valley. Mainly the track clung to the banks of a chattery stream, avoiding the head-smashing branches of the forest. He passed more of the Liberator’s followers. If the Jilvenby peasant’s numbers had been anywhere near correct, there could not be many more of them ahead.
After a mile or two, Dosh rounded a bend into a section of the valley that was more open. Its walls rose steeply from a flat floor, carpeted by shrubs but few trees. He saw the flicker of fires ahead, a cluster of fallen stars among the bushes. There were many more of them than he would have expected.
There was nothing to stop him riding right on by. He could be in Nosokland by morning, whether or not it killed his moa. That was what he should do. On the other hand, he must have at least an hour’s start on the Joalians, even if they risked the ascent in moonlight. He had come this way to warn D’ward, so he might as well do so.
His sentimentality would be the death of him.
He even decided as he turned Swift off the trail that, if he were to be completely honest—not something he encouraged in himself—he would admit that he would dearly love to spend a friendly evening with D’ward beside a campfire, chatting of old times and finding out just what all this Liberator racket was about.
He headed for the fires and the sound of crying babies. He noted people moving around in the shrubbery and guessed that they were gathering berries. How many berries would it take to fill a hundred empty stomachs?
A man appeared as if from nowhere, right in his path. He wore only a leather kilt—chilly covering in the mountains at night—and he carried a spear and a round shield. He said, “Halt!”
Dosh halted. The spear was a serious matter.
“State your business!” The sentry had a familiar accent, and suddenly his face was familiar also.
“Doggan! Doggan Herder! It’s me—Dosh!”
“Five gods! I mean, Bless me! It’s the faggot himself! What you doing here, slime?”
“I could ask the same of you.” Dosh considered dismounting, but he was more worried now by Swift’s teeth than Doggan’s spear. He wondered how many more of D’ward’s old Warband might be around and concluded that there would probably be quite a few of them. Nagian age groups were fanatically loyal and did everything in bunches. “Where’s your face paint, warrior?”
“Face paint is out!” Doggan said firmly. He was a short, broad man, more notable for muscle than brains. He seemed unaware that what he had just said was rank heresy to a Nagian. “I asked you what you wanted.”
“I came to see D’ward.”
Doggan thought about it. Then he gestured with the spear. “Follow me. And if you let that brute bite me, then it’s cutlets.”
“Lead on.” Dosh began rethinking strategy. A troop of Nagian warriors would be a fair match for the Joalians. If D’ward was willing to protect him, he might be out of danger.
A few minutes brought them to a campfire. Having hobbled Swift, he limped wearily forward into the light, his leg throbbing like hammers where the moa had kicked it. Half a dozen shivery-looking Nagians squatted around the flames, apparently listening intently to D’ward, who was sitting on a rock, expounding. He broke off what he was saying, his teeth flashing in a smile.
“Well, see who’s here! Our old messenger! Welcome, Dosh!” He was dressed in a dark, long-sleeved priest’s gown. He wore a close-cropped beard and hints of black curls showed under his cowl, but he would look more like a priest if he shaved both his face and his head. That would be a pity.
“Thanks.” Dosh moved closer to the fire and the others quickly made room for him, lots of room, as if he carried some contagious disease. He crouched down to warm himself, registering that these men were all from the old Sonalby troop—Prat’han Potter, Burthash Wheelwright, Gopaenum Butcher, and the rest. Every one of them would cut himself into small cubes if D’ward asked.
Silence
After a mile or two, Dosh rounded a bend into a section of the valley that was more open. Its walls rose steeply from a flat floor, carpeted by shrubs but few trees. He saw the flicker of fires ahead, a cluster of fallen stars among the bushes. There were many more of them than he would have expected.
There was nothing to stop him riding right on by. He could be in Nosokland by morning, whether or not it killed his moa. That was what he should do. On the other hand, he must have at least an hour’s start on the Joalians, even if they risked the ascent in moonlight. He had come this way to warn D’ward, so he might as well do so.
His sentimentality would be the death of him.
He even decided as he turned Swift off the trail that, if he were to be completely honest—not something he encouraged in himself—he would admit that he would dearly love to spend a friendly evening with D’ward beside a campfire, chatting of old times and finding out just what all this Liberator racket was about.
He headed for the fires and the sound of crying babies. He noted people moving around in the shrubbery and guessed that they were gathering berries. How many berries would it take to fill a hundred empty stomachs?
A man appeared as if from nowhere, right in his path. He wore only a leather kilt—chilly covering in the mountains at night—and he carried a spear and a round shield. He said, “Halt!”
Dosh halted. The spear was a serious matter.
“State your business!” The sentry had a familiar accent, and suddenly his face was familiar also.
“Doggan! Doggan Herder! It’s me—Dosh!”
“Five gods! I mean, Bless me! It’s the faggot himself! What you doing here, slime?”
“I could ask the same of you.” Dosh considered dismounting, but he was more worried now by Swift’s teeth than Doggan’s spear. He wondered how many more of D’ward’s old Warband might be around and concluded that there would probably be quite a few of them. Nagian age groups were fanatically loyal and did everything in bunches. “Where’s your face paint, warrior?”
“Face paint is out!” Doggan said firmly. He was a short, broad man, more notable for muscle than brains. He seemed unaware that what he had just said was rank heresy to a Nagian. “I asked you what you wanted.”
“I came to see D’ward.”
Doggan thought about it. Then he gestured with the spear. “Follow me. And if you let that brute bite me, then it’s cutlets.”
“Lead on.” Dosh began rethinking strategy. A troop of Nagian warriors would be a fair match for the Joalians. If D’ward was willing to protect him, he might be out of danger.
A few minutes brought them to a campfire. Having hobbled Swift, he limped wearily forward into the light, his leg throbbing like hammers where the moa had kicked it. Half a dozen shivery-looking Nagians squatted around the flames, apparently listening intently to D’ward, who was sitting on a rock, expounding. He broke off what he was saying, his teeth flashing in a smile.
“Well, see who’s here! Our old messenger! Welcome, Dosh!” He was dressed in a dark, long-sleeved priest’s gown. He wore a close-cropped beard and hints of black curls showed under his cowl, but he would look more like a priest if he shaved both his face and his head. That would be a pity.
“Thanks.” Dosh moved closer to the fire and the others quickly made room for him, lots of room, as if he carried some contagious disease. He crouched down to warm himself, registering that these men were all from the old Sonalby troop—Prat’han Potter, Burthash Wheelwright, Gopaenum Butcher, and the rest. Every one of them would cut himself into small cubes if D’ward asked.
Silence
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