The redhead was breathing heavily, her chest heaving beneath the shirt. She had
a wild look in her eyes. It became one of concern as she focused on the slumped
shape of Jon-Tom. He blinked at her as he held his throbbing shoulder.
"I'm all right. But just barely. Thanks." He looked past her. "Pog? You
responsible for this?"
"Dat a fact. Sometimes da coward's course is da best. When I saw da fight all
revolving around you, I knew it was you dey were after. So I held myself in
reserve in case I had ta follow or bring help."
"I'll bet you 'eld yourself in 'reserve,' you sanctimonious 'ypocrite!" bellowed
Mudge from across the room. The last of Jon-Tom's captors had fled or been
dispatched, and the otter was walking toward the table, wiping at a cut across
his chest.
"Near ruined me best vest, bugger it! Cost me thirty coppers in Lynchbany." He