"Don't sell them short," a gnarled corporal grated. "Vicious, they is, when they's fighting."
"And they isn't no cowards," another rumbled. "Arrowheads and spears can kill a man as dead as any blaster-bolt, my lad. And y' can't duck 'em, when they come in clouds!"
"How many did we lose?" The grizzled sergeant glared down into his beer. "A dozen a day? Sixty in a week? A hundred?"
"And for years it went on, years and years!" A fortyish sergeant slammed his tankard down on the bar. "We'll not have those days back—no, not at any cost!"
With a shock, Rod recognized Thaler.
"Well, even I wouldn't go that far," the grizzled sergeant mused. "I can think of some prices I wouldn't pay."
"For all that, so can I," the fortyish one admitted. "But there's plenty of prices well worth it!" He glared around him. "What's two lives, against the thousands that a war would cost? What's two lives, hey?"
The room was silent. Finally, "Aye," grunted the grizzled veteran, "but like as not, they'll squirm out of it at the trial."
"Only if they're innocent," Yorick put in quickly. "Okay, so I haven't known Shacklar as long as you have—but I'd have faith in his justice."
"Innocent or not, who cares?" Thaler turned to glower at Yorick. "If they're freed, the Wolmen will explode and swarm down on us again! And this time, every man jack one of 'em has a blaster!"
A mutter of apprehension ran around the bar. Most men shuddered, and the room was quiet.
For a time. Then a voice said,
"Kill 'em."
Shocked silence.
Then another voice. "Aye."
"Aye, kill 'em!"
"What matter two lives, in place of thousands?"
"Aye! Give the Wolmen their dead bodies in the morning, and they'll go away!"
The grizzled sergeant frowned. "But when Shacklar finds out…"
"He won't make no fuss," Thaler said, with a vicious grin. "What's the dead, compared to the living? Nay, Shacklar may be sheet-pale, but he'll say naught."
"But they're innocent!" Yorick protested.
"So're the men who would die in a war!" Thaler snarled. "What's two innocents against a thousand, laddie? Eh?"
"But the trial!" Yorick bleated. "Would you want to go without a trial?"
"They're not me," Thaler snarled. "They're not any of us."
That drew a low rumble of agreement.
"But…" Yorick stabbed with a finger. "If you sell them for peace, what's gonna happen when one of you is accused?"
"Oh, my bleedin' heart!" the grizzled sergeant growled.
"What's-a-matter, bucko? You want war?" Thaler looked Yorick up and down, as though measuring him for a coffin. "Ayuh, I think that's it. You've never seen a battle, have you, laddie? And you're sick with craving to be blooded."
"The hell I am!" Yorick said quickly. "I saw my share of scrapes before I wound up here—and calling 'em 'police actions' didn't cut the casualty lists!"
"I don't believe a word of it." Thaler slipped off his bar stool and stepped up very close to the Neanderthal, blood in his eye. "You don't have the look of a fighter to me. But you'd be glad enough to see us die in your place."
"Let's go get them," someone growled.
"Aye!"
"Aye, get 'em and blast 'em!"
"Serve 'em on a platter!"
"Aye!"
"You're in it, laddie." Thaler fixed Yorick with a glittering eye. "Come with us now, or we'll know you're against us, and a traitor to the whole of the colony!"
"With you?" Yorick stared.
Then he leaped off his bar stool. "I'll do more than come with you! I saw the two of them scurrying for cover when I was coming in here. You come with me, and I'll show you where to find them!"
Thaler stared, then slowly grinned.
"Let's go!" Yorick shouldered his way through the mob, heading for the door.
Rod and Gwen exchanged one quick, appalled glance, then shot away from the building at top speed.
Where, my lord? Gwen's thoughts sounded inside Rod's head.
Anywhere, Rod answered, looking around frantically. There.' He pointed to two huge barrels, lying on their sides, empty. Crouch down!"
Gwen did, clutching her broom to her, eyes squeezed shut. Rod hefted the barrel up and lowered it gently over her. Then he crouched down beside her, staring at the second barrel, concentrating, blocking out the rest of the world. The barrel lifted slowly, then descended to settle over him. He relaxed and sat back, leaning against its side, but kept his eyes shut, listening with his mind, seeing through the eyes of one of the less-intelligent soldiers back in the middle of the mob.
Yorick exploded out of the tavern with the lynch mob behind him. "Come on! I'll show you the last place I saw them!"
Gwen's thoughts rang in Rod's head: How could he turn against us so thoroughly, so quickly?
I don't know, Rod answered grimly, but I'm considering taking up a new hobby. Say—carving…
The sound of the mob faded, but it still clamored inside their minds. The soldiers ran frantically into the night, then slowed as the first flush of enthusiasm began to wear off. Rod's medium-soldier began to grow resentful—what was he doing, out here in the middle of the night, running nowhere?
Then Yorick's voice crowed, way ahead, "There they go! Quick, after them!"
The soldier's enthusiam leaped up again. Filled with excitement, howling with bloodlust, he ran after his companions. They swerved to the left, dashed down a darkened street, and ran for several minutes. The soldier's breath began to rasp in his lungs, and sullen resentment began again.
Yorick howled, "There! Between those two buildings! I saw 'em run! After 'em, quick!"
Excitement boiled up again, and the soldier leaped after his mates, the thrill of the chase pounding through his veins.
On down the street they ran—and on… and on… and on…
Rod thought at his barrel; it lifted, and he turned to Gwen as her barrel drifted up, then dropped down on its side. They shared a guilty look.
"How could we have doubted him?" Gwen murmured.
"Easy—I never did trust anybody who was always cheerful. But I was wrong—dead wrong."
"Not 'dead,' praise Heaven!"
"But a fool." Rod's mouth tightened. "What's going to happen to me if I keep doubting my real friends?"
"We shall repay him," Gwen assured, "with our safety."
"True," Rod agreed. "That's what he wants most right now. And, come to think of it…" He turned toward the tavern with a glint in his eye. "He has bought us a little time here, hasn't he?"
Gwen looked startled, then smiled. "He hath indeed, my lord. Art thou mad as a bantam cock, thus to beard thine enemies?"
Rod nodded. "Not a bad simile, my lady. Y'know, I'm feeling a bit thirsty. Shall we?"
"Certes, an thou dost wish it, my lord." She clasped his arm.
"After all, everyone who's out for our blood has already left, right?"
They turned to face the tavern, threw back their shoulders, and stepped off in.unison.
With a jaunty swagger, they sauntered into Cholly's Tavern.
Cholly looked up to see who was coming in, then looked again, wide-eyed.
The half-dozen patrons who were still there looked up, wondering what could startle Cholly—then stared, themselves.
Cholly recovered right away, turning back to mop the bar. "Well then, now, Master and Missus! What'll be your pleasure?"
"Just a pint." Rod slid onto a bar stool. Gwen slid up beside him, hands folded on the edge of the bar, the very picture of demure innocence. Rod grinned around at the other patrons, and they swallowed heavily, managed feeble grins, and turned back to their drinking.