The leader bellowed with anger as he scrambled to his feet, shouting, “To me! Seize this impudent idiot!”
The two men who had been chasing Alea reined in, turned their horses, and went galloping back. The other three closed on Gar, pulling clubs from their belts and swinging.
They landed on shoulder and ribs. Gar howled with pain, swinging his staff in wild overhand arcs. They seemed to be the flailings of an untrained, uncoordinated simpleton, but Alea heard more knocks on wood than thuds on flesh—and knew that the blows that did land on Gar didn’t do anywhere nearly as much harm as they seemed to, that he had robbed them of their force with telekinesis. Still, he roared in agony and she winced, knowing that he would be black and blue tomorrow. All right, I’m safe! she thought.
Gar promptly fell off the horse and cowered in the roadway, wailing, arms up to protect his head and face. Clubs drubbed on his back until the red-faced leader held up a hand and called, “Enough!”
His men held off but still hovered near, clubs raised. The leader stepped up to seize Gar’s hair and yank his head back. “Let that be a lesson to you, bucko, and don’t you ever raise your hand to a sergeant or an officer again! From now on you’ll do as you’re told, and right quickly, too—for you’re one of General Malachi’s soldiers now!”
“Him? A soldier?” one of the bandits cried, scandalized.
“And why not, I’d like to know?” the sergeant demanded. “He’s big, and scary when he’s angry, we’ve all seen that and he can fight, though not very well. He’ll do fine to drive in front of us against the next batch of villagers who decide to talk back to General Malachi.”
“Drive?” Gar asked, peeking through his fingers. “That’s right, drive, like the ox you are!” the sergeant snapped. He turned to his men. “Tie his hands with a leading rope and let him run behind my horse.”
“Aye, Sergeant!” one of the men said, gloating. “We can drive him against the enemy broken as well as whole!”
“He’ll have to be able to walk, at least,” the sergeant grunted. “If he falls, we’ll give him a chance to get up—but he’ll be properly weary before he gets back to camp!”
As they lashed his hands together, Gar thought, Don’t worry, Alea—they won’t do me any real damage, no matter how badly they want to. Besides, after what we’ve seen, I’m all ready to meet General Malachi again!
Alea shuddered at the thought. He may have been right when he thought you were a danger to him—but don’t forget he’s a danger to you, too! I want you back alive, Gar Pike, not in pieces!
His answer wasn’t worded, only a warm glow that seemed to enfold her for a second, then withdrew as the sergeant kicked his horse into a trot and Gar jerked forward as the rope tightened. Then he was off running, chasing the tail of a cavalry horse while the other bandits whooped and rode alongside, aiming stinging slaps at his head and shoulders. Gar wailed dolefully and stumbled rather theatrically, but managed to keep up.
Alea stood watching him go, numbed and shaken. Why had he answered her scolding with such warmth? What did he think she’d meant, anyway? And was he right?
Unnerved, she stared after the soldiers until they were gone. Then she realized that she had been staring at an empty road for several minutes and gave herself an impatient shake. She knew what to do, what she had done before—the physical part of it, at least.
She found a tree with low branches, took a rope from her pack and tied it to the straps, also her staff, then laid them on the ground and leaped up to sit on the lowest limb. She rose to her feet and started climbing. Twenty feet high, she found a branch that forked almost at the trunk and sat down, tying herself to the trunk with the end of the rope. Then she hauled up her gear to set the pack on the fork before her and her staff across her knees. There, where she would be secure from attack for at least long enough to come awake and defend herself should the need arise, she closed her eyes, listening for Gar’s thoughts, concentrating on them until they became more real than the breeze that fanned her cheek or the songs of the birds that began to come back and settle near her, thinking the immobile woman only part of the tree.
Gar came panting into the camp, stumbling behind the sergeant’s horse, and this time he wasn’t faking. The sergeant reined in and Gar fell to his knees, sucking air in hoarse gasps and shivering in the chill autumn air. Inside, though, he was simmering with anger at the casual cruelty of his captors and ready to explode with frustration at a country in which everything progressed smoothly and peacefully, but without a government.
Everything, that is, except the bandits and a baby warlord named General Malachi who was showing signs of growing up all too fast—into a full-fledged tyrant. Gar might not have been able to find the government or even the Scarlet Company that was not stopping General Malachi, but he could certainly do it himself.
No! Alea thought with anguish. They’ll kill you!
But Gar wasn’t listening—he was looking up in feigned fear and apprehension at the sergeant, who was sneering, “Aye, you should cower! If General Malachi were here, he’d see you scourged smartly, be sure! But he’s not and not likely to be, for we’re an outpost, here to watch our next target, spy out its supply routes, and be ready to fall upon it when the general brings up his main force.”
Gar felt a stab of keen disappointment and an urge to break out of this nest of robbers, to hike back along the highway until he found the main camp and a general he could strangle. Still, where there was even an outpost of the army, the general would come sooner or later, and before he did, Gar might be able to size up the situation and learn its weak points. With telekinesis and teleportation, he probably could have killed Malachi by a bearlike rush, main force, and a straightforward attack, but the chances of his coming away alive weren’t as high as he would have liked. He throttled down his impatience and his anger, deciding to stay, learn the lay of the land, and be waiting to ambush the general when he came.
The sergeant stepped back, surveying Gar as though judging his worth. “Filthy beggar, aren’t you? Wash him, boys.”
Gar yelped as the soldiers descended on him, two to each arm and leg, and hauled him running to the nearest horse trough. They slung him in; then six of them held him down while the other two scrubbed with harsh soap and the sort of brush that’s used on horses. The sergeant stood by, grinning and calling directions.
“Don’t forget his hair, there’s liable to be as many lice in there as there are squirrels in the wood! Under his armpits, now, that’s the way! And don’t forget to reach where he can’t, or likely doesn’t.”
Gar howled, and didn’t have to pretend—the stiff brush was scraping him raw.
Finally the sergeant called, “That should do him, now. Haul him out and see if he’s improved.”
The soldiers yanked and Gar came out of the tub, lurching forward until he saw the spear point aimed at his chest and froze. He was pink and glowing with the scrubbing; he felt as though there couldn’t be a patch of skin left on his whole body.
Then a cold breeze blew and he began to shiver. The sergeant threw him a length of rough cloth that would have made burlap look fine. “Rub yourself down with that. Boys, fetch him our largest uniform.” Uniform? Looking out over the camp, Gar saw that all the men were indeed wearing brown tunics and tan leggins. They were lounging around a broad clearing a hundred feet across, a natural tableland that supported only a few trees, enough to give cover to sixty tents and the men who lived in them. The fires were low and smokeless, the ground trodden bare. Here and there, a man was chopping wood or hauling water, but most were sharpening their weapons or currying their horses.