"I can do most of what is needed now," the kender said. "Just guard my back." Then he dismounted and ran into the trees.
Not knowing what else to do, Gerik followed, but without dismounting. The trees here grew close-set, and by the lime he and his band had squeezed their way through the last strip of forest, the Shorn One was at work.
He was running around the tent, leaping over the supporting ropes, vaulting pegs and poles, and generally behaving like the image of a witless kender. But Gerik saw that every few paces he touched one end of the staff to the ground. The guards who had not run off, in fear or to aid comrades, were staring at the kender priest. They were still staring when their eyes set forever in their heads, as human arrows and kender knives put an end to them.
By then the Shorn One had run completely around the tent. As he completed the circle, he tossed his staff high into the air. It flew like a spear to the peak of the tent then floated down as gently as a mother bird settling on a nest of eggs, to perch beside the pole now openly flying the banner of House Dirivan.
"Oh," the Shorn One said. "You'll want the banner." He made a pass with his hands; smoke curled around the pole, and it snapped like a twig. A moment later it thrust itself into the ground beside Gerik.
Then the Shorn One gave a single loud cry, and from the ground upward, and from his staff downward, heavy, thorn-laden vines began to sprout. They climbed up and down, met, entangled themselves, and exuded a pungent odor of resin.
Gerik did not remember breathing during the time it took for the vines to completely enshroud the tent, so that one could barely see the canvas and leather through the thorns. Then he gasped as the Shorn One made a final series of gestures and the resin-laden vines burst into flames.
They were only the ordinary bright orange flames from anything rich in resin, but they roared up in a pyramid of fire whose light blinded and whose heat scorched. Gerik shouted to the Shorn One to retreat, and began backing his own mount.
His warning was either too late or never heard. The base of the fire-pyramid widened, a wall of fire advancing outward in all directions. The Shorn One stood his ground, still gesturing. For a moment he was a dark silhouette against the orange glare-then the glare swallowed him up.
If the kender cried out, Gerik did not hear it over the roar of the flames. What he did hear was hoofbeats, as mounted enemies rode up-too late to save their supplies, but not too late to block Gerik's retreat.
Or so they must have thought, from the casual way they sat their saddles, weapons slung or sheathed. They had no warning of the flight of arrows that suddenly leaped from the darkness, to pierce both armor and exposed flesh and topple four men straight out of their saddles.
Bertsa Wylum's scouting party was only six. But surprised as they were, their enemies were in no state to count. The arrows might have been a shower from a war party of Kagonesti, from the effect they had on those facing Gerik.
They were already looking about wildly, at everything except their enemies, when Gerik ordered the charge. He wished briefly for a lance; he could have spitted the leader like a goose before the man saw his death coming. Then Gerik's riders crashed through the ranks of their enemies and straight past Bertsa Wylum, who was drawing again.
At the same time she was shouting, "Kender, to us!" and "Sell-swords of House Dirivan, this is not your fight. Look at the pyre we've made of what they promised you for this unlawful war! Think what you'll win here besides a dishonored grave!"
Gerik counted three mounted kender and ten riders, two riding double. A nod from Wylum, and one of her scouts led a riderless captured horse forward. The double-mounted rider was remounted in a moment, and then the whole band put in their spurs and turned south.
Behind them, the flames had begun to die down. But it would be morning before the ashes of House Dirivan's storehouse were cool enough to sift through, and those who sifted would find little enough for their pains. Even House Dirivan might have trouble sustaining four hundred fighters with supplies for fifty. The kingpriest doubtless had his own well-stocked storehouses, but would he be as free with their contents a second time, to those who had lost so much so swiftly?
On the answers to those questions, many lives might hang. One life that Gerik was glad to see had been spared was Elderdrake's; he was now riding behind Bertsa Wylum. Gerik would have just as gladly welcomed the Shorn One, but all he could do for the kender priest was remind Branchala that he should remember and reward a good servant.
It was what Gerik hoped others would do for him, if he followed the Shorn One in the next few days.
After the duel, Pirvan quickly grew thankful that half the warriors off Suivinari Island were minotaurs. They were in theory under his command, but in practice he had to give them very few orders and those he passed through Zeskuk, after consulting with Fulvura.
The minotaurs did not expect him to hold their hands, console, counsel, or solve problems that he thought grown men and women should be able to solve for themselves. For this, Pirvan the Wayward blessed them exceedingly. The human half of the fleet was not so self-reliant.
As a result, by the second dawn after the duel, Pirvan had enjoyed perhaps three hours of fitful sleep in two days. He did not sway as he listened to Tarothin explain why Sir Niebar could safely land with the fighters, but that was because he was sitting down. Haimya had brought him a camp stool, and was standing guard behind him with a look on her face that was more effective than a drawn sword at keeping the unwanted from approaching him.
Tarothin, however, had the right to approach, to talk, even to try persuading Pirvan into letting Sir Niebar commit folly. No man of honor could deny so old and valuable a comrade those rights, and more. What Pirvan wanted to deny was that any amount of help from Tarothin could give Sir Niebar the endurance for the final battle on Suivinari. It might last for days, even a week, before they penetrated Wilthur's stronghold and cast him down-or before Torvik's band and the Dimernesti did the same from seaward.
For his own part, Tarothin was newly dedicated to the fight against Wilthur the Brown. The loss of his friend and comrade Sirbones weighed heavily, visibly on the mage. Wilthur had made another powerful enemy.
At last, Pirvan raised a hand. It did not shake, much to his surprise. Even more to his surprise, Tarothin stopped in midsentence.
"Will you be needed to watch for further-schemes-by the Istarans?" Pirvan asked the Red Robe.
"Lady Revella has asked all Istaran wizards and priests to swear to peace and honor, or be spell-locked until the island is seized," Tarothin said. "She says she can face open enemies, weak as she is, but not false friends. She herself is, I think, trustworthy. Even if she is not, there is always Lujimar, who-"
"Do not even think that aloud," Pirvan cautioned. "All the good we will have gained toward the minotaurs could go in a moment, if a minotaur priest were to smite a human wizard."
"As you wish. But if I have as much work in hand as I suspect I shall, some strong arm to aid Sir Niebar would be welcome. Sir Darin, for example, or Sir Hawkbrother."
Pirvan opened his mouth to forbid mention of Hawkbrother, then closed it again. His impulse had come out of knowing that Young Eskaia would insist on joining her hushand in the honorable duty of guarding Sir Niebar on the battlefield. Honorable, and likely to be one of the more dangerous duties in the coming fight for Suivinari.
"Sir Darin should have first refusal on that post of honor," Pirvan said.
"Then we can settle the matter swiftly," Tarothin said. "I see a boat approaching, with both Sir Darin and his lady aboard it."