Half-ogre faces are not made for smiling, but the chief made a fine show of yellow teeth. Then he laughed.
“Yes. I am Pedoon, and that night you could have killed me and all mine. You did not. Was it for such that they made you a Knight of Solamnia?”
“How did you-oh. I suppose word has flown ahead of us, that I am called Sir Pirvan. Well, in truth I am Sir Pirvan of Tiradot, Knight of the Crown. I lead these men on business that I swear is not dangerous to you.”
Pirvan’s voice hardened. “The woman on the litter, whose life you threatened to begin this parley, is my beloved wife, Haimya. I know not what customs you have in the matter of parleys, but I assure you that you were in more danger than you realized by so beginning this one.”
“Not against a Knight of Solamnia. Also, as you said, word flew ahead, and it was known how you were, each to the other.
“Now,” Pedoon went on. “I believe it would be as well if we went to my camp, you and some guards. I pledge my honor and that of all my men, likewise the blood of any oathbreaker, that no harm will come to you or yours.”
Pirvan was not sure that he had much to gain from speaking with Pedoon. But if the outlaw chief considered that he owed Pirvan a life-debt, that made long odds against treachery, with either ogre or human. Therefore, Pirvan also had very little to lose.
“I shall accept, under two conditions.”
“What are they?” Suspicion returned to Pedoon’s voice.
“That I signal my men on the far bank, so they will not cross in the morning to avenge the blood which you have not shed. Also, that our healer Lady Rubina examine my wife and give assurance that she is not gravely hurt.”
And if she is, you owe me a debt payable only in blood.
“Fair enough.”
This set off quite a flurry of movement as two of the soldiers lit torches and went to the riverbank to signal to the far side. Pirvan told them to pass the word that he was negotiating with a powerful local leader, who seemed honorable. But if they heard nothing of him by noon tomorrow, Birak Epron was in command and should act as he saw fit.
By the time the torches winked in reply from the far bank, Rubina had been kneeling for some time by Haimya, running her hands over the unconscious woman’s face, listening to her pulse and breathing, opening and closing her eyes, and looking into her mouth with all the intentness of a horse buyer who suspects the seller of sharp practice.
At last she rose. “It is a powerful distillation of phyloroot. Did you make her drink it, or force a cloth over her mouth and nose?”
“The second, and I have the scratches to prove how she resisted,” Pedoon said.
“You are lucky to have only scratches,” Pirvan said. “Very well. What does this potion do?”
“Very little beyond inducing heavy sleep,” Rubina said. “Or at least that is what the books say. I see no sign of any other injury, but I would suggest that Haimya be allowed to sleep until nature purges the drug from her system. I could wake her with a moderate spell, but she would be too fuddled for serious business, almost too fuddled to walk. Think of a drunkard after the tenth cup.”
Pirvan did, and the thought was not agreeable. He would have to negotiate with Pedoon without Haimya’s counsel, and Rubina was a poor substitute. But complaining about what couldn’t be helped was a vice thrashed out of him by his father before he had ever heard of the Knights of Solamnia, except as distant, godlike warriors far beyond the ken of town boys like himself.
“We have until noon tomorrow to dispose of all matters between us,” Pirvan said. “Otherwise, I do not know what a seasoned captain like Birak Epron will devise, but I doubt it will please you.”
Pedoon jerked his head, pulled the spear from the ground, rested it on his shoulder, and nodded to the rest of his men. Pirvan, Rubina, and three of their armed men fell in behind, and the whole procession was out of sight of the riverbank within fifty paces.
* * * * *
Waydol was practicing with the cesti when Darin walked up the path to the Minotaur’s hut.
The spiked, armored gloves were sufficiently vicious-looking when sized for human hands. Fitting the hands of a large minotaur, they became monstrosities.
Waydol’s exercise target was a log, wrapped in leather and suspended from a tree by heavy leather thongs. The leather was already showing scars, and as Darin watched, another strip dangled and splinters flew.
But then, the power in Waydol had always been something Darin accepted as part of nature. He had seen the Minotaur break a mutineer’s spine by slapping him across the back of the head with less than full strength, lift anvils that two strong men could barely move, carry on his shoulders a boat large enough for five men, and otherwise show strength far beyond what one expected of any mortal being.
Waydol feinted with his left hand, drove home with his right a punch that snapped two of the thongs, then noticed his heir. He turned, unstrapped the cesti, tossed them on the bench, and signaled for Darin to bring him water.
“You are bleeding,” Waydol said when he had drunk. He was sweating heavily, and Darin knew that most humans found a minotaur’s odor as foul as a gully dwarf’s midden. Again, to him it seemed natural.
Darin rubbed his fingers along the left side of his neck. “Oh, so I am. I believe one of the brawlers caught me with a wild slash. He will not be slashing anybody, with that knife or anything else, until Sirbones heals his arm. It was a comrade who broke it, to keep the peace.”
“Good,” Waydol said. “But it should not have happened at all.”
Darin frowned. The Minotaur laughed shortly. “No, it is not that I doubt you. Had I done so, I would have come down myself and put matters in order. You have done well what you should not have had to do at all.”
Darin had to admit Waydol’s point. Their ingathering of outlaws and robbers in the north country was proceeding well enough, if one spoke only of numbers. Bands large and small were coming in, along with many single men, some of whom had plainly left their villages for the good of the other villagers.
Some of these men had already deserted, a few were undoubtedly spies, and far too many had been long accustomed to living without order, law, or discipline. There had already been brawls and stabbings over wine, women, and quarters-not as many as Darin had feared, but even one was too many. No one was dead yet, but that was luck and Sirbones’s healing, and the luck could not last.
Waydol’s band seemed at the moment in no small danger of choking on its own success, like a snake attempting to swallow too large a pig.
Darin licked dry lips. He was about to presume greatly, but the time to discuss desperate measures was before they become necessary.
“We could send north for help,” he said. “To your homeland,” he added, in case Waydol had not caught his meaning the first time.
The Minotaur stared, looking for a moment as if he had been poleaxed and was about to drop at his heir’s feet. Then he laughed softly and embraced Darin, so gently that the embrace would not have annoyed a housecat, let alone a stalwart warrior.
“In this moment, I feel almost like a god. I have put the soul of a minotaur into the body of a human. Do you really believe that the time has come to bring my folk south, to help us against yours?”
“If there is no other way but seeing our band and all its new recruits fall apart like a biscuit in hot soup from brawls and disobedience …” Darin found that he could not finish. He shook his head, but that failed to jar his thoughts or tongue into motion again.
Finally, he blurted out, “Whatever we must do for those whom we have sworn to lead well must be done. If it must be done by other minotaurs, so be it.”
Waydol sat down on the bench. It gave a faint creak, then a sharp crack, then snapped in two. The Minotaur picked himself up and contemplated the wreckage.