black armor lying still in the midst of it, hands raised vainly to clutch at life now fled.
Dalefolk had gathered, eyes wide and excited. Down the road she saw her father's broad shoulders amid the small knot of hurrying men moving steadily on toward the castle.
Daera stared at her neighbors as they watched him go and screamed, 'Aid me! In the name of the High Dale, aid! He'll be killed!'
They knew her as she shuddered, whooped breath back into her bruised chest, and staggered upright again. Pity was in some eyes, and rising anger in others. But at her cry, men looked away or shook their heads sadly, and women backed away.
'They've magic, lass.'
'Aye, strong magic. We dare not…'
Tears were rolling down her cheeks now, but Daera wiped them away impatiently and ran grimly back to one of the bodies to snatch up a fallen sword and pluck a dagger from a belt.
She shook hair out of her eyes with a despairing snarl and rose to look around, hefting the sword. It was much too heavy; it was all she could do to hold the tip higher than her hands. She thrust the dagger through the bunched cloth at her hip, not caring what happened to the rags she wore, and used both hands to raise the blade, laying it back on her shoulder.
When she looked down the road again, her father's striding figure was much smaller. Would she be able to catch up with him in time?
In time to see him die? Daera shuddered, furiously blinking away fresh tears, and then saw men near her. She looked around wildly.
Old eyes met her own. She saw pride, and anger that matched hers, and shining hope in them.
Four-no, five-old men of the dale, graybeards she'd known as long as she could remember, leaning on fences to talk and smoke pipes, and shuffling into the inn for a tankard. Except on their chins, their hair was sparse, and they wore clothes as ragged as her own.
But in their hands shone old, lovingly cared for weapons, swords worn thin with years of sharpening, gleaming now, and axes with long curving blades. One carried a halberd in spiked gauntlets so old and worn that she could see his bony fingers through rents in the leather.
'We're with ye,' one said simply.
'Aye,' another spoke through a moustache that almost hid his missing teeth. 'Like in the old days. We'll follow a Mulmar to the death, for the High Dale.'
'My thanks,' Ylyndaera said thickly, fresh tears streaming. Then she added hurriedly, almost sobbing, 'Come, then, before it's too late!'
She hurried down the road. The graybeards trotted and shuffled and kept up with her. Some even had the breath to call out as they passed cottages.
'To arms!'
'For the dale!'
'Out, lads! To arms!'
One man looked out his door, amazed, and yelled, 'Ho, Baerus! Where be ye off to?'
The old man just behind Daera grinned ferociously and waved his sword. 'The high constable's free! An' we're following the maid, here-Irreph's lass-to the castle, to see to the running of these Wolves!'
There were roars of approval, and Daera saw men with pitchforks and axes running to catch up.
'For the dale!' another of the graybeards bellowed. The answering roar drowned out the fit of coughing that shook him a moment later.
'For the running of the Wolves!' a younger voice roared. Daera looked around. She was leading a band now.
'Death,' she cried, 'to all Wolves!'
'Death!' they roared back at her in excitement and anger, and swept down toward the castle.
12
The sun shone down brightly. Eyes drawn into slits against its unaccustomed brightness, Irreph looked around his dale like a hungry hawk seeking dinner. In quick, sharp glances he noted changes without slowing. The chain grew warmer in his hands. Out in the sun, away from the damp, he stretched and stood taller, and felt better than he had in a long, long time.
Which was just too bad for the two Wolves who happened to cross his path.
The first drew steel and tried to charge in and gut him. Irreph swung his chains, danced aside, and swung them again. The man grunted, dropped his blade from numbed, broken fingers, and never had time to pick it up again.
The second drew sword, too, then turned and ran, crying the alarm. He got about three houses away before a goodwife hobbled hurriedly down her steps, fell in front of him, and reached out carefully to trip him with her cane as he ran past. Irreph did not give him time to get up.
'Irreph,' she said eagerly, as he helped her to her feet. 'Lord, are you come to lead us to war?'
Mulmar looked down and smiled through his mask of dust, sweat, and blood. 'My thanks, Ireavyn. I am. Tell all, if you will, to bring arms as soon as they are able. I march on the castle.'
'Alone?'
'Aye,' he said grimly. Her face fell.
'And, Ireavyn, I'm your high constable, not your lord. No lord rules in the High Dale.'
She nodded almost sadly and looked around. No Wolf was watching, but over Mulmar's shoulder her face lit.
'Look! Folk have risen, Irreph! They come! They come!'
She stared harder and her jaw dropped open. 'Is that your Daera with them?'
Irreph whirled, almost felling the goodwife with an errant swinging shackle.
'Gods!' he cursed as he saw Ylyndaera's white face amid all the old men. Their eyes met, and the high constable suddenly discovered something wet was blurring his eyes.
The sun. Aye, the sun. He ran to meet his daughter, love and pride rising almost to choke him as he went.
The high constable of the High Dale walked slowly toward the castle, his chains in his hand. A crowd gathered in his wake, and those who bore weapons grew steadily in numbers. Beside him was his daughter, Ylyndaera, and behind them walked many old men of the dale, gray of beard and snow-white or thin of hair, with wrinkled old faces and stiff old limbs. They clutched weapons green or rust-red or worn thin with age, but carried themselves like old lions looking for a fight. Pride, joy, and a certain reckless defiance showed in their faces, and their eyes glinted when they looked ahead to where death awaited. At long last they were going to strike back.
A tyrant's banner still floated from the battlements ahead. An outlander still called himself lord of their dale, took tax coins from deep in their pockets, slew them at his pleasure, and told them what to do. Enough-as some forgotten warrior had said ages ago and half the Realms away-was enough. At long last they were going to war.
The road under their marching feet grew wider and cobbled. For this time of day, the way was strangely empty.
Word had spread, and the dalefolk hid and watched, or found what arms they could and came out to join Irreph. The Wolves must have gone to the castle for orders-the marchers could see the glint and gleam of helmed heads on the walls, looking down-for none showed themselves as the ragged but growing band of dalefolk approached the dark bulk of the High Castle.
The castle rose like a tall stone ship out of the houses in the center of the dale. A steep-sided earthen ditch
