When they reached the Jut, Chandos was waiting. Padishar’s one-eyed second-in-command looked larger and blacker than Morgan remembered, his bearded, disfigured face furrowed and lined, wrapped in a great cloak that seemed to lend his massive body added size. He seized Padishar’s hand and gripped it hard. “Good hunting?”
“Dangerous would be a better word for it,” the big man replied shortly.
Chandos glanced at Morgan. “The others?”
“They’ve fought their last, save for the Valemen. Where’s Hirehone? Somewhere about or gone back to Varfleet?”
Morgan glanced quickly at him. So Padishar was still looking to discover who had betrayed them, he thought. There had been no mention of the master of Kiltan Forge since Morgan had reported seeing him in Tyrsis.
“Hirehone?” Chandos looked puzzled. “He left after you did, same day. Went back to Varfleet like you told him, I expect. He’s not here.” He paused. “You have visitors, though.”
Padishar yawned. “Visitors?”
“Trolls, Padishar.”
The outlaw chief came awake at once. “You don’t say? Trolls? Well, well. And how do they come to be here?”
They started across the bluff toward the fires, Padishar and Chandos shoulder to shoulder, Morgan trailing. “They won’t say,” Chandos said. “Came out of the woods three days back, easy as you please, as if finding us here wasn’t any trouble at all for them. Came in without a guide, found us like we were camped in the middle of a field with our pennants flying.” He grunted. “Twenty of them, big fellows, down out of the north country, the Charnals. Kelktic Rock, they call themselves. Just hung about until I went down to talk to them, then asked to speak with you. When I said you were gone, they said they’d wait.”
“No, is that so? Determined, are they?”
“Like falling rock looking to reach level ground. I brought them up when they agreed to give over their arms. Didn’t seem right leaving them sitting down in the Parma Key when they’d come all that way to find you—and done such a good job of it in the bargain.” He smirked within his beard. “Besides, I figured three hundred of us ought to be able to stop a handful of Trolls.”
Padishar laughed softly. “Doesn’t hurt to be cautious, old friend. Takes more than a shove to bring down a Troll. Where are they?”
“Over there, the fire on the left.”
Morgan and Padishar peered through the gloom. A cluster of faceless shadows were already on their feet, watching their approach. They looked huge. Unconsciously, Morgan reached back to finger the handle of his sword, remembering belatedly that a handle was just about all he had.
“The leader’s name is Axhind,” Chandos finished, his voice deliberately low now. “He’s the Maturen.”
Padishar strode up to the Trolls, his weariness shed somewhere back, his tall form commanding. One of the Trolls stepped forward to meet him.
Morgan Leah had never seen a Troll. He had heard stories about them, of course; everyone told stories about the Trolls. Once, long before Morgan was born, Trolls had come down out of the Northland, their traditional home, to trade with the members of the other Races. For a time, some of them had even lived among the men of Callahorn. But all that ended with the coming of the Federation and its crusade for Southland domination. Trolls were no longer welcome below the Streleheim, and the few who had come south quickly went north again. Reclusive by nature, it took very little to send them back to their mountain strongholds. Now, they never came out—or at least no one Morgan knew had ever heard of them coming out. To find a band this far south was very unusual.
Morgan tried not to stare at the visitors, but it was hard. The Trolls were heavily muscled, almost grotesque, their bodies tall and wide, their skin nut-brown and rough like bark. Their faces were flat and nearly featureless. Morgan couldn’t find any ears at all. They wore leather and heavy armor, and great cloaks lay scattered about their fire like discarded shadows.
“I’m Baron Creel, Leader of the Movement.” Padishar’s voice boomed out.
The Troll facing him rumbled something incomprehensible. Morgan caught only the name Axhind. The two gripped hands briefly, then Axhind beckoned Padishar to sit with him at their fire. The Trolls stepped aside as the outlaw chief and his companions moved into the light to seat themselves. Morgan glanced about uneasily as the massive creatures closed about. He had never felt so unprotected. Chandos seemed unconcerned, positioning himself behind Padishar and a few feet back. Morgan eased down next to him.
The talk began in earnest then, but the Highlander didn’t understand any of it. It was all done in the guttural language of the Trolls, a language of which Morgan knew nothing. Padishar seemed comfortable with it, however, pausing only infrequently to consider what he was saying. There was a great deal of what sounded like grunting, some heavy slurs, and much of what was said was emphasized by sharp gestures.
“How does Padishar speak their language?” Morgan whispered early on to Chandos.
The other never even glanced at him. “We see a bit more of life in Callahom than you Highlanders,” he said.
Morgan’s hunger was threatening to consume him, but he forced it from his mind, holding himself erect against encroaching weariness, keeping himself deliberately still. The talk went on. Padishar seemed pleased with its direction.
“They want to join us,” Chandos whispered after a time, apparently deciding that Morgan should be rewarded for his patience. He listened some more. “Not just these few—an entire twenty-one tribes!” He grew excited. “Five thousand men! They want to make an alliance!”
Morgan grew excited himself. “With us? Why?”
Chandos didn’t answer right away, motioning for Morgan to wait. Then he said, “The Movement has approached them before, asked them to help. But they always believed it too divided, too undependable. They’ve changed their minds of late.” He glanced over briefly. “They say Padishar has pulled the separate factions together sufficiently to reconsider. They’re looking for a way to slow the Federation advance on their homelands.” His rough voice was filled with satisfaction. “Shades, what a stroke of good fortune this might turn out to be!”
Axhind was passing out cups now and filling them with something from a great jar. Morgan took the cup he was offered and glanced down. The liquid it contained was as black as pitch. He waited until both the Troll leader and Padishar saluted, then drank. It was all he could do to keep from retching. Whatever he had been given tasted like bile.
Chandos caught the look on his face. “Troll milk,” he said and smiled.
They drained the offering, even Morgan who found it curbed his appetite in a way he would not have thought possible. Then they rose, Axhind and Padishar shook hands once more, and the Southlanders moved away.
“Did you hear?” Padishar asked quietly as they disappeared into the shadows. Stars were beginning to wink into view overhead, and the last of the daylight had faded away. “Did you hear it all, the whole of it?”
“Every last word,” Chandos replied, and Morgan nodded wordlessly.
“Five thousand men! Shades! We could challenge the best that the Federation had to offer if we had a force like that!” Padishar was ecstatic. “There might be two thousand and some that the Movement could call upon, and more than that from the Dwarves! Shades!”
He slammed his fist into his open palm, then reached over and clapped both Chandos and Morgan heartily on the back, it’s about time something went our way, wouldn’t you agree, lads?“
Morgan had dinner after that, sitting alone at a table near the cooking fire, his appetite restored by the smells that emanated from the stew kettles. Padishar and Chandos had gone off to confer on what had been happening during the former’s absence, and Morgan saw no need to be part of that. He looked about for Steff and Teel, but there was no sign of either, and it wasn’t until he had almost finished eating that Steff appeared out of the darkness and slumped down beside him.