"You're the peasants' new general, I hear," said the big man. He waved his hand, and a woman in a striped skirt, a pattern Gird had never seen, brought over a wooden tray. On it were a loaf and two wooden bowls half-full of stew. The stew had slopped onto the tray, making a gray puddle, but it smelled good. "Here," the man said, breaking the loaf and offering both chunks to Gird. Gird took the smaller; the man frowned, but passed him one of the bowls.
"I'm not a general," Gird said. He nibbled the bread: coarse and sour, but no worse than his own baking.
"General, captain, leader, whatever you want to call it. You're commanding them now—"
Gird nodded. No use hiding it, and by rumor this one would never tell the nobles.
"You need troops." The big man dipped his own chunk of bread in the stew, and stuffed his mouth full, then bit it off savagely. "I have troops."
Gird looked around at the men huddled at the cookfires, being served by the two women. "These?"
"Among others. More than you have, peasant general." The words were slurred with chewing.
"Then you want to join us?"
The man swallowed that mouthful, took another, and finished it before answering. "You need us. I think
you
want
us
."
Gird dipped his own bread into the stew and took a large bite. Better meat than he'd tasted since spring. "Good stew," he said. The man frowned at him, but said nothing. Gird looked past his shoulder at the others, and found eyes staring back at him that quickly looked away. He put his bowl down, and leaned forward, fists on knees.
"I need people who want to make a better land."
The man's eyes widened, and then he laughed, an explosive gust that sprayed spittle an armspan. "Better land! What kind of talk is that? Is that what you peasants think you're doing?"
"If it's not, we're nothing but outlaws."
"And you think that's so terrible? Simyits' fingers, Gird, we've been outlaws so long most of us don't know where we come from, and do we look so starveling to you?" The man pushed up his sleeve, and squeezed a meaty forearm. "See this? Show me the peasant with as much meat on his bones—not you, not anyone you know. Besides, you're all outlaws: the lords have a bounty on you, same as us."
Gird was aware of ears stretched long to hear their words. "We're outlaws because we had no choice. Because the magelords' law gave us no way to live within it. Given a fair chance, I don't know many as 'ud live outside the law. All I ever heard of outlaws, they was mostly men driven off their lands by some greedy lord."
The man hawked and spat, not too near Gird's feet. "Aye, it's unfairness drives most men to the woods. Some of us was stolen away young, or born to free fathers. But we're all free now, that's the thing. Free, and with no wish to put our necks under the yoke again."
"The magelords' yoke?"
"Any yoke." The man spat again, this time a hairs-breadth nearer. Gird thought it was deliberate. "See here, Gird, I'll be straight with you. We're free, and we want to stay free. You talk of a better land: just what do you mean? A better king? A better tax gatherer?"
Some of the others had come nearer. Gird had noticed before that they were well-fed; now he could see the glint of weapons in their hands. "No king," he said. "The magelords brought kings to our land; we had none before."
"Who told you that?" It was a long, lanky redhead well behind his leader.
"The gnomes," he answered. He would have gone on, but the collective intake of breath stopped him. "What's wrong?" he asked.
"You deal with
gnomes
?" The big man sounded both angry and afraid.
He was not sure how to answer. Would they understand that bargain he'd made, or would they fear gnomish incursions? "I learned of old times from the gnomes," he said finally. "And of law."
The big man's eyes slewed to left and right, meeting others and picking up control as visibly as a man picks up the reins of horses in harness. Gird felt a cold draft down his back. Something he'd said had changed their minds—and not for the better.
"I would not call it better for the rule of gnomes or gnomish men," said the leader.
"They seek no rule in human lands," said Gird. "They abide by their laws, which forbid that."
"But you learned law of them—and from them learned what you would do to make the land better?"
"It's obvious enough what would make it better. Honest dealing between one man and another, one craft and another. Fair judges. Taxes there must be, but fair, and no more than a man can pay and still live decently. From them I learned what is needed to make such things exist, what rules groups need."
The big man's teeth gleamed as he grinned. "Fair dealing, eh? And who's to say what's fair, with no king? The gnomes?"
Gird shook his head, pushing away his doubts. This was familiar ground, at least, and perhaps they would listen. "Not the gnomes; they have their law, for themselves. We need a law, a rule, for us—for all of us. We decide what's fair, all of us, in council—as our forefathers did, in the old days of steading and hearthing." Talking fast, he explained more of the plan he and his friends had worked out. But he knew soon enough that they listened with only idle interest. When he finished, the leader was shaking his head.
"That's fine enough for farmers, and village bakers. Do you think the finesmiths will sit elbow-to-elbow with stinking tanners and pig farmers mired to the knees? And what about us? We have none of the crafts you mentioned. What do you think such as we will do, in your 'better land'? Do you really think I'll take up plowing and reaping, or Pirig will return to herding sheep?"
"Why not?" asked Gird, though he was sure he knew. "It's honest work, and without the magelords' interferences—"
"Because I'm not what you call an honest man," said the big man, leaning toward him. "You want honest, you go to the gnomes, and much good it will do us! Should I push a plow or swing a scythe, when my skill is with sword and handaxe? Will your better land have a place for soldiers?"
Gird raised his eyebrows. "Soldiers? Is that what you are?"
"Close enough. Strong men with weapons: call us brigands or soldiers, it matters not. Soldiers are but brigands in uniform."
Gird bit back the angry reply he wanted to give; this was no time to lose his temper, or his head might go with it. "Some are," he said in as mild a tone as he could manage. The other man sank back onto his rock. "But if life's to be better for all,
our
soldiers must be more."
"Your soldiers! Your half-starved peasants who know less about swordplay than the worst fighter in my band."
Gird smiled at him, with clear intent. "If your swordplay's so skilled, then why haven't you freed yourself of the militia's scourge, these past years?"
"It's not all swordplay!" yelled someone from the back of the crowd that had now gathered.
"Exactly," said Gird to that unseen voice. "Fighting a war's more than swordplay; my peasants may be clumsy with blades, but they know that much. You've tried your way, and it didn't work—now you want my help—"
"No!" The big man had jumped up; something had pricked him there, something Gird might use if he could figure out what it was. "I don't need anyone's help! We could sit here, fattening on the spoils of your war,
peasant
, preying on both sides. I offered
you
help, help you need: men and weapons. I don't need your pious words, your gnomish law."
"And what did you want, in exchange for your help?"
"Only what you give others who bring in troops for you: that you name me marshal—even high marshal—along with those others."
"I think not," said Gird, and bent down to pick up his bowl. As he'd expected, the big man came at him, seeing a clear target. As he'd planned, the bowl of cooling stew went into the big man's face, and he tucked and rolled away from the knife. His feet jammed into the big man's belly, and then he was up, balanced, fist cocked, as the big man choked and gasped on the ground. He kicked the man's knife away. The other men had started forward, but now ringed about him, uncertain.
"Soldiers must trust each other," said Gird loudly. "I must trust my marshals, and my marshals must trust the yeoman marshals, and those trust their yeomen—or nothing works in battle."
"I'll
kill
you," growled the man on the ground, between gasps.
"Get up and try," said Gird. Someone snickered, in the crowd, and he felt that others felt the same way. But the ring surrounded him; he could not have escaped if he'd tried. He didn't try, and they came no closer, more curious than angry.
The big man finally clambered up, his dirty face grim. "You—you should have killed me when you had the chance, fool!"
"It's not my way to knife a helpless man who is not my enemy."
"I am now." said the big man. He glared around the ring. "You—why didn't you hold him?"
"Why?" asked the same redhead who'd spoken before. "You started it. Take him yourself; he might hurt me." More chuckles, this time more open. The big man flushed.
"So I will, then, and you'll miss your fun after—I'll let Fargi take his skin. As for you, Gird, I hear they call you Strongarm, not rocktoe: if you have strength in that arm, use it."
"Aye," said other voices. "No more wrestlers' tricks: fight Arbol manlike, fist to fist."
Stupid,
Gird thought, remembering the gnomes' acid commentary on human brawling. But stupid or not, his one chance of surviving this ill-chanced venture lay in the strength of his arms and the hardness of his fists. The big man crouched, then rushed him. Gird sidestepped, jabbed hard into the man's ribs, and took a glancing blow on his own. So that worked—if he ever saw the gnomish warmaster again, he'd have to tell him.
If you must use fists,
Ketak had said,
learn to use them well.
The big man was throwing a flurry of blows at him now, blows Gird took on his own arms, keeping them away from his face. His own punches were landing on shoulders, arms, and body; the other man was quick enough to protect his own face, ducking behind his fists like a river-crab behind its claws. He heard the other men mutter, call encouragement to their chief; he tried not to hear any of that.
Then the other man kicked out, catching Gird on the shin. He dropped his guard for a moment, and took a hard blow to the side of his head. For some reason, that made him laugh: the memory of his father once telling him he'd be safe in a brawl, having a head made of solid stone. He saw on the other man's face surprise and a touch of fear at his laugh—well, so he should be afraid. For all the big man's extra weight, he was no stronger, his shoulders not quite as broad—and
he
had eaten all his supper, and taken a kick to the belly.
Gird let himself grin. The man himself had chosen fists, when he might have skewered Gird with a sword—did he not realize he had chosen Gird's best weapon? The other man gave back, foot-length by footlength, as Gird hammered him. He hardly felt the return blows; he had not had such a wholly justified excuse for pounding someone in a long time. In battle he had to be thinking of the whole, had to be looking ahead—in training he had to be watchful that he did not cripple one of his own. But now, here, he could let out all the frustration and rage of the past year, and whether he lived or died, he would have the satisfaction of pulping that arrogant face that thought itself too good to be a peasant.
Now the other man had given up attack, and was trying to defend himself from Gird's blows. Gird drove him back with two, three, four short jabs to the body, and then loosed his favorite swing, all his weight and shoulder behind it, to crack the other's jaw and drop him like a loose stone. The big man went down, twitched, and lay still. Gird flexed his hands, and sucked a cut. Nothing broken, though they'd be stiff in the morning. As his temper cooled, he could feel the lumps on his ribs that would be bruises, and the throbbing of his kicked shin.
The mutters around him now were awed. He looked deliberately from face to face, wondering if they'd attack him, knife him. He would not have a chance against so many. But although two knelt beside their leader, and someone brought a bucket of water, the ring widened, giving him space. He heard a complaint, quickly squelched, about a wager, and realized that some of them had gambled on the fight—he should have expected it, but he hadn't.
"Is that how you won your army, then?" asked one of the men. Gird shook his head.
"No. But I find it useful sometimes. My—Da used to say the only way to get an idea into some heads was to break them open and let the light in." Open laughter now, a little uneasy but genuine amusement. He felt slightly guilty for the lie, his father having been Alyanya's servant to the end, but his instinct said that letting these men know he'd ever been in the militia would be a mistake.
"An' now?"
Gird looked at the speaker, licked his knuckles again, and said, "Now what? He tried to take me, and I flattened him—that's between us. There's nothing between you and me unless you make it so—are you challenging?"
"Nay, not I. What I meant—d'you claim command of us?"
"He can't!" said someone behind him. Gird did not turn.
"No," he said slowly. "That's not what we fought about. You'll choose your own leader—for all I know, you'll choose him again."
"But about joining your army—"
Gird shrugged. "You heard what I said. I'm looking for men as want a better land later, and those that'll be honest yeomen now. Those that do can come with me; those that don't had better not. We may be skinny and hungry, but we do know how to deal with those as try to stick a knife in our back or steal from us." He nudged the fallen leader with his toe.
"We could kill you now," muttered one of the men just at the edge of his sight. Gird laughed, and saw the surprise on their faces.
"Killing's easy—you could kill me, and the magelords likely will. So then what? Killing me won't get you into my army. Make up your own minds; I'm going home." He turned, and stared hard at the men who had crowded close behind him. Like dogs, they wilted under a direct stare, and shuffled, making a gap for him to walk through. His back itched; it would take only a single thrown knife, a single sword-thrust. But he could not have fought his way out anyway. Behind him he heard a sudden argument, curses, and more blows ending in yelps. Someone else was taking over, he guessed, wondering if they'd come after him. He walked on, into the trees, not looking back. Looking back would do no good.