In Kellum, the county seat, well-led teams looted the homes of officials, taking coins, silver, jewelry, scented wax candles and other valuable goods easy to convert to cash to help pay the costs of the growing rebel army. Beyond that, looting was forbidden, a forbiddance assisted by limited opportunity. This caused grumbling, but nothing serious, for Macurdy, Wollerda, and their officers lived among their men and pretty much as their men, commonly eating with them, the same food in the same portions.

The count had refused to surrender his castle, and Wollerda and Macurdy left it unassaulted. It was much more formidable than the reeve's had been. Wollerda's and Macurdy's strategy, at this stage of the rebellion, was to demonstrate without question their military effectiveness, enhance their supply situation, and bleed and demoralize the royal army. In all of which they'd succeeded.

What they hadn't done yet was force the king to commit his personal cohort. They weren't ready for that-not outside the hills-and they knew it. It was why they hadn't challenged the count who ruled the eastern hills: He was much nearer Teklapori.

Meanwhile they held the initiative, and their morale was stronger than ever, despite casualties. Their training had been much briefer, and most rebels lacked byrnies, yet in open combat they'd beaten the count's soldiers, who supposedly were superior to those the reeves could field. The advantage had been rebel spirit and vigor, and better leadership.

It was after his return to camp that Macurdy sent Liiset's courier with a written message to her, expecting a quick response. The first half dozen days of waiting were no problem; after all, he'd made her wait. Meanwhile no further offensive actions were planned. Morale no longer needed them, and it was time to prepare for what seemed a certain royal response, either diplomatic through the Sisterhood, or military-a concerted offensive to destroy the more accessible Kullvordi villages and crush the spirit of rebellion. Macurdy and Wollerda had a strategy to meet that too, one that called for preparations, as many as they had time for. Time that negotiations could help provide.

Jeremid had already designed a shield neither Ozian nor Teklan, that could be made rapidly. Rebel losses would have been substantially less if they'd had them before and been trained to use them. Macurdy and Kithro had developed a system for their manufacture. Kithro contracted with a range of providers: woodsmen who felled large shagbark hickories and cut them into roughly three-foot-long sections. Carpenters who split planks from them, and trimmed and planed them to the proper dimensions and weight; tanners who produced leather from bull hides, cutting it to size and shape; and smiths who made iron bands to strengthen them, and iron bosses and hooks to make them dangerous.

Among the hillsmen, tanners were the glue makers, too. They'd made the glue to glue pieces of hickory together, because suitable single-piece shields were tricky to make, and gluing would often be necessary. Bull hides would then be stretched over them, shrunken into place and hardened. Finally iron cross bands would be riveted on, and bosses and hooks added. And when squads got their shields, they'd begin a simple shield-training regimen borrowed from the militia at Wolf Springs.

Payment for shields, as for much else, would be in captured silver, army horses, and if need be, chits.

After the sixth day, though, the continued lack of response from Liiset began to gnaw on Macurdy's mind. What was the holdup? He'd gotten the impression they were eager. Did they plan a surprise? Treachery? Something to give them leverage?

Meanwhile, on Macurdy's fourth day back from the Dales, Kithro had come to his tent, where he sat talking with Melody and Jeremid after supper. "Fengal's been telling an interesting story," Kithro said.

"Oh? What's that?"

"The story of what you found over below Laurel Notch: a set of human bones. He said you dropped to your knees, looked into the eyes of the skull, yelped a cry, and fell on your face in some kind of trance."

"I can't vouch for the yelp, but the rest sounds about right."

"He says you lay there for quite a while, babbling like someone in their sleep. Talking in other people's voices about ylver and Ferny Cove and other things that meant nothing to him. And woke up mumbling about having seen everything that happened there."

"Huh! I never thought he'd talk about it. I'm disappointed in him."

Kithro shook his head. "A boy like that, seeing and hearing what he did, couldn't be expected to keep his mouth shut. And he's done you a favor-done us all a favor-because the story's spread all through camp."

Kithro paused. "My people used to have shamans. Till Gurtho's great-grandfather executed most of them; them and their progenies. Claimed they'd been a source of agitation. After the slaughter, the people lost faith in shamanism and the favor of God. There's a few villages still have someone who calls himself a shaman, but their magic doesn't amount to much. For healing, we depend mostly on old women with a few simple spells and a knowledge of herbs.

"Then you came around and made fire with a wave of the hand, and grew new teeth. Now there's this story of Fengal's. The men have gotten excited about it. They consider you a shaman warrior for sure, now. A shaman of power."

He looked meaningfully at Macurdy. "I thought you ought to know," he said, then left, the others watching him go.

"Hmh!" Melody looked accusingly at Macurdy. "You didn't tell me any of that." She turned to Jeremid. "Did he tell you?"

"Nope." He raised an eyebrow at Macurdy. "How about it?"

Macurdy grunted. "I guess I should," he said, and began.

On the eleventh day, he had an answer that explained the delay: Sarkia had come to Tekalos, was at the palace with a company of guardsmen and one of Tigers. She wanted to meet with him outside Gormin Town, at the junction of the North Fork Road and the Valley Highway, in four days.

The message arrived in midafternoon. Haltingly he read it to himself, and again after supper to Melody sitting across from him, and Jeremid at his elbow.

"Sarkia," Melody said when he'd finished. Her face was very serious. "She's supposed to be the greatest sorcerer in the world. Don't go, Macurdy."

"Do you think she'll put a spell on me? Catch my soul in a bottle? Scramble my brain?"

She peered at him unhappily. His expression was calm, matter of fact. "She'll try something," she answered.

He remembered how easily Varia had influenced him, that night in Indiana. But it hadn't been sorcery that got him in bed with her, though it had gotten him to her house. And he'd been an innocent then, ignorant, a psychic virgin. Yet even so, in the morning he'd had second thoughts about marriage, objections she'd had to answer.

"I've got the talent," he said, "and I've had some training. She can't make me do what I don't want to." And there's a lot at stake here for me. There's no other way I can hope to get Varia back. None at all.

"These Tigers," Jeremid said. "Are they as good as I've heard, do you suppose?"

Macurdy shrugged. "I guess that depends on how good you've heard. Varia mentioned them once; she thought they were the best. Savage, highly skilled, and stronger than other men. And they won't be tentative like the people we've been fighting."

Jeremid gestured at the paper lying on the table. "Why do you suppose Sarkia mentioned them in her message?"

"I can only guess. Maybe she wants to scare me. Added to Gurtho's cohort, just a company of Tigers could make a big difference. Even without Gurtho's cohort, a company of guards and one of Tigers makes it too dangerous to take a cohort south to capture her. Not that I would."