What was it Belegir had said? Something about how he'd tried everyone else, and nobody else would come. Well, bugger that for a game of soldiers.
"Uh . . . hiya," she said. "My name is Vixen the Slayer, and I'm here to rescue you."
The Allimir cheered wildly, some throwing their caps in the air. After that, the celebrations began, and it was impossible to get Belegir alone.
* * *
The Allimir were gracious hosts. They'd provided Glory with a wagon for her own use, and she'd taken the opportunity to change out of her costume and back into jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers, and to scrub most of the Max Factor off her face. Changing clothes in the cramped confines of the vardo had a number of things in common with crocodile wrestling in a phone booth, and when she came out she was hot and sweaty. Englor was waiting for her as if he were her personal assistant. He thrust a mug into her hand, and Glory discovered that no matter how short the Allimir might be, they weren't teetotalers. They brewed a strong ale (a nice change from piss-pale American beer) and an even stronger mead, as she found out when Englor led her back to where the casks were. Walking all those miles today had left her with a powerful thirst, and all of the Allimir (if Englor were any indication) seemed to have been born with a hollow leg. By the time it was fully dark and food was being served, Glory was sitting on a bench feeling pleasantly relaxed.
The Allimir, out of kindness or shyness—she wasn't sure which—were staying out of her way, but at least that meant they weren't asking questions she couldn't answer. Englor had wandered off when she wasn't looking—she could hear him somewhere in the distance; it sounded as if he were trying to teach the rest of the Allimir to sing the Vixen theme song.
She wasn't so relaxed that she wasn't keeping an eye out for Belegir, though. The two of them were going to have words. She'd found herself a nice vantage point a little distance away from the main campfire but in sight of her wagon. There was a lantern hung from the edge of the vardo's roof, and suicidal moths were flinging themselves at the small gold flame. The rest of the camp was, well, bustling. It was a peaceful moment.
"So you've decided to help us." Helevrin sat down beside her on the bench, with a quart mug of mead clutched in her sturdy fist.
Well, you are offering me this lovely free vacation and all . . .
"I reckon I can at least fill in until one of your heroes shows up," Glory answered.
"No one else will come," Helevrin said flatly.
"Then they aren't much in the hero department," Glory answered solemnly, and drank. "Look here," she added, as new inspiration struck her. "You don't know what's going on here, do you, mate? Old Belegir's shy as a goat."
"He fears that to speak of Her will summon her. Myself, I don't think it makes any difference. I think She will come as She pleases, no matter what we do."
One of the children—at least Glory was guessing this was a child; it was much the shortest Allimir she'd seen so far, anyway—hurried over to them, carrying a large painted earthenware platter filled with roast meat, pancakes, and vegetables. As Glory seemed to be the largest person they had ever seen, they were feeding her accordingly: there was enough food for a family of six on the brightly painted platter.
It's like being held prisoner in a crafts fair.
"Thank you," she said, struggling not to drop it as it was passed to her. "Run along now."
The child—Glory was more certain now—giggled and scurried off. Glory rested the hot platter on her knees and picked up a handy chunk of meat.
"So," she said, turning back to Helevrin. "Why am I here?"
"Belegir told you that when he asked for your help."
Bitch. "Well, I wasn't exactly listening. Care for some dinner?"
Helevrin was not shy about accepting. She dug in lustily, picking up one of the flat soft pancakes and using it to hold meat and onions. "You don't know why you're here—and you still agreed to help?" Helevrin asked around a mouthful of food.
"I'm stupid that way." It was a line from one of the shows, and Glory felt a guilty thrill of impersonation before quashing it ruthlessly. "But you can't deny you need help. So tell me what's going on, why don't you? It'll save me having to chase down Belegir."
Helevrin seemed to be willing to take Glory at her word.
"Five years ago we were a rich and happy people. Serenthodial was ours, from the High Hilvorns to the River Baurod. We had no reason to believe there was anything in all the world to fear—oh, there are always wolves, and winter, and a bad harvest, but those are the will of Erchane, and all must suffer them. We had no true enemies, for Cinnas the Warkiller had destroyed them all long ago . . . or so we thought. We did not then know that the Warmother was about to waken from her long sleep. How could we know? She had been a tale for children, to frighten them into bed, since the beginning of time. No one knew. No one believed . . . save Belegir.