By dusk, the stifling calm had held for half a day. Formations of bandit horsemen rode away, leaving smaller bands to pitch camp in plain sight of the village.
Wounds were washed and bound, and the evening meal was prepared. A kind of unnatural lethargy took hold of the farmers. The euphoria of fighting off their enemies had passed, leaving in its wake the numbing realization the fight would go on, tomorrow, the day after, maybe as long as anyone on either side remained alive.
Howland convened a council around the well before the first stars of night appeared. All his people were there along with the leaders of the village: Caeta, Wilf, the elder women and men, and old Calec, alone still full of fighting spirit.
Howland explained the situation. They’d driven off two haphazard attacks, undertaken, he believed, by some junior leader of the bandits. Now Lord Rakell was present, and things had settled down.
“Don’t let the lull fool you,” he told them. “When Rakell moves, things will be different. If he’s any commander at all, he’ll use every weapon in his arsenal against us.”
“Will the ogres come too?” asked Caeta.
Howland nodded solemnly.
She shuddered.
“What can we do, then? Have we any chance of survival, let alone of winning?” Robien said.
Howland hooked his thumbs in his shirtfront and gazed at the fire. “We do.”
Farmers and mercenaries alike exchanged looks of wonder.
“Ten days ago you believed we were doomed,” the Elder rasped. “Why, now, do you think we can win?”
“A good general must understand his enemy,” Howland replied. “Seeing them fight today, I understand them better now. Rakell rules them with an iron hand. His men must fear him. I’m counting on that. I myself will deal with Rakell.”
“You can’t hope to negotiate!” Raika said. “Not with murderers who shoot down children!”
“I will not negotiate.”
Howland was silent for a long time, thinking. The others debated with increasing anger, as everyone proposed his own wild scheme to win.
Carver said, “If we can take a few prisoners alive, we can make them tell us where the gold mine is!”
“There’s no gold mine!” Wilf retorted.
“If his warriors grow weary of Rakell’s rule, perhaps we can turn them,” Robien suggested. “If only a dozen desert, it will discourage the rest.”
“The ogres-!” Caeta began once more.
“Be silent!” Howland said suddenly. His voice was like a thunderclap. Even Carver shut his mouth for once.
To Robien, Howland asked, “How does one kill a poisonous snake?”
“Strike off the head.”
No sooner had the bounty hunter spoken, than he, Raika, Amergin, and Khorr all perceived Howland’s plan.
“Strike off the head!” the minotaur repeated. “A classic notion. In The Lay of the Blue Dragon, the hero Zadza frees the minotaurs of the Scarlet Isle by beheading the vile beast Murmoroc.”
“This is no time for poetry,” Raika said.
“On the contrary, I would like to hear the tale of Zadza,” said Howland, leaning back against the well. “In brief prose, if you please, Khorr.”
The minotaur spread his big hands. “Your loss, friends! The Lay of the Blue Dragon is a wonderful piece, 1,629 septameters in five cantos …” Khorr sighed, sending a shower of sparks skyward from the campfire.
“The climax of the story is thus: Zadza, unable to defeat Murmoroc in open battle, stages his own death. The minotaur tribe of the Scarlet Isle send supplicants to the dragon, begging for mercy. Murmoroc agrees, if the minotaurs send ten females and ten males to him as sacrifices. Unable to offer resistance, they sadly agree.
“Twenty-one minotaurs show up at the dragon’s lair-”
“Twenty-one?” said Caeta. “Why not twenty?”
“I can guess,” Howland said, smiling. “Zadza was the twenty-first.”
“Yes! You know the poem?” Khorr asked.
“No, but I recognize the tactics. Go on.”
“Zadza comes disguised as a funerary priest. While he burns incense and sprinkles the water of death over the twenty sacrificial victims, he lulls Murmoroc into inattentiveness.”
“And then?” said Carver, rapt.
“He cuts off the dragon’s head with his axe,” said Khorr.
The kender applauded.
Howland said, “Very good. That’s just what I have in mind.” He beamed at all the puzzled faces. Turning to the Elder Calec he added, “You’re going to help me.”
“Help you what?”
“Cut off the dragon’s head.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Night passed, tense but quiet. The black landscape outside the village was alive with glimmering campfires, tiny red flames winking like the eyes of a hundred wolves, patiently haunting a beleaguered herd. Howland and Robien checked the defenses constantly, keeping the farmers on guard awake with jokes, threats, and an occasional slap or kick. Howland did not rest until an hour or so before dawn when he sat down, back against the well, dozing until cock’s crow.
He arose seemingly refreshed, and called his people together. Robien was never far from him now. Amergin, who wouldn’t sleep in an artificial structure, slept under a spindly apple tree in the common. When Howland called, he rolled to his feet, coughed once, and came swiftly. Carver had to be called four times not because he was still asleep but because he was eating. He appeared before his commander munching a hot barley cake, two more tucked under his arms.
Khorr, clothes damp with mud from having spent the night in the trench, guzzled a bucket of water before he could speak. Hardest of all to rouse was Raika. She passed the night on her bedroll in the midst of her spear company, but when the sun rose, she was the last to stir. The busy cacophony of morning broke around her, and she never cracked an eye.
“I can wake her,” Carver vowed. He held up a gray chicken feather.
Howland’s brows climbed high. “You live dangerously, kender!”
“I don’t think he wants to live at all,” Khorr growled.
With a supercilious smirk, Carver strolled to the sleeping Raika. His band of village children gathered round the kender wherever he went. When they saw their leader, feather in hand, standing over Raika, they burst out in fits of giggling. Not even their shrill merriment disturbed the Saifhumi woman.
“Sir, about today’s action-” Robien began.
Howland, watching Carver intently, held up a hand. “Wait.”
The kender squatted down, looking over the sleeping woman for exposed skin. She had a blanket drawn up to her eyes, covering her nose, chin, ears, and neck. He moved to the other end. Three dusky toes protruded from the hem of the blanket. Carver gave his weapon a final flourish, and applied it to Raika’s toes.
Her foot twitched, like a horse shrugging off a pesky fly. Carver waited until Raika stopped moving then swished the feather back and forth under her exposed toes. This time she brought her right foot over and violently scratched the tickled spot with her other big toe.
Carver frowned, gazing at the uncovered sole of Raika’s right foot. He drew the feather down once, up, and down again, all the time watching for her eyes to open.
With the speed of a striking hawk, Raika’s leg lashed out, catching Carver in the chest. He flew a good six feet before landing spreadeagled on his back. The chicken feather drifted slowly to the ground between them. The whippik company drew in a collective breath when they saw their fearless commander struck down, but their shock soon gave way to delight, and the children laughed uproariously.
So did Howland. He slapped Khorr on his broad back and laughed till tears slid down his mustache.
Amidst all the gaiety, Raika got up. Her eyes were screwed nearly shut, but she threw off the blanket and strode to the well, not speaking to anyone until she’d taken a dipper of water.
“Is the pest alive?” she said.
The village children hauled Carver to his feet. His eyes were rolled back. The older children marched him around to clear his scrambled head.