The priest was the only bald kender short of old age whom Gerik had ever seen. He had luxuriant sideburns and a long plait hanging below his shoulder blades, but from just above the ears he had no more hair than the new granite blocks in the walls of Tirabot Manor.
So Gerik named the priest "The Shorn One," and so addressed him. It was, after all, a politer name than "Baldy," and Gerik suspected that politeness to this priest would be wise. He might not be carrying any visible magicworking materials besides his staff, but if he was a master of practical jokes as lethal as the allergy spell, he probably did not need them.
The kender climbed onto various horses, behind various uneasy riders (the horses seemed to take the kender in stride). With emphatic gestures they refused to be tied on, so Bertsa Wylum declared that the march would not stop to pick up the fallen. It might not even slow to avoid trampling them if they fell off at the wrong time.
For all the response this warning drew from the kender, Wylum might as well have spoken in Old Ergothian. Gerik put his band into motion again, hoping that he still had enemies only to his front.
Medlessarn the Silent must have found a deep hole in the reef, then swum furiously toward the surface. When he broached, he soared from the water until his toes barely touched the surface before plunging back cleanly. When he rose again, Mirraleen thought she heard an approving chorus of shouts and whistles from Red Elf.
The newcomer Dimernesti on the rock beside her, whose name she could not recall for now, looked much less agreeable. "Showoff," he muttered. "And from where did he take the name 'Silent'? He hasn't been silent since we gathered at noon."
Medlessarn, Mirraleen thought, was quite probably and quite simply nervous. She had labored hard to make it clear that while she had been here at Suivinari for many years as the Red Walker, he was her master in the knowledge of war. Which meant that he led, however reluctantly, and however much in need of her knowledge of the island and of the assembled humans and minotaurs.
The plain truth was that she did not know war. It was equally true that this was of her own will, and she would have been far happier if Wilthur the Brown had never come to Suivinari. But he had, and at least the human fleet coming to smite him had brought with it Torvik Jemarsson, so she had something to take with her from this war, however she fared afterward.
Also, even those of the shallows-dwellers who grumbled about Medlessarn would accept his leadership. Several of the newcomers would have fought her to the death had she claimed the first place, and in so doing ruined any hope of further Dimernesti aid for the humans. She still hoped that Medlessarn's accent in Common did not make him a figure of fun to the humans. Few warriors will follow a leader who makes them smile the moment he speaks.
"Greetings, brothers and sisters in this battle for all our folk," Medlessarn began. At least his choice of words was flawless. He still had such a strong flavor of Old Kagonesti in his accent that Mirraleen heard murmurs and some laughter from the ship.
"Silence!" from the foredeck. That had to be Torvik. Nobody else could have such a young voice and so much authority. Proof of that authority: when he commanded silence, he won it.
Medlessarn went on to explain how Dimernesti and humans working together could penetrate deep within the mountain called the Smoker-
"Into the volcano?" several cried.
Medlessarn continued without needing Torvik to command silence. "Through the passages where the sea flows deep within the mountain. Those passages give us swift entry to the mage's lair. Attacked from the rear and the front at once, his fate is sure."
"What about that cursed thing that munches minotaurs?" somebody asked, to a chorus of agreement.
"What about it?" Medlessarn replied. Mirraleen smiled and her hands told him that he was doing splendid work.
"What about it?" he said again, so quietly that a hush fell on the sea as everyone aboard Red Elf strained their ears to listen. "It is a monstrosity. Not even Wilthur can trust it, and the gods hate it. It will have no friends when it is faced by true warriors, of the shallows-dwellers, the humans and other dry-other land-dwelling folk, aided by true magic worked by wizards of honor. Without friends, not even Wilthur's Creation can prevail."
Everyone seemed so taken by this prophecy of victory that no one asked how many of them would be alive to celebrate it. But then that was not a question warriors were supposed to ask themselves on the eve of battle. Another reason, thought Mirraleen, that she was not much of a warrior.
Medlessarn continued, describing how each band must have at least one captain who knew the intricacies of the passages into the Smoker, past the Creation, and upward to Wilthur's lair. Torvik had already taken this knowledge into his memory, through the true magic of the shallows-dwellors. Who would be next?
A slim figure leaped onto the railing of Red Elf, tossed something to a friend, then plunged gracefully into the sea. When Mirraleen saw that the friend was holding up a bow and quiver, she suspected who was coming. When she saw a female version of Torvik climb out of the sea and wade inward the rocks, she knew she faced Torvik's sister Chuina.
Before she could greet the young archer, Mirraleen saw a scuffle on deck. Someone else went over the side, but not diving gracefully. He landed sprawling, and floundered about until someone threw a rope and hauled him back aboard.
"What was that all about?" the grumbling sea-elf said. His name came back to Mirraleen. "Kuyomolan-!" she snapped.
Chuina grinned. Her grin, also, was a near-twin of her brother's. "My guess is, one fellow who's been rattling on about Torvik and his elven lady. He said something like, 'a taste that runs in the family, I see,' and one of my archers threw him overboard. As long as he's not hurt, we've no need to fear," she said.
"Speak for yourself," Kuyomolan said. "Can we trust foul-wits like that at our backs? And I see no minotaurs aboard that barge."
"My brother's ship is not a barge, minotaurs do not swim well through narrow passages, and I will never stab you in the back," Chuina said. "But I may take you on face-to-face, if you blather like that again."
Kuyomolan was too stunned to reply, which was as well. An idea had just leaped into Mirraleen's mind like a porpoise leaping into the air. She turned Chuina around and whispered into her ear. The grin stayed on Chuina's face as she listened. It broadened as Mirraleen continued.
By the time the Dimernesti was finished, Chuina was laughing. They both turned and watched fighters scramble down into a boat alongside Red Elf.
"Better send that boat off quick, once the captains are here," Chuina said. "Torvik'Il have to write a note too, not just you. Darin and Rynthala see far and think deep, but they don't know you and they hardly know me."
Mirraleen nodded. She could not help noticing that Medlessarn had his eyes firmly fixed on Chuina, whose wet garments hugged her skin tightly.
Would that rude jester aboard Red Elf be so far wrong, if Medlessarn and Chuina were much in each other's company? Perhaps-and there lay yet another reason for the message to Sir Darin and his lady.
Gerik was only two places behind the lead when his band rode into a clearing already held by an enemy patrol.
This saved his life, for one of the others was alert and skilled with a crossbow. The bolt took a Tirabot fighter in the throat, tumbling her from the saddle without a cry. Only the thud of her fall marked her passing from the band's ranks.
Before her mount could panic at the loss of its rider, the Shorn One leaped down from behind Gerik. He raised his staff and tapped the horse lightly across the throat.