The burly man, however, was not so easily daunted. Carefully watching the horse’s whitening eye, he came to the side and spoke roughly to Hawklan.
‘Who are you, and what do you want?’ he demanded.
Hawklan reached out his hand in friendly greeting. ‘My name’s Hlan,’ he said. ‘And this is Isman.’ Isloman gave the man a friendly nod. ‘We’d be greatly obliged if you could tell us where we might buy supplies for the rest of our journey.’
The man ignored the offered hand and the pleasant-ries bounced off his scowl. ‘You’re lying,’ he said. ‘You’re Orthlundyn. You’re spies.’
Hawklan sensed that while those hostile to them in the crowd were comparatively few, they held a domi-nance beyond their numbers. He affected a puzzled expression. ‘We’re Orthlundyn, certainly,’ he said. ‘But spies? I don’t understand.’
‘You’re enemies of Fyorlund, sneaking in here through the quiet paths hoping not to be seen. We’ve been told about what’s happening in Orthlund and to look out for the likes of you.’ Before Hawklan could speak, the man’s attitude changed abruptly from unpleasantness to belligerence. He levelled a finger at Hawklan and his face became suffused with anger. ‘Well, you’ll not get past us. You’ll not sneak any further.’
Hawklan raised his hands in a placatory gesture. ‘I don’t understand you,’ he repeated. ‘We’re just travel-lers come to look at your country and your great houses and cities. Do we look like spies?’
The answer was swift and unequivocal. ‘You’re sol-diers without doubt,’ the man said. ‘With that bow and your fancy sword, and that great horse.’
‘Ah,’ said Hawklan, ‘I understand. The horse is from Riddin. It’s a Muster horse. I bought it at the Gretmearc. The bow’s just for hunting-I’m afraid we haven’t enough money to buy food all the time-and, well, I brought the sword in case we ran into bandits in the mountains.’
The man scowled, and Hawklan could see that he was not listening to what was being said. He got the impression of a man who had not been much thought of in the village, despised even, but who had recently been pushed into prominence. His attitude was not one that would naturally command even the mixed support of this present crowd. Such support as there was, therefore, came as a result of some influence which was not immediately apparent. Equally, therefore, Hawklan saw that they might be in greater danger than was immedi-ately apparent. Careful, he thought, and then, as if assuming his explanation had ended the matter, he swung his left leg over the horse’s head and dropped down to face the man.
The suddenness of the movement made the man start and there was some laughter in the crowd. He spun round and the laughter faded. One or two stepped away from him.
‘That’s enough,’ he shouted angrily. ‘These people sneak in here armed to the teeth, and spin some yarn about hunting and bandits, and you think it’s some kind of a joke.’ He swung a pointing finger around the crowd. ‘Don’t think I don’t know which of you sympathize with these spies. There’ll be a reckoning soon for the traitors in our own camp.’
One or two looked as if they would have liked to disagree, but were too afraid.
Hawklan intervened. ‘I assure you. We’re not spies… or soldiers. We’ve done no harm and we mean none. If we’re not welcome here, we’ll leave. But we’d still like to buy supplies to tide us over the next few days.’ He addressed this appeal to the crowd and began fumbling in a pouch on his belt. ‘We’ve money enough for that.’
A brief snatch of bird-song floated across the square. Gavor’s signal that danger was approaching.
‘We don’t want your money, spies,’ said the man viciously. Before Hawklan could reply, there was a disturbance in the crowd as four men pushed roughly to the front.
‘Trouble, Gister?’ one of the new arrivals asked the man confronting Hawklan.
‘Not now you’ve managed to get here, Uskal,’ said the man. ‘Where’ve you been? This lot’s useless.’ He flicked a derisory thumb at the crowd. ‘I damn near had to whip most of them out on to the street. Left to them these two would’ve walked right through unhindered.’ His voice began to develop a whine of self-justification
Uskal was almost as tall as Hawklan and powerfully built, with a lowering stupid face enlivened by just enough intelligence to confirm him as being danger-ously vicious. He did not seem inclined to explain his late arrival, but immediately directed his attention to Hawklan and Isloman.
‘These the two?’ he asked.
Gister nodded.
‘Right,’ said Uskal through clenched teeth, and without further formalities he stepped forward and struck Hawklan in the stomach. To Hawklan, the blow appeared to be lumberingly slow and he was able to absorb its worst effects simply by expanding his stomach muscles and moving back a little to disturb the balance of his attacker. However, he bent forward as if hurt, to see what effect this would have on the crowd. He had no doubt that he and Isloman could deal with Gister and the other four but, if the crowd sided with their own kind, as well they might, then the two of them would probably be overpowered or injured.
Isloman jumped down from his horse and was im-mediately seized by two of the new arrivals. Hawklan shot him a swift glance as he saw his powerful frame preparing to deal out summary justice. Isloman read the look and struggled in a half-hearted manner until one of the men hit him also.
The third man grabbed Hawklan from behind and Uskal made to hit him again but, pretending to lose his balance, Hawklan staggered sideways, taking his captor with him, so that Uskal’s blow fell ineffectually across his face, slightly cutting his bottom lip against his teeth. As if released by the small trickle of blood that ran down his chin, a small evil sprite raised a long-silent voice deep inside Hawklan. ‘You’ll die for this, you corrup-tion,’ it said. Hawklan’s eyes opened in horror as he felt the venom within him, and he swept the thought away ruthlessly.
‘Had enough, eh?’ said Uskal, misreading Hawklan’s expression. Then roughly seizing his jaw he brought his leering face close to Hawklan’s.
However, a babble of anger from the crowd pre-cluded any reply by Hawklan. One of the older men stepped forward and took Uskal’s arm. ‘That’s not necessary,’ he said. ‘They weren’t causing any trouble. There’s no reason to treat them like that.’
Uskal released Hawklan, shook his arm free and, seizing the man by the front of his tunic, pushed him violently backwards. ‘That’s how we treat weaklings and cowards, Flec.’ he said.
Flec, however, was neither weakling nor coward and, recovering his balance, he surged forward at his attacker, seizing him round the waist and carrying him to the ground. For a while they struggled, raising a small cloud of dust, while others tried uncertainly to separate them. But Uskal was the stronger and more vicious of the two and soon had the advantage of the older man. Sitting on his chest, he struck him a savage blow in the face, and then, standing up, prepared to deliver an equally savage kick.
‘No!’
Hawklan’s unexpectedly powerful voice made Uskal stop abruptly and, looking round, the man caught the mood of the crowd. It was a dangerous mixture of fear and anger and it was turning against him for sure. He looked at Hawklan with an expression of intense loathing-a distant trumpet call sounded in Hawklan’s memory-the look was familiar, but he had never seen the like in Orthlund.
‘Don’t shout at me, filth,’ Uskal cried, and striding forward he brought his arm back to strike Hawklan full in the face. Unbidden, Hawklan’s knees bent and, moving sideways, he hurled the man holding him over his shoulder straight into the approaching Uskal. The two tumbled on to the ground and rolled for some way, such had been the power of Hawklan’s throw. The circling crowd widened dramatically. Isloman, still held by the two men, caught Hawklan’s eye. Hawklan shook his head.
‘Seize him, seize him,’ shouted Gister, but nobody seemed inclined to listen. Uskal, downed by this stranger, lost whatever small control he had. He stood up and looked round furiously.