Darin stepped into the open and slammed his fists against the trees to either side of him. The forest spewed men dressed in a motley of rust, green, and brown, all bearded and long-haired. Some of the men showed a trace or more of elven blood, and on the shoulders of a man nearly Darin’s height rode a kender, belaboring his mount with a featherduster.
They raised no war cries; the only sound was of forty-some pairs of booted feet running hard. They had little breath to spare for shouting; it was also the custom in Waydol’s band to be silent until first blood.
That would not be long; even now sentries were nocking arrows to bows. Darin raised his left hand, palm facing toward the ground. His archers unslung bows, opened quivers, and pulled out shafts, all without missing a step. Only when it came time to nock and shoot did they halt, for better aim. Darin’s band had not nearly enough archers for an arrow-hail, which also led to unnecessary slaying even when one could use it.
So two sentries fell from the walls and one fell back out of sight, in return for one of Darin’s men down with an arrow in his leg. Meanwhile, the onrushing line overtook the fleeing villagers. Before Darin drew ahead, he saw his men starting to bring down their captives, each in a different fashion.
Some men used clubs or fists. One man threw a woman over his shoulder and spanked her soundly; one could not tell whether she was screaming or laughing.
Stalker used his bolas, his own design, drawing on both Plains barbarian and kender styles. When he had used both, he drew from his belt a weighted belaying pin and stopped two more villagers in their tracks with that.
Now it was becoming vital to keep the villagers from closing their gate. A good dozen of their folk were still outside and free, but from the gate tower and from within the gate people were screaming “Close the gate now!”
Darin charged through the ranks of the fleeing villagers, slapping aside with his gauntlet one dagger thrust. He reached the gate just as it started to swing shut, gripped it with both hands, took a deep breath, and heaved.
The gate swung wide open again, and in the moment it stood so, two of Darin’s archers shot down the men standing in the gateway. Darin leaped forward, snatched up the gate bar, which was twice as long as he was tall and as thick as his thigh, gripped it like a quarterstaff, and laid about him.
He struck only a few. Some fell in panic or simply lay down to save themselves, as others did by taking to their heels. In moments all those villagers who had been caught outside the gate were captives, and the gate stood open for the raiders to enter the village.
Darin would not give that order without giving the villagers a chance to yield. Even the briefest of fights at close quarters could strew more bodies in the village lanes than an honorable man could wish to see.
Darin cupped his hands. His voice was not quite in proportion to the rest of him-and a good thing too, Waydol said, or he would have deafened half his comrades by now-but it carried well.
“Ho, village of Dinsas! We have you at our mercy, and bid you yield at once. If you yield, little wealth and no blood will you forfeit. Fight on, and harsher fate awaits you.”
Only after a long silence followed did the raider chief remember that these villagers might not understand his minotaur-accented Istarian speech. This was farther than he and his men had raided, so Dinsas should be within the area settled directly from Istar or cities that spoke its tongue. But every land had villages where the folk walked their own path, spoke their own tongue, and made rude replies to the polite requests of strangers whom they could not understand.
The silence grew longer still. Several of Darin’s men picked up the gate bar; a battering ram was always a useful addition to the raiders’ arsenal, but a heavy one to carry through the forest.
At last, a square-built man with a red beard appeared in the gateway, facing Darin. He wore a well-kept sword hastily slung over a cobbler’s apron.
“My name is Hurvo, Speaker of Dinsas. Who are you?”
Darin looked down at the man. Hurvo looked more like an oversized dwarf than a short human, complete to the work-calloused hands. He did not appear to be short in courage, however.
“I am he who possesses your village,” Darin replied, in measured tones. “I and my men wish to share that which lies within these walls.”
“You possess the gate of Dinsas, no more,” Hurvo replied, in an equally level voice. “What are you prepared to pay for the smallest portion of the rest?”
“As much as necessary, and if it grows to be too much, we shall possess all of it when the paying is done. This will not be of much concern to you, for you will no longer need possessions beyond your graveclothes.”
“Oh, you don’t mean to eat us?” Hurvo said.
The kender mimed spewing all over the big man carrying him. The man hastily set him down.
“A kender!” someone said, in tones of loathing. Darin saw that several other villagers had come out from doorways and lanes to stand behind Hurvo.
“Imsaffor Whistletrot,” the kender said, with an elaborate bow that turned into a handstand that in turn flowed into a somersault. The movement brought him close to Hurvo. Some of the villagers took a step backward.
Darin quietly hand-signaled to his archers. The first man to try taking Whistletrot as a hostage would get an arrow through his gizzard. He would also probably get Whistletrot’s dagger in some less vital but surely painful spot if he survived the arrow.
Kender lived without fear, for which there were many explanations, some more fanciful than true. One explanation which Darin suspected might hold truth was that it was not easy to kill a kender if he seriously objected to the idea.
“Then you must be the Heir to the Minotaur and his band,” Hurvo said, tugging at his beard as if trying to estimate the price of repairing a shoe. “Rather far afield, aren’t you?”
“We have come as far as Dinsas, which is all that concerns any of us for the moment,” Darin replied. He felt impatience creeping into his mind, but fought to keep it from his voice.
Never give a man the notion that he can fight you by delaying matters. That was another of Waydol’s sayings that had proved true in many a skirmish, battle, and raid.
“I will hear your terms,” Hurvo said. “Hearing them does not mean accepting them. Nor does offering you drink mean offering you our village. But we need not fight one another with dry throats.”
The water was cold and clean, and, from the men’s sounds, the ale was good. Hurvo also sampled the first cup from each barrel before he allowed anyone else to drink.
* * * * *
“Speak now, Heir to the Minotaur, or is there another name you prefer?” Hurvo said, wiping foam from his beard.
“That one does most honor to he who raised me-” Darin began.
Several villagers hissed. One made a gesture of aversion and threw down his cup.
Hurvo sighed. “We have been through this argument before, Speko, and more often than you could count without taking off your boots. He may be heir to a red dragon, for all I care, but he is here, which makes it wise to listen to him.”
Darin spoke quickly, before Speko or anyone else could complicate matters. “Our terms are simple. We shall remove from each house and shop one or two objects of value, as well as a certain amount of coin for the whole village. Also, we may eat and drink as we see fit tonight, and tomorrow when we break our fast before departing.
“If no harm comes to our people, none will come to yours. We shall even help heal your wounded. For every man harmed, though, a life will be forfeit. If battle is forced on us, the village will be burned, over your heads or not, as the gods allow.”
Hurvo frowned. “Have you wizard or cleric with healing magic at their command?”