thief in stolen armor. Birancour doesn’t have any Jasuru knights.”
Well, that wasn’t as politic as Marcus had hoped. The bandit captain’s laughter was hearty and false. Marcus put his hand on the pommel of his sword and tried to think of a way out of this that left the fewest people dead. If the actors charged the bowmen at the sides of the ’van, they might spook them into running. Leaving only four men on horse for him. Yardem appeared at his side, silent as a shadow. The Tralgu’s bow was in his hand. So two horesmen each. Unless there were more in the trees.
“The day you mutiny and take the company?” Marcus murmured.
“Not today, sir.”
The caravan master was shouting now, and the false knight’s face was taking the green-bronze cast that spoke of rage among the Jasuru. Marcus slipped off the wagon and walked forward. The men on horse didn’t seem to notice him until he was almost even with the ’van master’s mare.
“How much do you want?” Marcus said.
Timzinae and Jasuru both shifted to stare down at him with equal anger.
“Pardon my interrupting your fine and spirited debate, but how much do you want?”
“You should show me some respect, boy,” the Jasuru said.
“How much do you want,
my lord,
” Marcus said. “Because if you’ll look at the ’van here, we don’t have much. Unless his lordship and his lordship’s noble compatriots are willing to accept tribute in tin ore and iron, there may not be a great deal we can offer.”
“Don’t speak for me,” the Timzinae hissed.
“Don’t get us killed,” Marcus said, equally softly.
“And who are you, Firstblood?” the Jasuru said.
“Marcus Wester. I’m guard captain of this ’van.”
The laughter this time was less forced, and the men on the other horses joined in. The Jasuru shook his broad head and grinned. His tongue was black, and his teeth needle sharp.
“You’re Marcus Wester?”
“I am.”
“Ah. And I suppose that one back there is Lord Harton returned from the dead. Tell you what, I’ll be Drakis Stormcrow.”
“No less likely than Lord Knightly Whatever-it-was,” the ’van master said.
Marcus ignored him. “You’ve heard of me, then.”
“I was at Wodford, and I am about done being insulted,” the Jasuru said. “All your coin. All your food. Half your women. The rest of you can crawl back to Vanai.”
“Eat shit,” the ’van master said.
The Jasuru reached for his sword, and a new voice boomed out behind them.
“We. Shall. Pass.”
Master Kit stood on the top of the feed wagon. The black and purple robes of Orcus the Demon King draped fromhim like shadows made solid, and he held a staff with a skull on its end. When the actor spoke again, his voice carried to them all as if it came from the dim air.
“My protection is on these men. You cannot harm them.”
“What the sweet hell is this?” the Jasuru said, but his voice had taken a worried tone.
“You cannot harm us,” Master Kit said. “Your arrows will stray from us. Your swords will not break our skins. You have no power here.”
Marcus turned back to the Jasuru. Confusion and anxiety twisted the bandit’s face.
“This is shit,” one of the three behind him said, but his voice lacked conviction.
“Who is that?” the Jasuru said.
“My cunning man,” Marcus said.
“
Hear me,
” Master Kit shouted, and the forest itself seemed to go quiet. “The trees are our allies and the shadow of oak protects us. You cannot harm us, boy. And we
shall
pass.”
A chill ran up Marcus’s spine. He could see that Orcus the Demon King was having much the same effect on the bandits. He felt a small, tentative hope. The Jasuru pulled his bow from its sling and nocked a vicious-looking arrow.
“Say that again, you bastard!” the bandit captain shouted.
Even in the dimness, Marcus saw Master Kit smile. The actor raised his arms, the dark folds of the costume seeming to twist on their own accord, just as they’d done during
Well, that wasn’t as politic as Marcus had hoped. The bandit captain’s laughter was hearty and false. Marcus put his hand on the pommel of his sword and tried to think of a way out of this that left the fewest people dead. If the actors charged the bowmen at the sides of the ’van, they might spook them into running. Leaving only four men on horse for him. Yardem appeared at his side, silent as a shadow. The Tralgu’s bow was in his hand. So two horesmen each. Unless there were more in the trees.
“The day you mutiny and take the company?” Marcus murmured.
“Not today, sir.”
The caravan master was shouting now, and the false knight’s face was taking the green-bronze cast that spoke of rage among the Jasuru. Marcus slipped off the wagon and walked forward. The men on horse didn’t seem to notice him until he was almost even with the ’van master’s mare.
“How much do you want?” Marcus said.
Timzinae and Jasuru both shifted to stare down at him with equal anger.
“Pardon my interrupting your fine and spirited debate, but how much do you want?”
“You should show me some respect, boy,” the Jasuru said.
“How much do you want,
my lord,
” Marcus said. “Because if you’ll look at the ’van here, we don’t have much. Unless his lordship and his lordship’s noble compatriots are willing to accept tribute in tin ore and iron, there may not be a great deal we can offer.”
“Don’t speak for me,” the Timzinae hissed.
“Don’t get us killed,” Marcus said, equally softly.
“And who are you, Firstblood?” the Jasuru said.
“Marcus Wester. I’m guard captain of this ’van.”
The laughter this time was less forced, and the men on the other horses joined in. The Jasuru shook his broad head and grinned. His tongue was black, and his teeth needle sharp.
“You’re Marcus Wester?”
“I am.”
“Ah. And I suppose that one back there is Lord Harton returned from the dead. Tell you what, I’ll be Drakis Stormcrow.”
“No less likely than Lord Knightly Whatever-it-was,” the ’van master said.
Marcus ignored him. “You’ve heard of me, then.”
“I was at Wodford, and I am about done being insulted,” the Jasuru said. “All your coin. All your food. Half your women. The rest of you can crawl back to Vanai.”
“Eat shit,” the ’van master said.
The Jasuru reached for his sword, and a new voice boomed out behind them.
“We. Shall. Pass.”
Master Kit stood on the top of the feed wagon. The black and purple robes of Orcus the Demon King draped fromhim like shadows made solid, and he held a staff with a skull on its end. When the actor spoke again, his voice carried to them all as if it came from the dim air.
“My protection is on these men. You cannot harm them.”
“What the sweet hell is this?” the Jasuru said, but his voice had taken a worried tone.
“You cannot harm us,” Master Kit said. “Your arrows will stray from us. Your swords will not break our skins. You have no power here.”
Marcus turned back to the Jasuru. Confusion and anxiety twisted the bandit’s face.
“This is shit,” one of the three behind him said, but his voice lacked conviction.
“Who is that?” the Jasuru said.
“My cunning man,” Marcus said.
“
Hear me,
” Master Kit shouted, and the forest itself seemed to go quiet. “The trees are our allies and the shadow of oak protects us. You cannot harm us, boy. And we
shall
pass.”
A chill ran up Marcus’s spine. He could see that Orcus the Demon King was having much the same effect on the bandits. He felt a small, tentative hope. The Jasuru pulled his bow from its sling and nocked a vicious-looking arrow.
“Say that again, you bastard!” the bandit captain shouted.
Even in the dimness, Marcus saw Master Kit smile. The actor raised his arms, the dark folds of the costume seeming to twist on their own accord, just as they’d done during
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