Slaney stepped over to Macurdy. “The truth between the two of us,” he growled, in a tone not to be heard by his men. “There is no master, right? There’s only the three of you.”
“Right and wrong,” Macurdy lied. “There are seven of us, but I’m the leader and magician. The other four don’t want their presence known in this country. Also I am dwarf friend, and couldn’t let them die here.”
Slaney didn’t know what to believe, and said nothing more; his aura was thick with hate. He and his men mounted—two to a horse except for himself—and without looking back, headed east down the highway.
Dwarves do not ride full-sized horses; Macurdy had learned that from Maikel. Their legs are short, they require special saddles, and there’s the problem of climbing on and off. They ride ponies specially bred—short of leg and very tame, with a quick-footed gait.
This party had been traveling with two saddle ponies each, plus spares and pack ponies, and enough were left that each survivor had one to ride, with several left over. With tallfolk help, they loaded their goods on compensatory horses, on pack saddles lashed together from stout ash saplings. Their dead, including the tallfolk groom they’d hired, were also loaded across horses. Macurdy wondered aloud if it might not be better to build a pyre and burn them, this being the tallfolk custom in Yuulith. The elder dwarf answered that there’d be no decay, and he’d have strong coffins made at the nearest village where a proper cart could be bought.
That said, he put his hand on each corpse, one after the other, concentrating and muttering, as if preserving them with a spell.
The dwarves didn’t look forward to tending a string of horses—they preferred not even to tend their ponies if they could hire some tallfolk to do it—but they seemed not to doubt that they could if they had to.
Their biggest problem was that four of them, venturesome youths by dwarvish standards, wanted to join Macurdy, whom they believed would be doing more bold adventurous things—things they hoped to be part of. This, however, would leave their leader with a party of only four, of whom two had been wounded, though one but slightly. But those who wanted to leave claimed the right to do so. They hadn’t been part of the original party; had attached themselves to it because they were also from the Diamond Flues.
Old Kittul Kendersson Great Lode disagreed. He pointed out that as a member of the ruling council, he had the authority to take command in emergencies. On the other hand, young Tossi Pellersson Rich Lode, eldest of the four cousins, claimed the emergency was over. And a tallfolk could be hired at the next village to tend the animals.
Old Kittul was apparently not a typical dwarf. He undertook a compromise, for he saw that the Pellerssons would leave despite him, which could give rise to ill feelings in both clans. And at any rate the younger dwarf’s arguments had merit. While Tossi, though young, understood the politics of the Diamond Flues. The upshot was that one of the cousins would leave with Kittul. And Tossi, if he lived long enough, was to personally deliver, to the King In Silver Mountain, a report of the events here. He was also to send one in writing, for the king should be apprised that travel entailed risks in this region.
Tossi’s three cousins drew straws—Tossi, as senior, held aloof from the risk—the short straw to ride west with Kittul.
When Kittul’s party was in the saddle, he called Macurdy to him. “And yewr people,” he said, “and yewrs, Tossi Pellersson.” When they’d gathered, Kittul cleared his throat and began.
“Macurdy,” he said, “ye haven’t told me where yer goin’ nor why. But yewr a born commander, both in yer manner and yer thinkin’, though ye don’t flaunt it. And I have no doubt at all that whatever yer about, it’s honorable.
“As for yew, Tossi, I suspect yew and yer wild cousins will find adventures enough to last yer lifetime. Which I hope will be long enough to have children to tell them to.”