We watched for a while and nothing much happened but then the gates of the fess swung open and a small group emerged, catching up the curious as they headed for an open space in the valley. Everyone sat in a half-circle on the dry ground while the man who’d come out of the fess stood up to address them. He was stocky in build but with a face Niello would have paid good coin to model for an actor’s mask. Wiry golden hair was swept back from a broad forehead above a proud nose. The man’s jaw was square beneath a close-trimmed beard and, given his gestures, his mouth was as eloquent as it was handsome. He turned from side to side, hands expressive as they were spread in appeal, clenched in determined oration and finally raised to the skies in impassioned exhortation. The crowd stirred, soon nodding and echoing his movements as his words spurred them on. When he finished whatever it was he was saying with a flourish of his sword, his audience sprang to their feet, waving and visibly cheering, eagerness bright on every face. My frustration at not being able to hear this charismatic leader’s words was mirrored on everyone else’s expression as they gazed down at the face framed in the bowl while Usara bent all the spell’s attention on the man.
“We’d need ten times the men we’ve got here to stop them,” growled ’Gren.
“Who’s to defend these, if we take everyone who can stand and hold a weapon?” Darni glowered at the children, the elderly and the infirm.
“That would be a legitimate use of wizardry,” offered Gilmarten.
“Wouldn’t you be more use fighting?” Sorgrad countered. “A lightning bolt in the right place could do more damage than half a Tormalin cohort.”
“We’re going to have to be very careful where and how we fight.” Darni was ignoring this byplay. “Picking the right ground is going to be crucial.”
’Gren was watching the tiny figures drifting away from the speaker. “I don’t think he’s managed to rouse any complete soke. If this was a true host, like the old sagas, every fess would have its own fire, its own standard.”
“So who’s behind him?” I looked closer, trying to discern any difference worth the name in the multitude.
“Exiles, those driven out for some crime, real or imagined,” suggested Sorgrad with a thin smile.
“Younger sons from hungry lands,” offered ’Gren. “Sons of those that married out and lost their blood claim?”
“ ’Sar, I need you to scry all the closest valleys,” decided Darni. “See if they are all taking up arms or whether this is a limited rising, stirred up by Blondie there.”
“I don’t know what difference that makes,” muttered Usara rather testily. “There are scores of them, all with swords, and they’re heading this way.”
“Not necessarily,” Sorgrad shook his head. “They could head out into the Gap just as easily as swing south toward us.”
“All the more reason to try and put a stop to this good and fast.” Darni looked at Usara with ill-disguised impatience. “Look beyond the reach of your own hands, man!”
This was soldiers’ talk. But I’m not a soldier, never have been, never want to be. On the other hand, on a very few, desperate occasions in my early years on the road, hunger had forced me into lurking in alleys, cudgel in one hand and heart in my mouth. I’d always looked for some man careless in his drink with a well-filled pouch that I could follow and relieve of both senses and purse. At a head shorter than any potential mark and half the heft, I wasn’t about to take on anyone in an equal fight. A footpad goes for the head, not the arms.
“What if you kill off their leaders?” I asked. “The Ice Islanders fighting in Kellarin last summer gave up at once when their commanders died.”
“Then Elietimm have less in common with the Men of the Mountains than they claim,” responded Sorgrad with contempt. “Anyatimm are trained to take over any task if another man’s injured, be it in the diggings, on the trap line or fighting lowlanders in the Gap.”
“They’re paying a lot of heed to Pretty Boy though,” mused ’Gren. “I bet him catching an arrow in the throat would give them pause for thought. A mob’s only as strong as whoever’s holding it together, ’Grad, you know that.”
“What about the Sheltya?” I suggested. “Especially if they’re using aetheric magic to keep everyone together.”
Sorgrad grimaced. “You’d be swapping silver for copper, my girl. Killing Sheltya gets you staked out on a mountainside alive for as long as it takes the ravens to find you and peck out your eyes and liver. Kill Sheltya and that army will be out to avenge a blood feud.”
“What about this Ice Islander?” Nervousness gnawed at the pit of my belly.
Darni looked at Sorgrad. “Would blood loyalty extend to him? I’ll bet half the wealth of Hadrumal he’s at the bottom of this mischief.”
“Even if he’s claiming to be Sheltya, he’s not born to any soke this side of the ocean, let alone the Gap,” replied Sorgrad slowly. “Everyone can see that from his face and hair. They’d probably look to avenge his death, but I can’t see it ranking as blood insult.”
“Family’s everything in the mountains,” ’Gren nodded. “The knife cuts both ways; if you’re not family, you’re nothing.”
“So what if we take the Elietimm enchanter out of the balance?” I persisted. “The Sheltya stay neutral normally, we know that.” I felt my way cautiously through this. “For them to get involved, something must have stirred them up. Given what we saw at the Hachalfess, the Sheltya reckon to be cock of the dunghill, so it would have to be someone out of the ordinary run of the runes. It has to be the enchanter, doesn’t it?”
“He could well be a key link holding a lot of this together,” Sorgrad looked more cheerful. “It’s got to be worth seeing what happens if we snap it.”
“So the three of us go up into the heights and deal with him,” suggested ’Gren. “You lick these Folk into shape, Darni, and stop Pretty Boy’s little army getting any deeper into trouble in the meantime.”
“I’d certainly take any road that offered a short cut through this,” muttered Darni. “I’ve no troops for a pitched battle.”
“I’m sorry but I really cannot agree to this.” We all looked at Usara and the wizard’s fair coloring betrayed him. “I need Sorgrad here,” he said, getting defiantly to his feet and letting his spell fade unheeded. “Planir told me I was to use my powers together with Gilmarten and any other mage I could find locally.”
“I’m no mage and neither you nor your Archmage has any claim on me,” replied Sorgrad in a level tone.
“I understand you could never explore the potential of your wizardry, given your birth and upbringing,” Usara continued as if Sorgrad had not spoken, “but even untrained as you are we can drill you in some simple spells.”
“No,” said Sorgrad.
Usara stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“I didn’t make myself clear?” Sorgrad’s eyes were cold and hard. “No.”
“This is no time to be stubborn, man. You are mage-born!” Usara’s puzzlement soured toward anger. “You have a duty to use that wizardry and I cannot imagine a more crucial time for you to accept your responsibilities!”
“I have no duty to an accident of birth,” replied Sorgrad with contempt. “I bear no more responsibility for it than you do for losing your hair. My loyalty is to my blood and my friends.”
“Even if your attitude leaves these people dead on the Forest floor?” demanded Usara hotly. “When your cooperation could have saved them?”
’Gren stirred and I gave him a warning glare; I had another rune to turn this hand. “What exactly did Planir say?” The wizard was momentarily disconcerted as I claimed his attention by standing between him and Sorgrad. It wasn’t the most sensible place to be but someone had to stop this from turning into a fistfight.
“I asked what I was supposed to do, given there wasn’t another mage hereabouts beyond Gilmarten—and me,” Usara replied crossly. “Planir said not to be so sure of that and then he broke the link. He must have meant Sorgrad, that’s all there is to it.”