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With Takara and Atalla beside him, Gerrard headed out
across the encampment and to the edge of the farm.
Karn stood there, watching the east. Beside his motionless
form huddled the tiny green shape of Squee. The goblin clung
to one of the golem's great silver legs, cowering almost out
of sight.
On the dim horizon stood a strange shape-a gigantic,
inverted mountain. When they had first glimpsed Mount Mercadia
yesterday-a huge conic stone with its tip embedded in the wide
plain-Gerrard had been sure the vision was a desert mirage. It
must have been a normal mountain, its image flipped by a trick
of the hot air. Tavoot had assured them that Mercadia was
indeed inverted, and so were all its dealings. Now, from the
shadow of the mountain came a cloud of dust, approaching fast.
Within the dust storm rode a large contingent of soldiers.
Reaching Karn, Gerrard stared at the army, shading his
eyes against the growing light. "What can you see ?"
"There are perhaps two hundred riders," the golem replied.
"They are riding Jhovalls, but they do not appear to be
keeping a close formation. I cannot tell if they are in
uniform or not."
"Mercadians," Atalla said, spitting to one side. "They
would have seen your ship when it shot across the sky. They
saw it just like the Cho-Arrim. They've probably come to take
it."
"They're a little late," Gerrard said wearily. "Nothing
left to take."
Atalla shrugged. "They could always take you."
Behind him, Tahngarth sounded a call-to-arms through his
cupped hands. The loud hooting rang through the camp. Men and
women leaped to their feet and raced to the brow of the hill.
Across the flat, dirt-covered plain, the dark shapes
rapidly advanced. They shimmered in the heat rising from the
baked earth. There were hundreds against Weatherlight's two
score crew.
Tahngarth barked orders. "Form a semicircle here, two
lines. Get your arms ready." The minotaur thrust Gerrard and
Hanna to one side as he prodded the crew into place, almost
tripping over Squee.
Gerrard spoke to them next, his tone soft and confident
after Tahngarth's barking roar. "All right, listen. This would
be a battle better not fought. We're outnumbered five to one,
and we've got more important things to do than bang swords.
Don't make a move unless you hear a specific order.
Let's find out if these people are friendly-"
Atalla hid a small smile behind his hand.
"-and if not, let's find out how to make them friendly-"
"-and if not that either," Tahngarth interrupted, "then we
fight."
"Just so," Gerrard affirmed.
The faint sound of tinkling harness bells intruded on the
conversation. Soon the tintinnabulation was drowned out by the
thunder of clawed feet on dry earth. The bounding Jhovalls
flung up dust. Grit clung to tawny, matted fur on the beasts'
flanks. The six-legged tiger-creatures looked miserable in
their cerements of dust.
The riders were little better off. Dust dimmed their
saffron-yellow riding cloaks and the red and blue uniforms
beneath. Their long, steel tridents glimmered only where
sweating hands had grasped them. The lead rider's pennant
streamed behind him, its white dimmed to dun, its blue to
brown. He and many of the other soldiers were corpulent. Jowls
waggled with each bound of their mounts. Almond eyes watered,
bloodshot. Noses were red from sneezing and sun. Sloping
foreheads and sunken cheeks wore dirt as thick as face powder.
As they arrived, the soldiers brought the dust cloud with
them, and also a faint stink that did not smell like Jhovalls.
The riders, more than two hundred of them, surrounded the
Weatherlight party and halted.
Tahngarth hastily directed the crew to bend their line
into a complete circle, swords held in a thicket outward.
Gerrard and the bridge crew stood outside the circle, just
before the lead rider. As the Mercadians arrayed themselves,
Gerrard noted the clumsiness of their maneuver, the unkempt
state of their uniforms and animals, and the rust on their
weapons. The tridents, Gerrard observed hopefully, were still
held skyward.
There was a short silence, and then the leader spoke in a
long string of syllables that tripped out unpleasantly.
Gerrard shook his head. "We don't understand you," he
said.
The leader repeated his statement with an air of
irritation.
"He speaks High Mercadian-I think," Atalla offered. "All
the nobles do. They think it's the only language worth
speaking."
"You mean, he understands us?"
Atalla shrugged. "I don't know, but you better act like he
does."
Takara tugged Gerrard's sleeve. "I think I know what he's
saying. Their language is similar to some dialects spoken on
Rath."
"Interesting," Gerrard said, his eyes narrowing. "1 wonder
what connection the two places have. Can you interpret for
us?"
"1 can try," Takara said.
Turning to the leader, she spoke a sentence or two in the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]