Lofotan leaned on a slanting stake. “What do you want?”
“We got something of yours! This your beast?”
“No.”
The nomad was crestfallen. He had been looking forward to tormenting Lofotan with his captured property. Now that ugly pleasure had been denied him.
“Well, I guess you won’t mind if we skin it. It’s got a nice pelt.”
He drew a long knife. Mathi moved up behind Lofotan and put a hand to his shoulder. Still the old warrior said nothing.
“Hold him.”
The riders backed their horses, keeping their ropes taut. The knife wielder got down. Before he got within arm’s reach Mathi shouted, “No, wait!”
She spied Rufe out of the corner of his eye. She muttered, “Can your people in the tunnels get to him?” The kender held up his thumb.
“That’s my beast,” Mathi called. “He’s worth a lot to me. Don’t hurt him.”
The nomad laughed. “What’ll you give me to not cut him?”
“What do you want?”
He made a rude suggestion. Coloring, Mathi drew her sword, grip reversed, and threw it over the stakes. It was a good elf-forged blade, though plain in design.
“How about its life for that sword? It’s solid bronze, made in Silvanost!”
The nomad walked to where the blade lay, stuck point first in the soil. Just as he stretched out his hand to take it, four tunnels popped open around him and his comrades. In a flurry, the three riders were unhorsed. The captive beast tore off his bonds with his teeth. The nomad leader never reached the elf sword. Zakki put an arrow in his ribs. He folded like a Silvanesti chair, landing flat on his back. Faster than anyone could prevent it, the beast leaped on him and tore out his throat with his teeth.
Shocked, the remaining three nomads made a dash for the trees. Their spooked horses beat them there. Blood streaming from his jaws, the beast stood with his fore-paws on the dead man’s chest and roared at his former tormentors.
Lofotan gave Mathi a shove. “Go get him!”
“Aren’t you going to help?”
Face white, the elf snapped, “Get him before the savages come in force!”
Mathi slipped between the stakes. Hearing her footsteps, the beast whirled, teeth bared. She turned to stone.
“My lord,” she said evenly, “It is I, Mathi. Your sister.”
The creature, looking like the misbegotten offspring of a bear and a panther, tilted its head to one side and snarled. Mathi spared a glance down the hill. The nomads were coming to avenge their comrades.
“Sir,” she said, “come with me behind the stakes. The enemy is coming.” She wanted to say ‘you’ll be safe back there,’ but it was a lie she could not bring herself to speak.
Mathi held out her hand. If the beast pounced, she wouldn’t be able to get away before it tore her apart.
“Come, general. Be Balif just a little longer.”
Mention of his name had an odd effect on the creature. It got off its victim and slunk away in a wide circle, skirting Mathi as widely as it could. It did go through the stakes, and with a single sidelong glance at the other defenders, made for the supply tent. Balif vanished inside.
Lofotan shouted for Mathi to return. She picked up her sword and rejoined the little band of defenders.
Riders came up the hill, though not in attack strength. Perhaps forty men rode in tight formation to where the nomad slain by the beast lay. The centaurs leveled their bows, but Lofotan stayed them. Staring and muttering oaths, the nomads recovered the body and departed.
“What was that about?” Treskan wondered. Nomads were not usually so fastidious about their dead. The ones slain in the morning attack still lay on the hillside.
“I would say the bully with the knife was someone important,” the Longwalker said.
So he was. Less than an hour passed, and Chief Bulnac returned with his personal retainers. Mathi was amazed to see that the huge man had been weeping. He ordered his men to stay behind, and rode alone to the stake line. There he hurled a spear point first into the ground and cried, “I claim vengeance! Vengeance for the killer of my son!”
The Longwalker and his cronies began backing away as quietly as possible. Zakki’s fellows pulled on their death flowers-a centaur custom that involved putting on some item colored red. It didn’t have to be a flower. Usually a red scarf or scrap of red cloth would do. It meant they expected to die.
Lofotan took Mathi by the arm and whispered in his ear, “This is our chance!”
Bulnac repeated his challenge, his voice hoarse with grief.
“What do you mean?”
“He wants single combat with the killer of his son! I’ll fight him, and when I slay him, his followers may melt away in the greenwood!”
Mathi shook her head. “They’ll play bowls with our heads! What makes you think you can beat that giant anyway?”
“He’s only a human, and he’s blind with grief and anger.”
Before Mathi could protest further Lofotan stepped forward and said, “Here I am, savage. I am Lofotan Brodelamath, of House Protector, former captain of the host of the Great Speaker of the Stars, Silvanos Golden- Eye!”
Bulnac pointed his sword at him. “You shall die soon enough, elf, but first I drink the blood of my son’s killer! Where is the monster?” The other nomads had reported truly and told the chief how his son died.
Lofotan waved Bulnac’s threats aside and said, “You can’t take vengeance on an animal, fool. Fight me in single combat, if you dare.”
“I’ll fight you elf, and when I do I’ll be wearing the pelt of the monster that slew my Varek! Send it out, or I’ll storm this hilltop with my entire band and torture everyone on it to death!”
Mathi pulled free of Lofotan’s grip. She started for the supply tent, feeling Bulnac’s burning gaze on her every step of the way. Just outside the tent she said quietly, “My lord, it’s Mathi. I need to speak to you.” There was no answer, but she girded himself and ducked inside.
The contents of the tent had been torn asunder. Blankets, baskets of provisions, jars of water and oil lay broken, torn, and scattered. Atop the mess lay the beast, hardly moving at all.
“My lord, do you hear the nomad chief? Do you understand what’s happening? The man you killed was his son. He wants revenge. He demands to fight you in single combat.”
Still the furry heap did not stir. Mathi drew a deep breath. “If you don’t come out, my lord, Bulnac will kill us all as slowly and painfully as he can imagine.” Which was probably very slowly and painfully indeed. “If you fight and win, my lord, there’s a chance the nomads will quit the siege and spare us. What say you, my lord?”
Nothing. Trembling despite herself at the thought of Bulnac’s wrath, Mathi turned to go. In one smooth movement the beast was up and slid past her. He looked back at Mathi, and she saw glimmers of intelligence still flickering in the creature’s eyes. Balif understood.
They walked together to the stakes opposite Bulnac. The centaurs stood in a line and bowed their heads in salute. Serius Bagfull and the kender were nowhere around. Lofotan, unable to bear the sight of his cursed commander, turned his back on the scene. Treskan wrote obsessively on a roll of birch bark.
“What sort of unnatural creature is this?” Bulnac said.
Mathi thought quickly. “It’s called a bearcat, the offspring of a bear and a panther.”
Bulnac spat. “You’re a liar. Two unlike animals cannot breed, any more than birds can father chicks on dogs.”
Mathi bowed humbly. “You asked, and I told you: a bearcat.”
Bulnac shoved his sword back in its sheath. “Call it a mud-puppy, it matters not. Soon it will be dead, and all of you with it. Your carcasses will feed my Varek’s funeral pyre!”
Without being asked he got down from his lofty horse. He tied his reins to a stake, slipped a small round buckler onto his left forearm, and drew his sword again.
