Lescari Revolution 03: Banners In The Wind by Juliet E. McKenna Page A

that Failla was facing. 'Come to ride in triumph with your hero?'
    She felt Tathrin stiffen. 'Where's Sorgrad?' he demanded.
    'Here.' Loose-reined, the other Mountain Man rode up behind his brother.
    Tathrin reined back his horse and looked sternly at Sorgrad. 'Don't you want to keep watch over those fires?'
    'Everything's burned out now.' The Mountain Man smiled genially at Failla.
    A burly Tallyman ran up, waving a bloodied hand. Thankfully Tathrin's horse was too burdened and weary to shy.
    'Sergeant Estrid's compliments,' the crop-headed swordsman said swiftly. 'He wants to know when you propose paying us. Before nightfall, if you please, and you should know a fair few of us will march for the Great West Road come morning.'
    The man clearly didn't relish relaying that message, though Failla saw the contempt in his eyes as he glanced at the Triollese militiamen.
    'I'll send for Estrid as soon as I have established my headquarters,' Tathrin told him curtly. 'And Correll can come too and whoever else is so eager to run away clutching a purse.'
    'Yes, Captain.' Looking rather startled, the surcoated mercenary went to rejoin his comrades.
    Gren drew a hissing breath through his teeth. 'You'll have a job and a half to persuade them to stay on after this miserable showing.'
    'I know,' snapped Tathrin.
    'So don't rebuke me for saving the day out there,' Sorgrad said coldly.
    Tathrin's arm tightened around Failla but she could see his thoughts were ranging elsewhere. 'Do we know how many renegades got away? How far do you suppose they've run?'
    'As far as the nearest village,' guessed Gren, 'or whatever farms might still be standing hereabouts.'
    'Are all the locals inside the town?' Tathrin asked her.
    'I think so.' The desperation in his voice pierced Failla. 'Those hamlets that held out when the Dalasorians came mostly changed their minds once they heard what had happened to Wyril.'
    Like Tathrin, Sorgrad was assessing their situation. 'We should be able to hold the town now, once all those outer buildings have burned down. But you won't drive those vermin out of whatever lairs they find hereabouts, not without more men. Renegades will be thorns strewn across whatever path you take till then.'
    'You've no hope of retaking Wyril, not without ten times this muster,' snorted Gren. 'Not without Lescari who can show some true steel instead of these lead-weighted dullards.'
    'Stop telling me things I know full well,' Tathrin snapped bitterly.
    Failla gestured ahead, where the road forked to either side of a tavern. 'Go down that lane.'
    'The Sundial.' Gren contemplated the tavern, forgetting his disgust with the Triolle militia. 'That looks promising.'
    'No.' Sorgrad overrode him.
    'Maybe later.' Tathrin kept his tired horse walking on, brooding behind Failla.
    Gren continued speculating about the attractions of Ashgil's inns. Which might offer a song or some game of chance?
    How many men had he killed today? Failla wondered. It never seemed to bother him. Indeed, he relished the rush and flurry of battle. Its hazards were no more or less than the risks of a game of runes. A wound was a trifling inconvenience.
    Because, as he'd told Failla more than once, always with a cheery grin, he wouldn't be killed by a blade. A Mountain soothsayer had foretold he'd been born to be hanged.
    That was only one reason why she kept him at arm's length, for all he could be such excellent company; cheerful, amiable and always ready to answer an insult with a jest. Indeed, goading someone bigger than he was only entertained Gren further.
    She looked sideways through her eyelashes at Sorgrad. Who might suspect those fires outside the walls were a wizard's work? Could anyone possibly suspect that Sorgrad was the wizard in question?
    Few people would believe any Mountain Man could have such an affinity with the elements that wizardly magic drew on. None of the tales of great mages had ever featured an uplander, or even one of the Forest Folk. Failla would