Hunnar countered instantly. “In spite of what you may think, prefect, I too am a thoughtful person, and I say we would win. The walls of Wannome have grown too high for the Horde to scale, too thick for the Horde to break, these past years. Nor could they breach the nets and the new chain that guards the harbor entrance.”
“What of a siege?” asked Brownoak, sipping reedle.
“With a little preparation we could stand such far longer than they. No barbarian can sit on his haunches and stare placidly at his enemy. He is not mentally equipped for it. Sagyanak’s own tribesmen would throw out any leader who ordered such. The Scourge knows that as well as you or I.”
“You say all this,” came a flat voice from uptable. A middle-aged tran with a short steel-wool beard looked up at Hunnar. “Yet you are but a cub compared to most of us, risen rapidly in the ranks of his elders. If you are the thoughtful one you claim, you can see my point. Why should we agree with you, a mere youngster? How much of your declaration is fueled by ambition and youthful impatience rather than careful reason?”
“Because I—” Hunnar began, but he was interrupted.
“I will have none of that, Hellort,” rumbled an abyssal voice from down the table.
The tran who rose was stocky—no, even short—by tran standards, but so massively built that he was almost square. The powerful torso was bent and knotted with age. But the voice was like a scalpel in a field of butter knives. Tiny slit black pupils peered out of bony caves from beneath overhanging brows. The tran was all smashed and crumpled, almost deformed.
“I meant nothing insulting,” apologized Hellort quietly. “I’ve no questioning with you, Balavere.”
Ethan peered at the other more intently, not caring that he was staring. This, then, was the famous Balavere Longax, the most respected military man in Wannome. From Hunnar’s brief description of him Ethan had expected a giant, not a blocky dwarf. But the tran general was clearly a giant in ways other than physical.
“Yes, you do, Hellort. Because, you see, I too have considered this question painfully. I find myself in agreement with the good Redbeard—his youth notwithstanding. He may appear impetuous. Do not perceive that as ambition. He has a sound military head on his shoulders, yes, and moves smoothly over difficult ice.
“Sofold is the strongest province in the area,” he continued pridefully. “If any can make a decisive stand against the Horde, ’tis we. It should be Sofold. But we must do this thing on our own. No one—not Phulos-tervo of Ayhus nor Veg-Tuteva of Meckleven—will send a single soldier from his land to aid us, for fear of their being recognized and invoking the wrath of Sagyanak.”
“Are you so confident of victory, then?” broke in Brownoak.
“Of course I am not confident of victory,” the general replied softly. “I will not lie to you, sirs. A battle of such magnitude contains too many uncertainties. No intelligent soldier would venture a prediction on the outcome. But I say this,” he continued, as the prefect seemed ready to add more, “I’ve seen Wannome rise and strengthen over these last few good years. Dangerously so, and Sagyanak should realize it. There is your reason for bringing us down, at least a little. But the Horde has grown fat and lazy on tribute. They’ve not fought a real battle in some time.”
“And we also will have the aid of the strangers from the stars,” added Hunnar, “for who can believe their coming at this crucial time to be accidental?”
A hundred pairs of slitted cat-eyes looked straight at Ethan. They all seemed to be focused on a point just below his hair. He wanted to reach up and scratch the place but didn’t dare. He squirmed a little, though. The crowd wavered.
“Strange in form, perhaps,” said the imperturbable, thrice-damned Brownoak, “but not in ability. Perhaps less so, in fact. And ability is what we need, not cries of star-sent omens.”
“Ha!” said September. Ethan looked at him in surprise, as did many others. Which was the idea.
The big man put one foot on the table, stepped up, and walked across. He just missed a meat pie here, a tankard of reedle there. When he hopped down on the other side, every eye in the hall, human and tran, was focused on him.
Bending, he gripped the rear legs of Hunnar’s chair. With a single, flowing motion, he lifted both knight and chair chest-high off the floor. There was a gasp of surprise from the crowd. It was followed by a few cheers and a babble of excited conversation.
September put Hunnar down, recrossed the table, and resumed his seat.
“Quite an exhibition,” Ethan complimented.
“You could probably have managed it yourself, young feller-me-lad. I thought it worth doing. But Hunnar and I didn’t have a chance to practice that in private. I’m glad the execution matched the theory. Would have looked awfully funny out there if I’d gone and tipped him over.” He took a long draught of reedle and smacked his lips. “Though he went up a lot easier than some folk I’ve hoisted. Now, if I’d dropped him… ”
Ethan didn’t mention that he thought September probably could have made the lift even if the tran knight weighed as much as a human of similar size. Someone up by the Landgrave was waving for attention. It was Eer-Meesach.
“I can say,” intoned the wizard in strong voice, “that among these strangers is also a being of great knowledge. A wizard equal to… well, nearly equal to… my own person in powers of intellect.” He pointed dramatically down the table.
“Stand up, Williams, dammit,” September mumbled around the lip of his tankard. The schoolmaster rose quickly and stood staring at the table, looking for all the world like a kid caught snitching at the cookie jar. He sat down almost instantly.
“And there are others among them of abilities even more astounding,” continued Hunnar excitedly, “all pledged to assist us in this holy endeavor!”
“What’s he talking about?” asked du Kane from across the table. “I’ve picked up a bit of the language, but not enough to translate what he’s raving on about.”
“He’s telling everyone how terrific we are,” said Ethan absently, trying to concentrate on Hunnar’s speech.
“Oh,” said the industrialist. He leaned back, looking satisfied. Ethan decided the tran could interpret that as overwhelming confidence.
“I am not so convinced,” began Darmuka Brownoak, but Hunnar talked him down.
“A loosing, a loosing, then!” The cry was picked up, carried around the table like sherbet.
“Yes… now time… fight… but if we should lose?… weapons?… how much time?… family… a loosing!”
Eventually the Landgrave stood. There was immediate and respectful silence in the great hall.
“A proposal of grave consequence has been put to this gathering. Councilmen and knights of Sofold, the call has been made for a loosing. Whatever else can be said, it is sure there is enough interest for such. I so call it.”
“Is this loosing like taking a vote?” Ethan queried September.
“That’s it, me lad. You pledge your booze, is what.” He grinned. “That’s serious. My kind of folk.”
The Landgrave picked up his chalice. He held it at arm’s length, ramrod straight away from his body. Everyone stood and did likewise, including the ladies, Ethan noted. The little band of humans was tardy in copying the gesture, but no one seemed to mind.
“We have no vote in this, of course,” September told them, “but we can participate. It looks better that way.”