“An’ now?”
Gird looked at the speaker, licked his knuckles again, and said, “Now what? He tried to take me, and I flattened him—that’s between us. There’s nothing between you and me unless you make it so—are you challenging?”
“Nay, not I. What I meant—d’you claim command of us?”
“He can’t!” said someone behind him. Gird did not turn.
“No,” he said slowly. “That’s not what we fought about. You’ll choose your own leader—for all I know, you’ll choose him again.”
“But about joining your army—”
Gird shrugged. “You heard what I said. I’m looking for men as want a better land later, and those that’ll be honest yeomen now. Those that do can come with me; those that don’t had better not. We may be skinny and hungry, but we do know how to deal with those as try to stick a knife in our back or steal from us.” He nudged the fallen leader with his toe.
“We could kill you now,” muttered one of the men just at the edge of his sight. Gird laughed, and saw the surprise on their faces.
“Killing’s easy—you could kill me, and the magelords likely will. So then what? Killing me won’t get you into my army. Make up your own minds; I’m going home.” He turned, and stared hard at the men who had crowded close behind him. Like dogs, they wilted under a direct stare, and shuffled, making a gap for him to walk through. His back itched; it would take only a single thrown knife, a single sword-thrust. But he could not have fought his way out anyway. Behind him he heard a sudden argument, curses, and more blows ending in yelps. Someone else was taking over, he guessed, wondering if they’d come after him. He walked on, into the trees, not looking back. Looking back would do no good.
He had gone some distance when he heard running behind him on the trail. Gird slipped aside, crouching in the undergrowth to crawl back down parallel to the trail, and saw four men and the woman in the striped skirt jogging along. All were armed; the first watched the trail keenly, and stopped them about where Gird had left the trail.
“He can’t be that far ahead of us,” said one.
“Wait—I don’t see—”
Gird stood up; they heard the rustling leaves and turned, clearly startled and alarmed.
“Why did you follow me?”
“We—I—wanted to join you,” said the first man.
“I heard you let women join,” said the woman.
Gird stepped out onto the trail, warily enough. “I do, if they’re willing to take orders like anyone else. But we have rules you might not like.”
“There’s better than him,” said the first man, jerking his chin in the direction of the brigands’ camp. “I’d rather fight than steal.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Spring rains that year delayed everyone’s movements. Gird drew and redrew his battle maps, revising his plans over and over again. His cohorts were most effective as he’d used them before, striking swiftly against small concentrations of the enemy, where they could outnumber them and control the surrounding country. But if the supply situation stayed as bad as it was, he could not do that another year; he would have to confront the lords’ armies directly, win and control larger areas, to ensure the safety of food-producing lands and those who farmed them. Should he do that early, or late, after wearing down the lords’ armies with raids? What would it cost him, in unsown grain, in next year’s harvest?
In some areas, the lords were not allowing their peasants to plow and plant; in others, the farmers were guarded by soldiers. Gird shook his head at that. Why would they think he’d raid during planting time? His own forces protected an area in the Brightwater valley; over the winter he had urged all the farmers to form bartons and learn drill. Most of them had. Now his army protected them during planting, and he hoped they could protect themselves during the fighting season.
He began moving his army eastward, one cohort at a time, cloaked in the rains and leaving less trail than if he moved everyone at once. Ivis had found a good shelter two days’ journey away, overhanging ledges that opened into a sonorous cavern. Gird himself went back and forth with the first two, then spent several days in Brightwater, settling accounts with Marrakai gold and hoping the town would be there when he got back. If he got back. Then he headed out with the last cohort, noticing that despite all his care, the tracks left by the others were as clear as any map ever drawn, one brown scrawl of mud after another across the new spring grass.
Roads, he thought to himself. We’ll need good roads, when it’s over. What they needed now was good luck, the gods’ gift of miracles; remembering the other times he’d wanted miracles, and what he’d actually received, he was not willing to ask. He felt unusually grumpy; he had banged his knee hard on the doorpost going out of the barracks, and it still throbbed. The damp raw air seemed to bite into the bruise, rather than soothe it. He hawked and spat, catching an early fly; that cheered him.
By nightfall, he felt he’d been marching for half a year. His feet were damp and cold; he pulled off his worn boots and pushed his feet near the fire, rubbing them. A fine drizzle hissed in the flames; smoke crawled along the ground, making them all choke and cough. Gird thought longingly of the barracks in Brightwater—even that merchant’s house, with the brazier in the center of the table, where several men could sit around it and talk. He would never think like a merchant, but he had gotten over some of his first astounded contempt. He told himself to be glad he had a good leather cloak; time was when the drips off the trees would have wet his bare head. But it didn’t work. He was cold, stiff, damp, and without reason homesick for his own small cottage, with his own fire on the hearth, and his own family around him. He said nothing; the others were quiet as well, on such a dismal evening.
The next day’s march brought them to the rock shelter and cavern, where most of his army was gathered. He plunged again into the familiar problems: how large to make the jacks, how many sacks of grain and dried fruit did they have and how long it would last, where the nearest sources of supply were. He was more than ready to pull off his boots and stretch out near one of the fires for a rest when Selamis insisted that he had to speak to Gird privately.
Gird followed his assistant deeper into the cave, annoyed once more at Selamis’s fidgits. They didn’t have time for such nonsense.
“Here.” The younger man’s voice, hardly above a whisper, halted him.
“I’m here,” growled Gird, trying for patience. “What is it now?”
Instead of answer, soundless light answered him. Between Selamis’s clutched fingers shone a rosy glow, steady as daylight. His eyes glittered in it, squinted almost shut. Gird, through his own shock, saw the taut lines of his face, the tears that trickled down those quivering cheeks. He looked down, terrified, at his own hands, but they were outlined only from without, by Selamis’s light.
“What—” His voice broke, and he swallowed, tried again. “What is that—what did you find? Where?”
“In me.” The man’s hands spread a little; the light glowed steadily between them, sourceless, rose-gold: the light of spring evenings hazed with pollen, of autumn dawns among the turning leaves. Or of friendly firelight, welcoming. Gird shuddered, and fought back a rising terror.
“You’re a—a mage?” And almost simultaneously, rage shook him. You lied to me, he thought. But Selamis’s face showed more fear than even he felt, fear not of him, but of the light.
“I don’t know.” The man spread his hands farther apart, sighed, and the light vanished. Far back up the passage, Gird could hear Raheli arguing still about how many onions should go in tonight’s kettle—so it was still the same world, the same time. “I told you,” the voice went on in the darkness, “that I am a lord’s bastard. But I didn’t tell you—”