She heaped berries into an earthenware bowl and poured cream over them. She took an oat cake from the platter and drizzled honey on it. “Wiz always said that when you could not meet a problem straight forward you should come at it straight backwards.”
Shiara nibbled reflectively on an oat cake. “That sounds like the kind of thing the Sparrow would say.”
Moira nodded. “Once he told me something about a mountain that could move but wouldn’t and a wizard named Mohammed.” She wrinkled her nose. “I never understood that, but it gave me an idea.”
Shiara chuckled. “Now that truly sounds like our Sparrow. And from this obstinate mountain and a straight backwards approach, you have discovered something to help you?”
“To help Wiz. But Lady, I need your advice.”
“I know nothing about going straight backwards or moving mountains.”
“No, but you know Bal-Simba. He will have to aid me in this.”
The sun was high in the sky before it worked its way under the tree where Wiz lay. Twice he wrinkled his nose and shifted his position to keep the beams out of his eyes, but still he slept on.
Wiz was about to shift for the third time when something ran across his chest.
“Wha . . .” Wiz made a brushing motion with his arm. Something small and manlike hurdled his legs, squealing like a frightened rabbit. Wiz sat upright and shook his head to clear the sleep fog. He heard something else moving through the brush. Something—no, several somethings—large and heavy. He clambered to his feet and faced the noise just as a troll crashed through the undergrowth and into the clearing.
Fortuna!
Behind the first came two more, and then a fourth. All of them were more than eight feet high, hairy, filthy and stinking. They wore skins and rags and carried clubs the size of Wiz’s leg.
He threw back his arms and raised his staff. Frantically he sought a spell he could use against four trolls.
The trolls stopped short, bunched up in a tight clump.
Wiz braced himself for their charge, but there was no charge. There was fear in their eyes. As one they turned and vanished into the forest.
Wiz let out his breath in a long sigh.
“Okay,” he called over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on the place where the trolls had disappeared, “you can come out now.”
“Thank you, Lord,” said a small voice behind him.
There were five of them, all formed as humans and none of them more than a foot high. One of the women had a child no longer than Wiz’s forefinger in her arms.
As soon as they came into the open Wiz knew what they were. Moira called them Little Folk. Wiz always thought of them as brownies.
“Thank you, Lord,” the one in the lead said again. “We owe you our lives. I am called Lannach.” He turned to his companions. “These are called Fleagh, Laoghaire, Breachean and she Meoan.” At the mention of their names each bowed or curtsied in turn.
“Glad I could help,” he said uncomfortably. Then he frowned. “You’re a little far from home aren’t you? I thought you always lived with humans?”
“No more, Lord,” the little man said sadly. “Mortals will not have us.”
“We lived in the place mortals call Leafmarsh Meadow,” Lannach explained. “We were always the friends of mortals. We helped them as best we could, especially with the animals and the household work.”
“We asked little enough,” the small creature said. “A bowl of milk now and again. A bit of bread on Midsummer’s Day as a sign of respect.”
“But now mortals have their own magic and they need us no more.”
“Need us no more,” the little one crooned. “Need us no more. Need us no more. Need us no more.” His mother hushed him and he trailed off into babbling.
“You mean they chased you out?” Wiz asked incredulously. Dangerous magic was one thing, but he’d never heard anyone accuse brownies of anything worse than mischief. People were supposed to be glad for the help brownies provided with the chores.
“Chased us out?” Meoan hissed. “They kill us if they can.” The little woman was white and shaking with fury. “Look at us, mortal! We are all that are left of the Little Folk of our village.”