"He didn't. We rode into his camp to volunteer, and he decided he didn't trust us, so he made us prisoners."

Wollerda's eyebrows twitched. "And then?"

"Then I killed him, and his men made me their commander."

Wollerda cocked an eye. "Well. Best we go inside and sit down." He beckoned them into his headquarters, and seated them on split-log benches. "Now," he said, "there's got to be a lot of that story you didn't tell."

Macurdy shrugged. "It gets complicated."

"Excuse me, sir." It was Wolf who interrupted. "You might recall me; I was one of Minska's platoon. I've been with Macurdy since he cut me free from a hanging post in Gormin Town, and I guess I saw all of it."

Wollerda examined the hard-bitten rebel. "You're the one they call Wolf," he said. "Suppose you tell me what Macurdy left out."

Exaggerating only a little, Wolf told the whole story, beginning with the hanging posts. He included the campfires started with a gesture, Blue Wing, the slaying of Slaney, the tricking of Orthal, and the freeing of the captive women, ending with the organizing of the company and its training. "And we're giving chits to farmers when we commandeer food," he finished. "Good for payment when we've thrown down Gurtho."

Wollerda had seemed to enjoy the story. Briefly he grinned, a wry grin. "Well, that gives them another reason to want Gurtho gone. Now. You said 'we're giving chits.' Does that mean you're staying with Macurdy instead of me?"

Wolf didn't flinch. "Sir, you trained me hard. Now Macurdy needs men to train his people, and it seems like I'd be of most use to him just now."

"Umm. So you would. Well, I leave it to you." He turned to Macurdy then, quizzically. "You sound like one of the heroes in the old folk tales. Did you ever kill a dragon?"

"Never even saw one."

"When I saw you before, I ignored you. Your face was more discolored then. I took you to be a large, rough young man who'd been hired by the lords in the mountain to tend their beasts and baggage. Someone who drank and got into brawls." He paused. "Do you drink and get into brawls?"

Macurdy grinned. "Water's my style, and buttermilk. And I generally try to stay out of fights, but sometimes-sometimes that's not so easy." He'd almost said sometimes in this world, and wondered if Wollerda would have made anything of it.

Wollerda turned to Yxhaft Vorelsson. "How did you lords in the mountain come to associate with this unusual tallfolk?"

The dwarf grunted. "That's a story to match the others ye've heard here," he said, and proceeded to tell what had happened at the fallen timbers, including the release of Slaney and his men.

"It still seems out of character for lords in the mountain to mix in tallfolk affairs."

"Aye. I can't imagine it of folk in the Silver Mountain. But we're westerners from the Diamond Flues."

"Hmm." Wollerda turned to Macurdy again, looking at him long enough to have made some men nervous. "I suppose I should show you some of our training," he said at last, then snapped his fingers as if remembering something. "After I've had you all fed! You and myself. Sometimes I forget to eat when I'm interested in something."

Lunch was a stew of potatoes, turnips, beef and carrots, and round hard loaves of bread they cut chunks from with their knives. Bread! Macurdy was impressed: Wollerda's commissary was obviously better than his. He made a mental note to learn more about it. Another broken tooth came out as he ate. His gums and teeth hurt from one side to the other, top and bottom, even the back teeth, which hadn't seemed damaged. It wasn't too bad yet, but he shuddered to think what it might be like in a month or a week. After they'd eaten, they witnessed the training of new recruits and of more experienced men. Macurdy couldn't help but appreciate the well-trained Ozian militia back at Wolf Springs, and wondered how good Gurtho's army was.

After supper he asked Wollerda about the Teklan army. It was made up of several levels, Wollerda told him. The best was the king's personal cohort, close to six hundred cavalry, whose training was sometimes a disaster to farmers whose fields they trampled in their exercises. Fortunately they trained mostly on their own reservation. Their pay and upkeep was a significant burden on the people, but they were the best troops in the kingdom; some of the best in all the Rude Lands. In addition, each of the six counties had a standing force of two mounted infantry companies-an even greater burden on the people. Each county had at least four shires-as many as six-each administered by a reeve with a platoon of fifty-five mounted infantry. Plus a reserve platoon, called on mainly at tax time. All told, Wollerda said, the king could call out more than forty-five hundred soldiers.

Most of the population were peasants, who fell into several categories. The highest was prosperous enough to hire help, or to contract with sharecroppers. The second class owned their own land and farmed it with the labor of their family. The third was sharecroppers, and below them day laborers who found paying work as they could.

The Kullvordi had a slightly different situation. One thing remained of their previous independence: they had no bailiffs. Local headmen, whom they elected themselves, presided over day-to-day life, but could be overruled and dismissed by the reeves, who also set and collected the taxes.

"And there you have it," Wollerda finished. "Our obstacles and our opportunities. We've got to work out ways to make use of the one and get around the other. What you did in Gormin Town showed me more potential in the flatlanders than I'd realized they had." He got to his feet. "Come ride with me," he said. "Just the two of us."

"All right," Macurdy said, and got to his feet. The invitation hadn't been casual; the commander wanted privacy. Wollerda saddled his own horse; he was not a leader who demanded to be waited on, though he might if his army grew enough to seriously tax his time. Unaccompanied by aides, they rode out of camp in the beginnings of dusk.

"There are things about you," Wollerda said, "that don't add up. First, you claim to come from Oz. I've never been in Oz, but I've known a few Ozmen in my travels. And you? You're different from any of them."

"All men are different."

"In details. But every people has its own ways, its own beliefs and viewpoints. Ozmen tend to be impulsive and more or less warlike. You fit there. But some of the things you've done…" Wollerda shook his head. "It's hard to imagine an Ozman undertaking what you did in Gormin Town. Or intervening at such risk in a fight between bandits and dwarves. And not keeping the horses?" He shook his head in rejection.

"Hmh! Interesting."

"Why did you do those things? What drives you?"

"I guess I'm an adventurous soul."

Wollerda grunted. "It goes beyond that."

Macurdy said nothing for a while, not consciously thinking about it, feeling the roll and shift of the horse beneath him as it walked, the animal's smell, the sound of tree frogs in the evening. And the hum and bite of mosquitoes. He wove a repellent field as he rode.

Finally he spoke. "If I told you, you'd think I was lying. Or crazy."

There was a short lag before Wollerda replied. "I can't commit myself to an ally whose motives I can't even guess."

Macurdy reined in his horse. "Are you telling me you'll turn down my help if I can't explain why I'm doing this?"

Wollerda eyed him calmly. "My friend, I admire what you've done-I'm even in awe of it-and I appreciate the guts and strength and ability it took. I wish you success in your efforts against Gurtho, and I'll move to take advantage of them. But unless I know more about you-why you've involved yourself-I can't exchange plans with you. Let alone operate under one plan, as the two hands of one body."