"Tomorrow, my little warrior, you shall see the power and truth the sword can bring," Gregor whispered to Kit as he tucked a blanket around her. She shivered with anticipation, curled up next to her father, and fell back asleep.
It was still dark when Gregor woke Kitiara. The summer night had never cooled off, and before dawn the warm air hung around the camp like a damp, heavy curtain. Kit rubbed her fists into her eyes then rose quickly. She strapped on her prized wooden sword, the one Gregor had brought back for her from one of his expeditions two years ago. Kitiara had shown more than a passing interest in the plaything, and Gregor began drilling her in the warrior arts.
The sword was scaled to Kitiara's size, with an exceedingly sharp point. Gregor had decorated the precious half-toy with emblems and sigils. At home, Kitiara wore it belted at her side from the moment she rose until she tumbled into bed at night. She felt about it as she felt about nothing else.
Only now, surrounded by preparations for a real battle, Kit suddenly saw the sword as childish. She started to take it off when Gregor, who had been watching silently, stopped her.
"There are men who cannot use a real sword as well as you can wield your wooden one," Gregor told her somberly. "Don't worry. It won't be long before your skill guarantees you the pick of all the swords you could want. After all," he added, his eyes glinting at her,
"you are my daughter."
Grinning in return, the seven-year-old girl busied herself checking Gregor's daggers, sword, shield, bow and quiver of arrows, then helped her father adjust his armor. His body armor consisted of pieces of iron held together with leather straps and bronze fittings. The helmet was open in style, permitting him to move and aim with impunity. Working next to Gregor, Kitiara looked like a tiny version of the striking warrior. Gregor had cut Kit's long hair shortly after he had smuggled her out of the house for this expedition. Now her cap of dark, curly hair, and the slender yet athletic build apparent underneath her leather jerkin and leggings, made Kit look like a young boy. Like Gregor her eyes were brown, and, almost comically so, little Kit had even modeled her purposeful stride after Gregor's.
When other soldiers came up to him, Gregor introduced Kit as "my importunate son," catching her eye and winking when no one was looking. Seven was a young age to bring such a lad into camp, but none of his fellows would have stood for Gregor bringing a daughter along, since girls were seen as little more than a potential burden. The ruse made no difference to Kit. She didn't long to be a boy. She only felt sorry for people who weren't able to take the full measure of a person because of their sex or what they appeared to be. She never intended to make that mistake.
As they continued preparing for the battle, Kit noticed a commotion at the edge of the camp. In the dim pre-dawn light she thought she saw a cluster of children scatter among the bedrolls.
"Look, Father, perhaps I can practice my sword fighting with one of those children at the end of the day," she said, motioning toward the distant forms.
'Those aren't children. Those are gully dwarves." Gregor spat out that benighted race's name as if it were an epithet. "It's amazing how they turn up sooner or later, no matter what the danger or where you pitch camp."
As Gregor was speaking, one of the gully dwarves had the misfortune to scurry near and start nosing around their equipment. An unpleasant odor wafted from the smallish creature. Moving a step closer, Gregor swung his foot back and gave the gully dwarf a boot that hurled him halfway across the camp. "Pleasure of your acquaintance!" Kit heard the unfortunate creature cry out as it soared. Apparently unharmed and unfazed, the gully dwarf picked himself up and scampered off in the opposite direction. Kit smiled to herself. Even gully dwarves added to her pleasure at being part of camp life. She was brought back to more pressing matters when Gregor began outlining the battle plan for her.
Swiftwater's outlaws occupied a heavily wooded ridge at the far end of the valley. The location offered the barbarians a commanding view of the landscape to the east. At their backs, the ridge sloped away steeply, offering little cover except for widely scattered rocks. Potential attackers had few options.
Gregor's forces were within striking distance, sequestered among rocks and trees on a sharp rise to the south. So far, they had managed to remain undetected. Burek had wanted to wait until the hovering storm broke and provided a distraction, obscuring their attack, Gregor explained. Then, being both proud and impatient, the minotaur had wanted to attempt to lead a frontal assault, hoping to draw out Swiftwater and his group from their sanctuary. Part of the hired troops would also circle around and attempt to besiege Swiftwater's camp from the rear, despite the rough terrain. Gregor had disagreed, and eventually he won the argument. Scouts loyal to the mercenary leader had reported that the barbarians sent out a large foraging party every morning, often with Swiftwater himself in command. Gregor wanted the minotaurs to split up and creep forward along both sides of the valley, under cover of foliage, to just below the ridge where the outlaw band was camped.
When the foraging contingent emerged into the meadow, the minotaurs would cut in from the rear while Gregor and his reserves attacked from the front. With any luck, Swiftwater would be in the surrounded party. Once he was killed, his immediate troops could be expected to panic and flee
