"How many are left?" Belegir said.
It was only a long time later that Glory would realize what had struck her as so odd about the question. Belegir didn't ask about dead or wounded or whether their side had won the fight. He only asked how many were left.
"Yesterday runners came from the other camps, bringing the New Moon tally. We are four great-hands now, and that is all. Of all the Allimir nation!" Abruptly Ivradan buried his face in his pony's mane.
"Four hundred," Helevrin whispered. She stared, shocked, at her companions, and even forgot to scowl at Glory.
Four hundred people? Out of how many?
"I reckon—" Glory's voice squeaked, and she took a deep breath and tried again. "I reckon you better tell me what you brought me here to do."
It was as if the other four had forgotten her presence until she spoke. Englor emitted a faint distressed peep.
"We did not bring you here," Helevrin said harshly.
"Someone did," Glory pointed out. "And you're not going to deny you came looking for me, right?" Or at least for Vixen the Slayer?
"But you said . . . she isn't here to help us?" Ivradan asked in disbelief.
"She . . . we must consult with the Oracle before we proceed," Belegir said hastily.
Glory saw Helevrin and Englor exchange glances, and knew that Belegir's little white misdirection wouldn't hold up for long. But the pink mage obviously didn't want to talk about it out here, and as the shadows had grown longer, all three of the mages had become twitchier and twitchier, to the point where Glory, too, would be just as happy to get out of here rather than press the point. She unknotted the sweatshirt tied around her shoulders and walked toward the pony whose rein Ivradan was holding.
But there's going to be a reckoning real soon now. You can take that to the bank.
"Well, Slayer?" Helevrin said brusquely. She and Englor were already mounted, and now even Belegir was climbing aboard his mount. The mages' robes were gored in back to permit this, and now Glory could see that they wore high felt boots dyed the same bright colors as their robes.
Glory sighed, squaring her shoulders. Feigning an assurance she did not feel, Glory settled the sweatshirt on the pony's back, shrugged her tote-bag firmly onto her shoulder, and took a tight grasp on the animal's mane. Then she bounced up and swung her leg over.
The pony sidestepped. But Glory had not spent an entire shooting season being bumped, jostled, and otherwise upstaged by Adrian the Wonder Horse to no purpose. She went with it, gained the animal's back, and gripped its ribs tightly with her thighs. Her feet hung inches from the ground.
When she was settled, Ivradan turned and started off. The other ponies—including Glory's—followed.
* * *
The Allimir camp looked rather like a diorama depicting "Barbie's Malibu Vardo"—a collection of ornate, fantastically painted and carved diminutive high-wheeled wagons that were drawn in a circle around a central fire. The dense grass for acres all around them had been grazed down to bristle by the Allimir's assorted livestock—large dun-colored oxen with wide glistening horns, a wary herd of striped ponies with their mounted wranglers, and the ubiquitous goats and sheep. It was dinnertime, and Glory could smell the aromas of baking bread and roasting meat, reminding her of just how very long it had been since breakfast.
The men and women of the Allimir seemed to dress very much alike, in tunics, trousers, caps, and felt boots. Some of them wore aprons, and some wore kerchiefs instead of caps, but Glory wasn't prepared to distinguish men from women on that basis just yet. As the riders approached, they stopped what they were doing, stepped down out of the wagons and away from their tasks to await the party's arrival.
Glory was so caught up in the improbable wonder of what she was seeing that she didn't remember until Belegir dismounted that they were going to be expecting him to announce that he'd brought them a hero.
And instead of a hero, he had her.
Everyone gathered around him, all talking at once, and several of them began pointing at Glory. She waved, not knowing what else to do.
Belegir raised his hands for silence.
"My friends—" he began, but they weren't listening. They'd hurried past him, to where Glory was trying to decide how stiff she was from a long jog on a short horse, and if she could dismount gracefully. All of them began talking to each other even louder than before, pointing at her and nudging each other and staring with wide round eyes.
A cold lump of anger began to grow in Glory's chest at the sight of them. These people looked to be in pretty good shape, but they were desperate all the same. Whether they had a reason to be spooked or not, they were terrified of something, and it was Glory's steadfast conviction that nobody should have to be that afraid.