“Of course it is,” a querulous voice snapped. “What else would it be?”
“Thank you,” Willen Ironmaul said. He flicked his reins and headed out of the village.
Behind him, the hidden voices chattered, “I tell you, Mullin, those are dwarves!” “Nonsense! Why would dwarves come here? And what would dwarves want with Lord Charon?” “Well, I think it’s more of those same hoodlums from Xak Tsaroth.” “There aren’t any dwarves in Xak Tsaroth, it’s a human city.” “Then maybe the hoodlums are getting shorter there.”
“What do you suppose that was all about?” Sand Sakor wondered.
“I can probably tell you what it was about, if you want to know,” a high voice said from below.
Willen glanced down and frowned. “You!”
“Of course I’m me,” Castomel Springheel assured him. “I’ve been me most of my life, except maybe the time when that old mage turned me into a goat for a day and a half. I wasn’t quite myself then.”
The kender was trotting along happily, almost under the hooves of Willen’s great horse, Shag, and was carrying a brace of chickens. “If you’re looking for Lord Charon,” he said, “that’s his stronghold up there on that hill. But then, if you’re looking for the Tariff Overlord’s people, that’s where they are, too. Except they’re outside. Lord Charon doesn’t invite them in.” The kender’s brow lowered in disapproval. “They steal anything they can get their hands on.”
“Like someone else I’ve met,” Willen snorted.
Cas glanced up at him. “Who?”
“Never mind. Where did you get those chickens?”
“What chickens? Oh, these?” the kender glanced at the birds dangling from his hands as though surprised to find them there. He shrugged. “I don’t know. I was just thinking about supper, and sure enough, there were some chickens just waiting around. I don’t suppose they belonged to anybody. If they did, they didn’t say so. How about letting me have a ride on your horse?”
“Absolutely not!” Willen rasped. “I prefer you down there with your hands full of chickens.”
“That’s all right,” the kender said happily, glancing around. Behind and flanking the mounted Hylar, Gem Bluesleeve’s foot troop had been keeping pace. Now, though, at a hand signal from Willen, all of the Daewar had veered aside and were streaming off at an angle to the left, disappearing by threes and sixes into a ravine that wandered between fields. “Where are they going?” When no answer came the kender shrugged. “Well, if those people can run like that, with all that armor on, then I guess I can’t complain.”
The hillside below the citadel looked like a travelers’ camp. There were cook-fires, and tents, and a makeshift corral with a dozen or more horses in it. At a glance, it seemed there were several hundred human males camped there, and that they had been there for a while. On the parapets above, where pennants flew, liveried guardsmen patrolled.
“Those are Lord Charon’s household troops,” Cas Springheel chatted, pointing a chicken-laden hand toward the heights of the citadel. “Lord Charon isn’t very happy about the Tariff Overlord in Xak Tsaroth sending all these people out here to collect taxes, so he doesn’t let them in. But at the same time he doesn’t want to drive them away because the Tariff Overlord of Xak Tsaroth is recognized as a legitimate civil authority in Ergoth, though Lord Charon personally considers him a buffoon.”
“So what are they doing?” Willen asked.
“Nothing,” the kender said, trotting along beside the large horse. “It’s kind of a standoff.”
“Humans,” Willen muttered, shaking his head.
Trumpets sounded then, atop the citadel, and Willen knew that they had been noticed.
A hundred yards from the citadel, the mounted column of dwarves halted. The guards atop the tower had doubled in number, their heads and shoulders visible against the sky, but no weapons were being brandished. They seemed to be just watching. The high gates of the keep remained closed. But in front of them, on the hillside, were nearly a dozen mounted humans in heavy armor, and a broad, double rank of armed footmen — hundreds of them — with pikes and longaxes. As the dwarves halted, a rider stepped his mount forward from the center and gazed at them. Without turning, he bellowed, “By the gods, I think these are dwarves!”
“I assure you, sir, that we are dwarves. We are here to call on Lord Charon, and since you are not him, I advise you to stand aside.”
“Stand aside?” The man seemed astonished. “Stand aside? Do you know who I am, dwarf?”
“No,” Willen admitted. “Who are you?”
“I,” the man drew himself up in his saddle, almost parting the layers of armor at his midsection, “am none other than Shamad Turnstreet, deputy to the Overlord of Tariffs of the city of Xak Tsaroth. And you dwarves,” he pointed an accusing finger, “are liable both for the general tariff decreed for the rural provinces and for special penalties as border-crossers and illegal aliens. If you don’t have the money, I am authorized to seize your horses, arms, and valuables.”
“About the time the moons rust over, you will,” Willen said evenly. “I am Willen Ironmaul, Chieftain of Thane Hylar of Thorbardin and Kal-Thax, and I am here to see Lord Charon on official business for the Council of Thanes. Now stand aside.”
“Impudence,” Shamad Turnstreet spat. “I do not take impudence from dwarves.” He raised an imperious hand. “Seize these creatures!”
The other mounted humans rode up beside him, loosing shields and lances, and the line of footmen spread for a charge.
“You are making a mistake, Shamad Turnstreet,” Willen called. “Consider yourself warned.”
“Insolence!” the human roared. He lowered his face plate. “Forward!” he ordered.
The footmen closed ranks and charged. Just behind and looming above them, armed riders lowered their lances, raised their shields, and charged, closing on the line of footmen who spread to let them through.
“If that’s how you want it,” Willen muttered. He signaled, and his troop spread into spearpoint formation. “Hammers and shields,” he called, and swept his arm forward.
With a resounding crash and din, the two lines met. Lances and pikes glanced off dwarven shields as the spear formation of dwarves swept through, and as each point was deflected a heavy hammer descended casually — almost delicately — upon the headgear of its wielder. In seconds, the entire dwarf troop was through the line of humans, wheeling about in precise coordination to survey the field behind them. Everywhere were sprawled, tumbled men rolling around in confusion, holding their heads in their hands, getting to their knees to search for their dropped weapons. In the distance, eleven riderless horses pounded away toward the outlying fields. Delighted laughter floated down from the high ramparts of the citadel on the hill.
“I told you people to stand aside!” Willen Ironmaul shouted. “Now let well enough alone!”
But up on the hillside above, an outraged voice shouted, “A fluke! It was a trick! Regroup and attack!”
Shamad Turnstreet had directed the assault but had not taken part in it. Now he sat his saddle on the slope above, waving his arms in rage. “Attack!” he called. “Attack!”
Reluctantly, his troops got to their feet, picked up fallen weapons, and reassembled themselves, this time in a spearpoint formation as the dwarves had done before. All the humans except their leader were on foot now, but the charge they leveled at the dwarven ranks bristled with deadly points and blades.
Willen’s troop touched reins, and the tall Calnar horses spread and reformed, an outward-curving line like open arms waiting to greet the assault. And abruptly, there were no riders in any of the saddles. Each Hylar clung now alongside his mount’s shoulder, shield placed to protect both horse and rider.
Gawking in confusion, the human rush slowed for a moment, then regained its force. Battle cries rang out, drowning the voice of Shamad Turnstreet, who was looking past his troops at what was behind them.