“I never offered to fight your enemies for you,” Caeta said carefully. “Just help you elude them. We help you, so you can help us. Is that not fair?”
“Will you turn me over to the Brotherhood if I refuse?”
“No, never.”
Raika looked up at the farmer’s earnest reply. “They don’t have much, so they can afford to be honest,” she said to Amergin meaningfully. Carver chuckled.
Amergin remained kneeling. Gazing at the straw-strewn floor, he said, “The Brotherhood was supposed to send me home.”
“What do you mean?”
“I come from the forest, far to the south, over the New Sea. The Brotherhood hired me as scout and tracker. I thought I was to hunt game for them, but they made me track down those who’d transgressed against them: debtors, cheats, and thieves. When I led the Brotherhood to their quarry, they did terrible things to them.”
“Enough,” said Khorr, speaking for the first time. “Here’s your chance to be rid of them. Join us! I, too, am sought by ruffians through no fault of my own. These humans have shielded me, and I have decided to repay their sacrifice by helping them fight their enemies. Can you do any less?”
Amergin sank into a sitting position. He never said yes, but his change of posture was eloquent proof he meant to stay.
Half a mile away, Malek, Nils, and Hume trudged through the hot, stinking streets. Their luck had been bad all morning, and after noon word spread that the gang in charge of the northern quarter of Robann would pay good coin to find a certain malefactor who’d murdered one of their own. Taverns and inns emptied, and hundreds of tough, hungry mercenaries joined the manhunt.
The farmers entered a large establishment called the Shield and Saber. Upon entry they found the great room almost deserted. Capable of holding and serving two hundred at a time, it contained less than a dozen patrons. Eight of these were dwarves in heavy mail coats, seated at a round table and just beginning the seventh course of their noonday meal.
Hume went to the bar. His soldierly bearing and infantryman’s gait marked him for what he was. He spoke briefly with the barkeep, a centaur no less, who rebuffed his queries about warriors seeking work.
“You’ll hire no blades today,” said the centaur, polishing the bar with a filthy cloth. “Everyone who can wield a knife, from the lordly born to the worst scum in Robann, has gone to the Brotherhood of Quen.”
Malek and Nils approached. “Why have they gone?” asked Malek.
The centaur laughed, sounding not surprisingly like a horse neighing. “For gold, dirt-digger! Some fool killed the son of the gang’s chief, and a price of a thousand gold pieces has been laid on the killer’s head!”
“That’s bad,” Hume admitted.
“Word’s gone ’round about you and your friends, too,” added the centaur. “Farmers hiring blades for cheap.” He neighed again sarcastically. “Nobody’s left here but the general.”
Nils looked around for a well-appointed officer, but he saw none. “General?”
“Want to meet him?”
There were no other prospects, so Malek and Nils agreed. Leathery face split in a gap-toothed grin, the centaur came out from behind the bar and beckoned the farmers to follow.
The Shield and Saber’s great room was really two rooms, a large and a small, joined at right angles. In the smaller extension, which held booths and small, square tables, a few isolated souls lingered. Judging by their gray hair and bleary expressions, they were too old, too sick, or too lost in drink to take interest in a manhunt.
The centaur stopped by a back booth. He rapped his hairy knuckles on the headboard. “Hey, general! Wake up! You have visitors!”
“I can pay my bill,” groaned a voice on the other side of the partition.
“That I know, or you’d be in the street now!”
Braying, the centaur left them.
“This is a fool’s errand,” grunted Hume.
Malek peeked around the partition.
Seated inside the booth was an older man, near Caeta’s age. Gray-bearded, his long hair was lank and matted. He wore the moldering remnants of a fine uniform. Brass buttons, where not missing, had turned green from neglect.
The old soldier turned red-rimmed eyes toward Malek. “What do you want, stranger?”
“Are you a general?” asked the farmer.
“I was. Once.” Three wine bottles, one lying on its side, were strewn about the table. The old man reeked of sour wine and unwashed clothes.
Malek waved Hume and his brother forward. “May we speak to you, General?”
The general shrugged.
The three slid onto the bench across from the old man. He studied them, squinting against a cloud of age and drink.
“You’re not human,” he said to Hume. “What are you, half-ogre?”
“That’s not important,” Malek said firmly. “Hume is in our employ.”
“Doing what?”
“Defending these good people and their home from raiders,” Hume replied stiffly.
“Huh.” The general reached for the nearest bottle. Failing to find a cup, he drank directly from it.
“This is a waste of time,” Hume muttered.
“Mind your tongue!” the general said. “You’re in the presence of Howland uth Ungen, Order of the Rose, and Knight of Solamnia!” He missed the edge of the table with the bottle, and it fell into his lap.
“I’m in the presence of a drunken fool,” snarled Hume.
“Yes, I’m drunk! I’ve been drunk for the past four years! You’d be too if you’d seen what I’ve seen, done what I’ve done … lost what I’ve lost.”
“We need an experienced commander,” Malek pressed on, heedless. “With our people and the warriors we’ve hired, we have some chance against the bandits, but we need a real commander to lead us! Someone with experience in the field.”
Howland’s eyes fluttered and closed. He began to snore.
Hume got up, his face a mask of stone. “This one is a liar as well as a drunkard. No Knight of the Rose would sink so low.”
The centaur barkeep returned. “The last coin you gave me was tainted, general! It had more lead in it than gold!” He saw Howland’s head lolling and spat. “Get out, you cheat! Sleep it off somewhere else!”
He dragged the unresisting man out and stood him up against the booth wall. Rifling through the pockets and pouches in Howland’s clothing, he found no more money. Cursing, he flung the old man to the floor.
“The boss will take it out of my hide if the receipts are short tonight!” Glancing into the booth, he saw a gleam of metal.
“Ah!” Nestled in the corner of the booth was a sword, scabbard, and belt. It was a fine, straight weapon, plainly finished, but it was real steel.
“I’ll just keep this!” said the centaur, grinning.
“Wait.” Hume’s broad hand clamped down on the centaur’s arm. “You can’t take a man’s sword. No matter how low he’s fallen, a warrior’s sword is his soul.”
“Put it in a poem!” The barkeep tried to wrench his arm free but found Hume’s grasp too strong. “You want trouble? The Iron Gang rules this inn. One word from me, and the three of you will be swinging from their parapet by sunset.”
“Let go, Hume,” Malek said. The proud thane did so reluctantly. The centaur was about to drag Howland out by his heels when Hume spoke again.
“How much does he owe?”
“Eh?”
“Sir Howland’s bill-how much?”
The centaur’s bristling brows twitched. “Two gold.”
“You said only one was tainted.”
“One’s for my trouble-and silence.”
Hume drew his short sword. Though he drew underhand, with his grip reversed so as to keep the point down, the centaur blundered back, upsetting a pair of chairs.
“Peace!” said Hume. “I was only going to offer my own blade in payment for the bill.”
Cautiously, the centaur reached out to take Hume’s weapon. He licked the blade and plunked it with his finger.
“Not steel,” he muttered. “Wrought iron, ten years old. Worth two, maybe three gold.”