Free Mother of Lies by Dave Duncan Page B

disbelief.
    “Dead!” Dantio insisted. “Orlad killed him! Orlad’s alive!”
    He half-turned to indicate the young man pushing his way out of the bushes to stand at his side. Orlad was smiling, too, and that just proved that there was a first for anything, for yesterday he had been as sullen as a hungry boar. His torso was draped in a waterlogged woolen pall, and the brass collar of Weru shone like yellow fire around his neck.
    “Orlad!” Benard’s great bellow of joy set birds a-flapping on the river. He started up, as if about to leap overboard and go welcome his brother. Ingeld caught hold of him. “Orlad!” he repeated. “You changed sides!”
    The riverfolk were yelling, also, but theirs were cries of alarm. They had no liking for Werists at the best of times—they had grumbled at allowing old Guthlag on board—and a Florengian Werist was an unthinkable freak, perhaps a sign that the war had spilled back over the Edge and Vigaelia was being attacked. Men jumped for the yards and sails. Others produced poles and oars and stabbed them into the water to push Free Spirit clear of the reeds. The boat jerked back the way she had come only moments before.
    Orlad barked an order. Heroes erupted out of the woods behind him—Werists with palls and brass collars, but regular, fair-skinned, golden-haired, Vigaelian Werists. Like otters they leaped into the river and surged forward through the reeds, barely slowing as the water deepened. Seven of them, the astonished Fabia counted. By the time the water was up to their shoulders, their hands were clasping the gunwale and Free Spirit was free no more.
    A couple of the boatmen raised their poles as if to crack heads or crush fingers. Instantly old Packleader Guthlag was on his feet shouting warnings, but it was shrill yells in Wroggian from the even older Master Nok, the boat’s patriarch, that averted disaster. The sailors froze.
    “We will pay!” Ingeld shouted in the silence. “We have silver.”
    “Hit a Hero and he’ll rip you apart,” Guthlag grumbled, sitting down.
    The riverfolk understood more Vigaelian than they usually admitted, and the poles were hastily hidden away. On the bank, Orlad crouched, pulled Dantio onto his shoulder, and lifted him effortlessly. Then he waded into the water, carrying the seer shoulder-high.
    “I can walk, you know,” Dantio said, amused. “ It is known that no one has ever seen a Werist acting as a beast of burden before.”
    “I can’t get any wetter. You can.”
    Yesterday Orlad had been a surly, humorless churl, fanatically loyal to Satrap Therek and his brother the Fist. What miracle had produced this conversion? He almost smiled a second time as he deposited his load aboard the boat, then hauled himself in also. His seven followers scrambled over the side. Suddenly Free Spirit was very crowded.
    Dantio warbled at the riverfolk in fluent Wroggian, accepted a weighty bag from Ingeld, and proceeded to negotiate an extortionate fare of two handfuls of silver for the additional passengers. Calmed, if not contented, the sailors set to work to pole the boat out of the rushes, and some of the women began rummaging through the cargo. It seemed Dantio had either bought or rented all the towels and spare clothes aboard.
    He turned to the newcomers. “My lords! Pray meet the lady Ingeld, noble dynast of Kosord; her Hordeleader Guthlag Guthlagson; Master Ucrist Horth Wigson; my brother Benard and sister Fabia. And you, gentlefolk, please greet these splendid warriors, lords Waels, Hrothgat, Snerfrik, Namberson, Narg, Prok, and Jungr. Their fame will shine forever!”
    Snerfrik was one of the largest men Fabia had ever seen. Despite his obvious youth, he had a mean look. Prok was the smallest of the squad, and even meaner. As they stripped off their rain-soaked palls, many of them revealed fresh red scars, and some still showed traces of blood at the roots of their stubbly beards. The one called Waels had a scarlet stain covering