think he had moved them. He held out his hands. “As long
as we’re fighting the good fight for you, so to speak, can
you lend us your swords?”
The elders stared at him.
“We didn’t bring any,” he added.
“It’s not as if we needed them,” Jarek said.
The elders were suitably impressed.
“The Protector fled with most of our good weapons. We
still have a few.” Rhael lifted a rag-wrapped bundle and
gave it to Graym. “This is Galeanor, the Axe of the Just.”
“Just what?” Jarek asked.
Graym took the axe, eyed it dubiously. “Just kidding.”
Darll muttered in his ear. “Perfect. The fat man fights
and dies with the Axe of the Just Kidding.”
Rhael handed the others dented weapons, the few the
Protector had left behind. Darll examined his sword with
distaste. Jarek looked at his with delight. The Wolf brothers
picked up two badly corroded maces, after touching them
gingerly to be sure they weren’t dangerous. They stood
there, then, staring at one another.
“Don’t you think you’d better take up positions opposite
the enemy?” Rhael suggested.
“You’re absolutely right, Miss,” Graym said firmly.
“Move out.” With only a small twinge of guilt, he added,
“And we’ll take the cart with us – for supplies . . . and . . .
strategy.”
They traipsed down the hill, walked through Graveside.
It was, Graym noted, a pleasant enough place, not much
bigger than Sarem. There were cart tracks in front of the
homes and manure piles in the tilled fields. It obviously was
a farm-to-market town for a larger city. “Krinneor isn’t far
now,” Graym said to the others. “We’re closer to the city
itself. I know it. Now, if we can just shake this lot. . .”
Graym glanced behind him. Werlow began organizing
the elders for a safe retreat down the road. Rhael had gone
into one of the cottages.
Graym smiled; they continued on.
At the crest of the hill, Darll raised his hand in silent
warning. The others obediently stopped the cart.
“Keep low!” he ordered. They dropped to the ground
and peered into the valley below.
Tombstones and open graves, white tents and a great
many ropes stippled the valley and spread up the opposite
hill. A hundred helmeted, armored warriors stood in line,
ready for inspection. Graym looked shocked.
“These scum robbed the graves,” said Darll. “And
they’re wearing the corpses!”
“Odd taste in armor, made out of bones. What for, d’you
think, sir?” Graym asked.
“Wolves love bones,” Darll said bitterly. “Sheep shy
away from them. No use in shying, though. The wolves
always win.” He smiled grimly. “I know. I’m a wolf.”
He pointed downhill cautiously. “The two in front with
the swords are drillmasters, showing close-quarter thrusts.
The ones checking the lines are lower-rank officers.”
A man dashed up to a soldier, who was twisting this
way and that, cuffed him, and yelled in his face. The
shouting carried all the way to the hilltop.
“That,” Darll said dryly, “would be the sergeant.”
“Which one is Skorm?” Graym whispered.
“My guess would be the big guy, wearing the sawed-off
skull.”
They watched as Skorm paced calmly and evenly,
inspecting the troops. The warlord, stepping over a skeleton,
kicked the skull. It shattered on a tombstone.
Graym peered down at him. “Now there’s a man who
knows the value of appearances.”
“Don’t you ever say anything bad about anybody?”
Graym shrugged. “There’s more than enough of that
around, sir, if you want it.”
“What if we split them down the middle?” a voice said.
They rolled and turned around, Graym snatching the
axe from his belt. Rhael, a battered spear with a mended
haft in her hands, was standing behind them. She was
dressed in leather armor that probably had been trimmed
from a butcher’s apron.
“I’ve always heard that was how to deal with a larger
force,” she said.
“Young Elder Rhael,” said Graym, “why don’t you go
back to town and keep bad folk from climbing the hill to
surround us?”
Rhael looked at Graym admiringly. “You have the
mind of a warrior.” She stood stiffly. “I won’t let you down.
I promise.”
They watched her run back over the hill crest. “I wish I