Macurdy looked back. “Do it,” he said.
Another, presumably Kahl, rode out on horseback then, and herded the newcomers to a broad meadow. As they crossed it, a heavy-set man sauntered to meet them, a man with considerable fat over thick muscles. Orthal, Macurdy decided. In one hand he carried a roasted joint of some animal, a deer maybe, or calf. His face, hands, and hairy belly were slick with grease. His aura marked him as a natural ruler, a man born to give orders and be obeyed. It also showed him to be brutal. Most of his command seemed to be loafing, and Macurdy got the sense of people who didn’t know what to do next—men without a clear objective or plan or strategy.
“Captain,” Kahl said, “these people were coming up the trail. Thurgo told me to bring them to you.”
Orthal scowled at the newcomers. “What do you want here?”
“We came to join,” Macurdy said.
“Who in the devil’s name are you?”
“My name’s Macurdy, and these are Jeremid and Melody. We’re from Oz. These dwarves are sons of the Rich Lode clan, from the Diamond Flues. These others are rebels from other bands, men we rescued from the reeve in Gormin Town. I don’t know all their names.”
None of it seemed to register on Orthal, who looked them over slowly, his eyes stopping on Melody for a long moment before returning to Macurdy. Meanwhile, more and more of Orthal’s band gathered around, bows nocked or spears in hand. Jeremid kept his own arrow casually directed at Orthal’s greasy chest, the bowstring half drawn. Orthal was very aware of it.
“Who do you know here that can speak for you?” Orthal asked.
“Here? No one of yours. But these . . .”
Orthal waved him off. “They don’t mean shit to me. I never saw them before.”
“I’ll tell ye who he is,” said Tossi angrily. “He’s the one that killed the reeve’s guards in the square in Gormin Town. He and those tew. And cut these others down from where they’d been hung up to die in public. And led a public riot against the king, that set the town burnin’.”
Most of Orthal’s men were staring hard at Macurdy now, unsure whether the claims were true, but feeling a certain awe. Macurdy could sense it.
Orthal grunted. “Huh! Sounds like bullshit to me. What’s your name again?”
“Macurdy.”
“Macnurley!” His mispronunciation, Macurdy guessed, was deliberate. “I’ve got foragers out, and they bring news as well as food. If the things this halfling says are true, we’ll welcome you. But for now . . . For now you’ll have to give up your weapons. And your horses.”
Macurdy felt his people tighten. He was also aware that Orthal had reestablished his authority; his men were ready to let their arrows fly, their spears thrust. One of them even stepped in front of his captain as if to shield him. Macurdy looked back. “Do what he says,” he ordered. “If we’re going to be part of this, we need to take orders.” He slipped his sheathed saber from his belt and lay it on the ground; unhappy, the others followed his example with bows and swords. Meanwhile rebels had moved in, taken the reins of the horses and ponies, and were leading them away.
No one but Macurdy paid attention to the heavy knife still behind his hip. They were led to a place in the shade and seated in a cluster, unbound but guarded. After a little, the rebels ate their midday meal, offering their prisoners neither food nor water. Jeremid gave Macurdy dirty looks. Before the meal was over, a sentry rode up. “Captain! There’s men coming up the trail from Three Forks. Slaney and his, I think!”
Macurdy swallowed bile.
Other rebels mounted horses and rode off southwest, clearly not in hostile reaction, but to confirm and greet.
“Slaney?” Jeremid murmured. “Isn’t he the one . . . ?”
“He’s the one,” Macurdy murmured back.
“Shit! What do we do now?”
“Wait for our chance. Don’t do anything till I tell you.”
Six or eight minutes later, Slaney rode into the clearing at the head of about twenty men. Macurdy got to his feet, the rest of his party rising too. As the newcomers rode up, Slaney’s glance stopped on him.