Macurdy laughed. "I used to be a shaman's apprentice. Learned to start fires and kill bugs in the bedding. That's pretty much it."

They seemed comfortable with that.

Now Macurdy raised his face. "Blue Wing!" he shouted. "Blue Wing!" The rebels looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. "Huh! I hope he hasn't flown off out of hearing." Not many seconds later, the great raven landed in a tuliptree, perching on a branch about sixty feet overhead.

"What do you want, Macurdy?"

"We need to find a band of men. Rebels. There'll be quite a few of them, and they'll be armed. Men that may resemble the men we found with the dwarves a few days ago."

Blue Wing didn't say anything for a long moment. "Can you tell me more? What direction? Anything?"

Macurdy looked at Verder. "What can you tell him?"

Verder stared impressed at the big bird. "I suppose they'll be somewhere north and west of here not many miles. Probably where there's open ground with grass for the horses; a burn maybe, a year or two old. There's likely to be lean-tos and tents."

Blue Wing didn't ask for clarification on "not many miles." Probably, Macurdy thought, he'd taken it to mean not too far away. The great raven launched from the branch, big wings thrusting, lifted through a gap in the forest roof and out of sight.

He was back in half an hour to describe a camp he'd found. "I'll bet that's it," Verder said.

They got on their horses, three of the rebels riding bareback. (The innkeeper had been unwilling to sell any of his saddles; the saddle makers in Gormin Town might have burned out the night before, and he didn't know when he could get more.) Over the next hour the bird guided them west and north, then landed in a tree. "Macurdy!" he called, "it's only a short way farther. Leave the ridge and follow the draw on your right. You'll come to a large grassy area."

"Thanks!" Macurdy called back, then turned to Verder. "They're not going to know us. Could there be any trouble?"

"I don't know why. They ought to welcome volunteers."

Macurdy's eyes scanned down the line of horses and ponies. "String your bows," he said, and waited while the dwarves dismounted to draw their braided wire crossbow cords.

He followed Blue Wing's directions then, and in the draw found a well-used trail. Before long they were challenged. He stopped, and a sentry came out on foot, sidling toward him, bow half drawn. "Who are you?" the man asked. "What are you doing here?"

"We came up to join, if we like the look of things."

Another voice called from out of sight behind a thicket. "Kahl, take them to Orthal. He'll decide what to do with them. And you! Strangers! All of you off your horses! On foot!"

Macurdy looked back. "Do it," he said.

Another, presumably Kahl, rode out on horseback then, and herded the newcomers to a broad meadow. As they crossed it, a heavy-set man sauntered to meet them, a man with considerable fat over thick muscles. Orthal, Macurdy decided. In one hand he carried a roasted joint of some animal, a deer maybe, or calf. His face, hands, and hairy belly were slick with grease. His aura marked him as a natural ruler, a man born to give orders and be obeyed. It also showed him to be brutal. Most of his command seemed to be loafing, and Macurdy got the sense of people who didn't know what to do next-men without a clear objective or plan or strategy.

"Captain," Kahl said, "these people were coming up the trail. Thurgo told me to bring them to you."

Orthal scowled at the newcomers. "What do you want here?"

"We came to join," Macurdy said.

"Who in the devil's name are you?"

"My name's Macurdy, and these are Jeremid and Melody. We're from Oz. These dwarves are sons of the Rich Lode clan, from the Diamond Flues. These others are rebels from other bands, men we rescued from the reeve in Gormin Town. I don't know all their names."

None of it seemed to register on Orthal, who looked them over slowly, his eyes stopping on Melody for a long moment before returning to Macurdy. Meanwhile, more and more of Orthal's band gathered around, bows nocked or spears in hand. Jeremid kept his own arrow casually directed at Orthal's greasy chest, the bowstring half drawn. Orthal was very aware of it.

"Who do you know here that can speak for you?" Orthal asked.

"Here? No one of yours. But these…"

Orthal waved him off. "They don't mean shit to me. I never saw them before."

"I'll tell ye who he is," said Tossi angrily. "He's the one that killed the reeve's guards in the square in Gormin Town. He and those tew. And cut these others down from where they'd been hung up to die in public. And led a public riot against the king, that set the town burnin'."

Most of Orthal's men were staring hard at Macurdy now, unsure whether the claims were true, but feeling a certain awe. Macurdy could sense it.

Orthal grunted. "Huh! Sounds like bullshit to me. What's your name again?"

"Macurdy."

"Macnurley!" His mispronunciation, Macurdy guessed, was deliberate. "I've got foragers out, and they bring news as well as food. If the things this halfling says are true, we'll welcome you. But for now… For now you'll have to give up your weapons. And your horses."

Macurdy felt his people tighten. He was also aware that Orthal had reestablished his authority; his men were ready to let their arrows fly, their spears thrust. One of them even stepped in front of his captain as if to shield him. Macurdy looked back. "Do what he says," he ordered. "If we're going to be part of this, we need to take orders." He slipped his sheathed saber from his belt and lay it on the ground; unhappy, the others followed his example with bows and swords. Meanwhile rebels had moved in, taken the reins of the horses and ponies, and were leading them away.

No one but Macurdy paid attention to the heavy knife still behind his hip. They were led to a place in the shade and seated in a cluster, unbound but guarded. After a little, the rebels ate their midday meal, offering their prisoners neither food nor water. Jeremid gave Macurdy dirty looks. Before the meal was over, a sentry rode up. "Captain! There's men coming up the trail from Three Forks. Slaney and his, I think!"

Macurdy swallowed bile.

Other rebels mounted horses and rode off southwest, clearly not in hostile reaction, but to confirm and greet.

"Slaney?" Jeremid murmured. "Isn't he the one…?"

"He's the one," Macurdy murmured back.

"Shit! What do we do now?"

"Wait for our chance. Don't do anything till I tell you."

Six or eight minutes later, Slaney rode into the clearing at the head of about twenty men. Macurdy got to his feet, the rest of his party rising too. As the newcomers rode up, Slaney's glance stopped on him.

"Well! What have we got here?" he said. Reining up, he dismounted and swaggered over. "Looks like you caught yourself some prisoners, Orthal!" He laughed then. "Yes, you surely did."

"You know them?"

"Oh yes. Yes, I know them. I know them real well. This one especially." He pointed to Macurdy, then actually rubbed his hands together. "I never forget a face, and that one I'd remember in hell."

He told about the affair at the blowndown timber then, his account more or less factual, but incomplete. Finishing with, "He took our horses then, and our loot and weapons, and rode off with it."

"Slaney," Macurdy said, "you're a liar as well as a coward. I left you horses enough to leave on, and what I took, I gave to the dwarves, as blood money for their cousins you killed. Anyone with even half a brain knows better than to start a war with dwarves."

Slaney flushed, and with an oath drew his sword. Macurdy's knife struck him just below the breastbone, and the bandit took one wobbling step before falling on his face. Rebels crowded around Macurdy then, punching and kicking, getting in their own way, until Orthal bellowed to let him be. Probably, Macurdy thought, he had his own ideas for punishment.