Macurdy swung down from his horse, and after tying the reins to a clump of willow, walked into the woods, leaving his spear and bow, but keeping his sword at his waist. The blowdowns were old enough that decay had weakened the branches, allowing many of the trunks to settle to the ground or onto other fallen trees. The heavy opening of the forest roof had allowed the undergrowth to thicken, and saplings had sprung up twenty or more feet high.
A mess, Macurdy thought. At home these would have been cut up for logs and firewood, except for the elm. He picked his way around and over blowdowns in the direction the voice had called from, not trying to keep a low target. A man crouched behind a thick elm, bow ready, his gaze shifting from the woods in front of him to the approaching Macurdy, and back again.
“Are you the leader here?” Macurdy asked.
The man looked at him suspiciously. “I am.”
“What have you got pinned down in there?” Macurdy called. Loudly enough, he thought, that the dwarves would hear too.
“What business is it of yours?”
“It’s my master’s business. I act on his orders. He’s a magician, and he says it’s dwarves you’ve trapped here.”
The bandit ignored the question. “What the hell happened to your face?” he asked. “I never saw anyone beat up so bad.”
Macurdy fingered the hard welt on his broken left cheekbone. “I displeased my master.”
They were, he decided, being held off by dwarvish marksmanship. The bandits might have an advantage in numbers, but it seemed to him they had some disadvantages, for at least the leader’s quiver looked light for a siege, and he carried a longbow. While according to the lore Macurdy had learned from Maikel and Blue Wing, the dwarves’ long-range weapon was the crossbow, whose bolts, short and heavy, would be less deflected by undergrowth.
Meanwhile the bandit had turned to face Macurdy, his bowstring half drawn. At ten feet, Macurdy told himself, the arrow could pass through his breastbone and mostly out his back. He ignored it, lowering to a crouch himself, moving in closer with a hand cupped to his mouth, as if for private conversation. But his voice, when he spoke, was loud.
“Excuse me for shouting,” he said, “but your men need to hear me, too. My master’s not known for his patience, and your lives mean even less to him than mine. He does business with dwarves from time to time, and considers himself a dwarf friend. He orders you to make terms with them.”
The man’s eyes bulged in angry reaction, then abruptly Macurdy lunged, his left hand chopping sideways, deflecting the bow while his right drew his knife. He backed the bandit against the elm, the man staring not in anger now but fear, for the knife blade was at his belly.
“If you knew my master,” Macurdy told him loudly, “you’d understand that I fear him much more than I fear you. Tell your men you’re going to make terms. Tell them to be ready to leave when you’ve got an agreement with the dwarves.”
He twitched lightly with the knife, slicing the man’s homespun shirt, and the skin beneath it.
“You heard what he said!” the leader shouted.
“Lords of the Mountain!” Macurdy called. “Will you agree not to shoot at these people while they withdraw?”
The answering voice was a deep, accented bass. “Yewr mad if ye think ye can fool us so easily! Ye’d shoot us down in cold blood!”
“What’s your name?” Macurdy asked the bandit quietly.
“Slaney.”
“Slaney,” Macurdy said loudly, “step out here!”
“What?! They’ll shoot me!”
“Louder!”
“I said they’d shoot me!”
“I don’t think so. But it’s a chance you take, being a highwayman, and if you don’t step out, I’ll spill your guts on the ground right here. I’ll count to three: one . . .”
Slaney stepped away from the elm, Macurdy with him, the heavy knife still at the bandit’s belly. “We’re not highwaymen,” the bandit muttered. “But rebels have to eat, and with Gurtho on the throne . . .”
Macurdy’s left hand reached, drew Slaney’s knife from its sheath and tossed it away. “Hold your bow against the tree.”