"I think he wants a whole barrel," said one of the Deese priests again.
The Ancar warriors didn't seem to hear, but the landlord caught it. "A whole barrel?" he groaned. "Gods, you know they won't pay for it. . . ."
Nonetheless, he went to the end of the counter and rolled a sloshing barrel into sight.
The Ancar troops fell on it with whoops of delight, and began rolling it toward the front door.
"My pay," the landlord tried, chasing after the yelping squad with his hands held out in the unmistakable gesture.
The last Ancar out the door only laughed, tugged one ear, shook his head, and trotted after the others.
The landlord sighed, watching them go. Everyone else in the room quietly relaxed.
One of the Deese priests got up and peeped out the door after the retreating noise of the Ancar troop. "They've got an oxcart," he noted. "They're loading it on, next to lots of other loot. I think . . . yes, they're leaving."
"Thank the gods for small mercies," groaned the landlord. "At least it was only a barrel of cheap beer."
"Could've been much worse," the Deese priest agreed. "They're going off down the southwest road."
"Oh, my sheep!" one of the locals wailed. "I graze 'em near the road these days!" He snatched up his cap and ran out the door.
"Keep to the back trails!" the landlord called after him.
The other priests of Deese stopped that soft chanting of theirs, and stood up. One of the two biggest came quietly over to the landlord, pulling something small out of his robe.
"I think we'd best leave now," he said quietly, "before those louts tell anyone that there's a small gang of pilgrims available for robbing. Er, could you change this?"
On his calloused palm he held out a small coin, no bigger than his fingernail, but winking unmistakably golden in the candlelight.
The landlord gaped. "Gods, no! I've not seen . . . er, such a coin in years." He glanced about worriedly, watching for unwelcome ears. "Lords of heaven, I've not seen even much silver from year's end to year's end. Have ye no other coin?"
"Unfortunately, no." The priest leaned closer and spoke lower. "Give me what coin you can lay hands on, and a keg of the best wine you have, and we'll call the deal fair."
"Er, a whole keg . . . ?"
"And two sacks of grain for our mules. Keep the rest as, hmm, compensation for your lost beer."
"Ah, ay, that'll do," the landlord agreed. "And, er, not a word to any Ancar louts about seeing the lot of you, eh?"
"Not a word to the Ancar about anything." The Deese priest smiled. "A word to a wise ear: best if your folk learned to understand the Ancar tongue as soon as might be—but never let the Ancar know it."
"Aye," the landlord grinned, showing gapped teeth. "A good word 'tis. Shall I carry out the keg for ye?"
"Best I do it—hidden under the cloak," the priest smiled back.
A moment later the party of Deese pilgrims departed the inn, two carrying grainbags and one toting a keg under his cloak. The innkeeper and his customers watched them go, already framing the tales they'd tell their assorted kin that evening. Two sets of strangers in one day: quite enough excitement for a town this size.
"Strange that those barbarian lads didn't start laying about with their irons," the blacksmith noted. "Mayhap they're settling down a bit."
"More like, the chanting o' those priests had a bit to do with it," the landlord considered. "It sounded most sleepy-like, did you note."
"Why, so it did," the blacksmith considered. "Hmm, a good magic, that, if they be going northward."
"Aye," The blacksmith nodded soberly. "They'll need all their magic there, right enough. Ancar thick as fleas . . ."
"Oh, great doings there!" the innkeeper laughed. "Ancar warriors against Sukkti wizards: yon's a fight I'd love to see—from a safe ways back."
The blacksmith nodded dreamily, thinking about that. From such beginnings were legends born; with any luck, he'd have tales to win him drinks for his whole life long.
Once out of the tavern, the dark-robed pilgrims headed for the stables at the best speed they could make under their burdens.
"The mules . . . ?" the tall thin one panted.
"Safe," retorted the big man with the keg. "Vari sat on the wagon playing with the whip until the stableboys went away. Then she rehitched the mules and took the whole lot around behind the stable. Those Ancar pups couldn't have seen them."
"Pups! If those are the puppies, Zeren, what are the wolves like?"
"Bad enough, but all gone south where the fighting is. Those were bored brats, not fit for the front lines. We'll doubtless meet more, probably house guards of older officers, petty chiefs and the like, who've settled down to enjoy the spoils. Here . . . mind your feet! Let's load these quickly."
The grain and wine went into the wagon, where Vari and Tamiri tied them down with respectable speed.
"Are we moving on again?" Tamiri wanted to know. "I wanted to sleep in a bed. It's been so long, Mama. . . ."
"I know, dearest, but it isn't safe here. Back inside, now." Vari shooed the grumbling girl back into the body of the wagon, and held the end flaps open. "Inside, fast. There won't be much room, but—"
The others scrambled in without ceremony, climbing onto whatever seats they could manage. Doshi, the last one in, retied the flaps tightly. Zeren and Sulun went to the mules, took off their now empty nosebags, led the reluctant animals out from behind the shed, then climbed up on the driver's box and flicked out the whip. The mules plodded sullenly out onto the road.
"North, but for how long?" Sulun asked, encouraging the mules with a few hints of the whip. "The sun's low."
"Just out of sight of the village, then into the first woods near the river." Zeren reached under his cloak and tugged his sword to a handier position. "We haven't time to do better, Hmm, and I don't think it will rain tonight. Bad, bad . . . We'd best take precautions."
"And hide the fire, too." Sulun hitched his shoulders in a sigh. "Well, so that was the enemy. Can they do anything besides fight and steal?"
"Not that I've seen. Gods, that was close, in there. I expected they'd start laying about swords, drive everyone out, steal what they wanted and set fire to the rest."
"Eloti's magic seems to be improving with practice."
"Yes . . ." Zeren set his eyes on the narrow road ahead, and said nothing further for a long while.
Choma's Chargers had grown up behind the lines, never been in on the sack of any of the large cities, only heard secondhand about the Sack of Sabis, and considered themselves most ill-used by Fate. Their older brothers and cousins, they very well knew, were busy down in the fabled southlands fighting heroic battles, collecting fabulous loot, making great chiefs and small kings of themselves—and here were they, Choma's company, good as any warriors in all the tribes, stuck patrolling the roads in these dirt-poor backwater lands. Wasted, they were: and all because old chief Borath had taken a bad wound in the campaigns ten years ago, and had chosen to settle here and let the rest of the war go on without him. Oh yes, he'd sent troops south with the main army, but Choma and Ruek and Lumaj and their friends had been too young to go with them. Now, by Vona's Lightning Mace, it was too late; the greatest war in history had passed them by. It was the chief complaint of their lives, and they complained about it often—especially when there was, as now, enough beer to keep their voices lubricated.