“ ’Twas a bad winter,” said the headwoman, still avoiding his eye. “And them folokai got after flocks, near took the whole lamb crop.”
“Tell ’em all, Mara,” said the same bitter voice, louder this time.
“The lords come,” the woman said. Now she looked up, and Gird could see a fresh scar across her face, the mark of a barbed lash that had almost taken her eye. “They said we had to have more than we could show. They said we’d been giving it to rebels, and they said they’d have no more of it. They took a child from every hearth—they come here, and where was you? Away, is all we know. No help. Help for help, that’s what we say, and you’ve given no help.”
“I’m sorry,” said Gird. Now all the faces looked at him, all scarred one way or another, all bitter. All betrayed. He wanted to say It’s not my fault, but knew that wouldn’t help. They had protected many of the villages, in the past year: he thought of all those skirmishes and battles, the cost of it to his army. This year, given supplies enough, they’d control more territory, and fewer villages would suffer. But here they had not protected the people, and the people had changed their minds.
“They come oftener,” the woman went on. “Check the fields, check the stores. Leave us bare enough for life, they do, and destroy the rest. Threaten the fields, if we give aught to rebels.”
Could he promise they would not come again? Did he have the strength yet? Gird tried to think, but he wasn’t sure. And a false promise would be worse than no promise. And if he told them how close he was to moving his lines on another league or so to the hills, would these betray him to their lords? Were they lost to him entirely?
“Gird?” That was Selamis, as usual. He had, no doubt, come up with some clever idea for saving the situation. Gird wished he could be properly grateful. He waved the man forward. Selamis muttered “The Marrakai gold?” in his ear. Well, it was a clever idea. Probably not what the Marrakai agent had intended the gold to be used for, but it might work. Although—if they went buying food, to replace what he bought, their lords would surely notice that, too.
But he had to try. His mouth dried, thinking of all possible consequences. “We have a bit of gold we found—”
“Found!” That was not a promising tone. Someone spat juicily; it splatted on the rock a bare handspan from Gird’s boots. “They told us you brigands’d have gold—and what they’d do if we come to market with it. You’re no better than they are, that’s a fact. Take our food for your army—they do the same. Both raids us, neither protects—not them from you, nor you from them, and there’s not a hair of difference.”
He could not, even hungry as he was, drive these folk farther. Like it or not, they were the reason for his fighting, and he could not harm them—yet. Could they use the gold at some market? One of them might pass for a trader, perhaps—someone robbed on the road? That was common enough. Would that pesky priest wreathe his magicks for them, make someone safe in the towns? He might, but he would want something for it, and Gird did not yet trust him.
“We’re not the same, and I think you know it. But you’ve had more trouble than you could stand; I understand that. We won’t take it by force, but you think of this—one child from each hearth now—do you think that will satisfy them? I lost more than that, before I broke free. You need not be as stupid as I was.”
“You lost children?” Others shushed that voice, someone in a leather cloak, but Gird answered it, counting them on his fingers. “My first two sons died of fever; the lord refused us herb-right in the wood. My wife lost two babes young, one from hunger and one from fever. My eldest daughter they raped; killed her husband. The babe died unborn. My youngest son they struck down; he lives. Another daughter they struck down, breaking her arm; I know not if she lives or dies. And my brother’s children, that I’d taken in: two of them dead, by the lords’ greed. And that’s children. I lost friends, my parents, my brother. You ask yourselves: if they can take one child, will they stop there? Will all your submission, all your obedience, get you peace and enough food? Has it ever worked? You can sit here and let them take you one by one, or you can decide to fight back.”
And he turned, glared at his own unhappy men, and marched them away. No one called him back, but he was not surprised to find three of the villagers following his cohort when they had gone some distance—and ready to join him.
Still, such incidents made him touchy. He was trying to stretch a small bowl of gruel one day, when two of his marshals reported that the villages to which they’d applied had refused to give or sell supplies, on the grounds that they’d been raided by brigands. His patience snapped.
“I am so sick of this!” It came out louder than he meant, and he’d meant it loud enough. Everyone fell silent, watching him, which only made him angrier. He lowered his voice to a growl, all too aware that his growl was audible farther than some men’s shouts. “All this dickering, like a farmer trying to work down the price of a bull. All this haggling with thieves and bullies, craft guilds and village councils. Any idiot should be able to see what we’re doing, and the worth of it. You’d think they liked being yoked and driven by the magelords, the way they kick and snap when we free them. The Lady of Peace herself would be driven to fury, the way they are. By the gods, we’re trying to make them free, and make things fair, and they won’t see it!”
“We might as well be brigands,” said Herrak. It was not the first time he’d said something like that, and Gird disliked the whine in his voice. “The way they are, what difference does it make?”
“It makes a difference to us,” said Gird. “There were brigands before; they never helped the farmers. If we’re only robbers, all should be against us. What I can’t see is why they don’t see the difference.”
“We need to win,” said Selamis, smiling. He had the honeysweet lilt to his voice that Gird hated; it worked on the crowds, most times, but it was not plainspeaking.
“What do you think, I should go to the brigands and recruit them?” He meant it as a jest, but the quality of the silence told him the others had thought of that before. Seriously. Selamis was paring his nails with a knife; he gave Gird that sideways look that Gird disliked.
“Some of them might be more like us than you think. Leaderless farmers thrown out of their villages—isn’t that what you started with?”
Cob sat up straight and glared at Selamis. “We were not brigands. We may have been disorganized, lazy, filthy, and incompetent, but we were not brigands.”
Selamis smiled at him. “That’s what I meant. But your lord called you brigands, I’d wager.” Cob was not mollified; he glowered at Selamis. But Ivis nodded.
“He did. And maybe—you were good with us, Gird, and if you found even another cohort by full spring—”
Gird mastered his anger with an effort. Late winter had always been the worst time for quarrels, even in the villages: empty bowls and enforced idleness made everyone irritable. “I suppose you have a particularly saintly brigand in mind for me to recruit?”
“I can’t promise saintliness, but these last two villages both claim that the brigands near them muster a cohort or two. And there’s a man who can guide you to their camp.”
“I’ll think about it.” He would have thought about it between other things for a long time, but the next day a stranger came bearing an offer—written, Gird was surprised to see—from that very brigand captain. He had been a soldier, he said, and turned his coat when the war began. He had much to offer Gird, and would meet with him—in his camp. Gird talked to Arranha. The old priest shook his head and spread his hands.
“You put your life in the hands of Sier Segrahlin, Gird, and came out of that alive; if you want to chance this brigand I have no reason to think you’ll do worse. Will you take a cohort of your own?”
“No. We don’t have the food now to move them that far, and have them look like anything but starvelings. That won’t impress him or his men. I’ll go alone, and wear my best boots.”
“You might l
ike to consider something.” The big man’s face was dark with more than weather; ancient dirt outlined every crease, and his heavy dark hair was greasy. But the dagger with which he was paring his filthy nails was spotless, its edge gleaming.
“I might,” said Gird, accepting the dirty clay pot one of the other men offered without enthusiasm. Gods only knew what kind of brew would be in it. He sniffed as unobtrusively as possible. The big man’s shrewd eyes missed nothing.
“If you want ale, we’ve got it. That’s just water—spring water, from over there.” His head jerked, and Gird’s eyes followed, to a glisten of water among rank weeds across the clearing. Gird sipped, cautiously. It tasted like spring water, untainted by any herbs he knew.
“You’re the peasant’s new general, I hear,” said the big man. He waved his hand, and a woman in a striped skirt, a pattern Gird had never seen, brought over a wooden tray. On it were a loaf and two wooden bowls half-full of stew. The stew had slopped onto the tray, making a gray puddle, but it smelled good. “Here,” the man said, breaking the loaf and offering both chunks to Gird. Gird took the smaller; the man frowned, but passed him one of the bowls.
“I’m not a general,” Gird said. He nibbled the bread: coarse and sour, but no worse than his own baking.
“General, captain, leader, whatever you want to call it. You’re commanding them now—”
Gird nodded. No use hiding it, and by rumor this one would never tell the nobles.
“You need troops.” The big man dipped his own chunk of bread in the stew, and stuffed his mouth full, then bit it off savagely. “I have troops.”
Gird looked around at the men huddled at the cookfires, being served by the two women. “These?”
“Among others. More than you have, peasant general.” The words were slurred with chewing.
“Then you want to join us?”
The man swallowed that mouthful, took another, and finished it before answering. “You need us. I think you want us.”
Gird dipped his own bread into the stew and took a large bite.
Better meat than he’d tasted since spring. “Good stew,” he said. The man frowned at him, but said nothing. Gird looked past his shoulder at the others, and found eyes staring back at him that quickly looked away. He put his bowl down, and leaned forward, fists on knees.
“I need people who want to make a better land.”
The man’s eyes widened, and then he laughed, an explosive gust that sprayed spittle an armspan. “Better land! What kind of talk is that? Is that what you peasants think you’re doing?”
“If it’s not, we’re nothing but outlaws.”
“And you think that’s so terrible? Simyits’ fingers, Gird, we’ve been outlaws so long most of us don’t know where we come from, and do we look so starveling to you?” The man pushed up his sleeve, and squeezed a meaty forearm. “See this? Show me the peasant with as much meat on his bones—not you, not anyone you know. Besides, you’re all outlaws: the lords have a bounty on you, same as us.”
Gird was aware of ears stretched long to hear their words. “We’re outlaws because we had no choice. Because the magelords’ law gave us no way to live within it. Given a fair chance, I don’t know many as ’ud live outside the law. All I ever heard of outlaws, they was mostly men driven off their lands by some greedy lord.”
The man hawked and spat, not too near Gird’s feet. “Aye, it’s unfairness drives most men to the woods. Some of us was stolen away young, or born to free fathers. But we’re all free now, that’s the thing. Free, and with no wish to put our necks under the yoke again.”
“The magelords’ yoke?”
“Any yoke.” The man spat again, this time a hairs-breadth nearer. Gird thought it was deliberate. “See here, Gird, I’ll be straight with you. We’re free, and we want to stay free. You talk of a better land: just what do you mean? A better king? A better tax gatherer?”
Some of the others had come nearer. Gird had noticed before that they were well-fed; now he could see the glint of weapons in their hands. “No king,” he said. “The magelords brought kings to our land; we had none before.”
“Who told you that?” It was a long, lanky redhead well behind his leader.
“The gnomes,” he answered. He would have gone on, but the collective intake of breath stopped him. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“You deal with gnomes?” The big man sounded both angry and afraid.
He was not sure how to answer. Would they understand that bargain he’d made, or would they fear gnomish incursions? “I learned of old times from the gnomes,” he said finally. “And of law.”
The big man’s eyes slewed to left and right, meeting others and picking up control as visibly as a man picks up the reins of horses in harness. Gird felt a cold draft down his back. Something he’d said had changed their minds—and not for the better.
“I would not call it better for the rule of gnomes or gnomish men,” said the leader.
“They seek no rule in human lands,” said Gird. “They abide by their laws, which forbid that.”
“But you learned law of them—and from them learned what you would do to make the land better?”
“It’s obvious enough what would make it better. Honest dealing between one man and another, one craft and another. Fair judges. Taxes there must be, but fair, and no more than a man can pay and still live decently. From them I learned what is needed to make such things exist, what rules groups need.”
The big man’s teeth gleamed as he grinned. “Fair dealing, eh? And who’s to say what’s fair, with no king? The gnomes?”
Gird shook his head, pushing away his doubts. This was familiar ground, at least, and perhaps they would listen. “Not the gnomes; they have their law, for themselves. We need a law, a rule, for us— for all of us. We decide what’s fair, all of us, in council—as our forefathers did, in the old days of steading and hearthing.” Talking fast, he explained more of the plan he and his friends had worked out. But he knew soon enough that they listened with only idle interest. When he finished, the leader was shaking his head.
“That’s fine enough for farmers, and village bakers. Do you think the finesmiths will sit elbow-to-elbow with stinking tanners and pig farmers mired to the knees? And what about us? We have none of the crafts you mentioned. What do you think such as we will do, in your ‘better land’? Do you really think I’ll take up plowing and reaping, or Pirig will return to herding sheep?”
“Why not?” asked Gird, though he was sure he knew. “It’s honest work, and without the magelords’ interferences—”
“Because I’m not what you call an honest man,” said the big man, leaning toward him. “You want honest, you go to the gnomes, and much good it will do us! Should I push a plow or swing a scythe, when my skill is with sword and handaxe? Will your better land have a place for soldiers?”
Gird raised his eyebrows. “Soldiers? Is that what you are?”
“Close enough. Strong men with weapons: call us brigands or soldiers, it matters not. Soldiers are but brigands in uniform.”
Gird bit back the angry reply he wanted to give; this was no time to lose his temper, or his head might go with it. “Some are,” he said in as mild a tone as he could manage. The other man sank back onto his rock. “But if life’s to be better for all, our soldiers must be more.”
“Your soldiers! Your half-starved peasants who know less about swordplay than the worst fighter in my band.”
Gird smiled at him, with clear intent. “If your swordplay’s so skilled, then why haven’t you freed yourself of the militia’s scourge, these past years?”
“It’s not all swordplay!” yelled someone from the back of the crowd that had now gathered.
“Exactly,” said Gird to that unseen voice. “Fighting a war’s more than swordplay; my peasants may be clumsy with blades, but they know that much. You’ve tried your way, and it didn’t work—now you want my help—”
“No!” The big man had jumped up; somethi
ng had pricked him there, something Gird might use if he could figure out what it was. “I don’t need anyone’s help! We could sit here, fattening on the spoils of your war, peasant, preying on both sides. I offered you help, help you need: men and weapons. I don’t need your pious words, your gnomish law.”
“And what did you want, in exchange for your help?”
“Only what you give others who bring in troops for you: that you name me marshal—even high marshal—along with those others.”
“I think not,” said Gird, and bent down to pick up his bowl. As he’d expected, the big man came at him, seeing a clear target. As he’d planned, the bowl of cooling stew went into the big man’s face, and he tucked and rolled away from the knife. His feet jammed into the big man’s belly, and then he was up, balanced, fist cocked, as the big man choked and gasped on the ground. He kicked the man’s knife away. The other men had started forward, but now ringed about him, uncertain.
“Soldiers must trust each other,” said Gird loudly. “I must trust my marshals, and my marshals must trust the yeoman marshals, and those trust their yeomen—or nothing works in battle.”
“I’ll kill you,” growled the man on the ground, between gasps.
“Get up and try,” said Gird. Someone snickered, in the crowd, and he felt that others felt the same way. But the ring surrounded him; he could not have escaped if he’d tried. He didn’t try, and they came no closer, more curious than angry.
The big man finally clambered up, his dirty face grim. “You— you should have killed me when you had the chance, fool!”
“It’s not my way to knife a helpless man who is not my enemy.”
“I am now.” said the big man. He glared around the ring. “You— why didn’t you hold him?”
“Why?” asked the same redhead who’d spoken before. “You started it. Take him yourself; he might hurt me.” More chuckles, this time more open. The big man flushed.
“So I will, then, and you’ll miss your fun after—I’ll let Fargi take his skin. As for you, Gird, I hear they call you Strongarm, not rocktoe: if you have strength in that arm, use it.”
Surrender None Page 48
