“And what can a handful of fighters do about all that?” demanded a bearded fellow at the front of the ringing circle of woodsfolk.

“We are few,” Stalker called back in reply. “The folk are many, however. If we send runners and Sperling here puts out her messages, and we thus gather ourselves, we too become an army.”

“Why should we take arms against the stinking Aerdians to rescue the swine of Nyrond?” came the rejoinder from the bearded man. “It seems we benefit when such scoundrels as these fight each other. The dogs commanded by Ivid dare not come far within these leafy precincts to carry his writ.”

At this, Curley Greenleaf stepped forward. “They do indeed dare entry into our forest,” he said firmly. “I know this, for my brothers and sisters of our Order have brought me word of this boldness. And because of it, we druids have decided to take the side of Nyrond. The advancing army has been wicked. All woodsfolk captured have been put to the sword. The sacred groves have been laid low,” the druid said with clear hatred in his voice.

“The evil force moves swiftly and attempts secrecy, but they cannot hem in all of us-some folk manage to avoid the swarming scouts who go before the horde, and druids have other means of foiling capture. What is dared now will be repeated again and again-unless these trespassers are given a lesson in manners,” Curley concluded.

Those remarks were greeted by general agreement and some cheering from the gathering. The brief debate ended, and the topic became how best to put a plan into action. Eventually the woodsfolk agreed that a handful of the swiftest runners would carry word to the surrounding areas, and the forces of the area would meet at Oddgrave Hill, the place that Curley Greenleaf said was serving as the focal point for all of the woodsfolk willing to bear arms against the marauding army. Then the assembled folk quickly dispersed, each going off to ready his affairs for whatever part each chose in the coming days.

Gellor pulled Gord aside and inquired what the young man planned to do. Gord said he had not thought much about it, but it was likely that he’d join with the woodsmen if they had no objection. A fight such as this promised to be was something he had never experienced, and who could tell what would come out of it? His friend nodded in pleasure at Gord’s decision, wished him well, and told Gord that he hoped to see him again when the bands gathered at Oddgrave Hill for the march to Woodford. Gellor would be briefly occupied by certain things that needed his personal attention, but he said that he would be at the great gathering place before the warbands marched.

It required the rest of that day and all of the next for the members of Stalker’s community to prepare for their journey and to wait for the return of the messengers who had gone out.

Gord busied himself by procuring a piece of tough but supple leather and using his dagger to cut and shape it into a sling, which he thought would be handy in the days to come. Then he searched out a good pouchful of properly sized stones, practiced for a while, and felt satisfied that his sling would be a good addition to the woodsfolk’s large and varied collection of missile weapons.

Counting a scattering of fighters who came from isolated dwellings nearby, the group that had assembled by nightfall of the second day numbered two score, about a third of whom were women. Most carried longbows and short, broad-bladed spears in addition to axes of all sorts, and a very few carried swords at their belts. Most of the women were clad in leathern coats and carried bows only slightly smaller than those of the men. These latter folk were more heavily protected, generally wearing shirts of scale or chain mail under their rough brown and green clothing.

Chert had given his new companion a cloak of olive hue to wear over his black garments, and it was such a great expanse of cloth that Gord had to slice off a broad strip from its hem so that it would not drag on the ground behind him like some cleric’s long ceremonial train. A friendly neighbor gladly plied her needle to make a new hem, and the cut-off strip became a tabard to cover the polished black cuirass of hard leather Gord wore. Save for his black boots and his lack of a bow, he might have been one of the lads from the forest, bent on joining the impending fray.

Next morning, as soon as it was light enough to see, the warband led by Stalker went forth, following forest path and game trail in a northeasterly direction, heading for the rendezvous at Oddgrave Hill. Curley Greenleaf was with the company, and rather than take a position of status at the head of the column, he strode merrily along with Gord and Chert near the rear, telling stories, uttering bad jokes and worse puns, and generally making the march seem shorter and easier by his presence.

Gord asked Curley numerous questions about druids and the druidical belief, and the bald fellow was only too pleased to reply at length to such inquiries. Chert grumbled that he cared nothing about such stuff, but he listened all the same and occasionally chimed in himself on one point or another. They covered some thirty miles thus, and picked up another ten fighters along the route, so when evening camp was made, the warband numbered over fifty.

Stalker spoke to the warriors that night, giving them advice on how the enemy was likely to react and fight. The arrows of the woodsfolk must be made to tell, for at close quarters the well-armored Aerdians were certainly likely to give far better than they got. The warband leader then divided his company into five sub-bands. Each of these squads had its own leader who would take instructions from Stalker and see that the fighters in his or her group did precisely what they were told.

Both Gord and Chert were assigned to a woman called Wren, who was nothing like her name, being nearly as tall as Chert and hefting a bardiche heavier than the brawny barbarian’s own great axe. As the two young men were eating their portions of the half-raw, greasy meat provided by a hungry bear that had ventured close to the humans, thinking to find its own dinner, their newly assigned commander came over and joined them. Wren gnawed on a piece of meat, eyed them critically, and addressed Chert first.

“You I know about, big boy,” she said disdainfully but in a jesting tone. “Stay back and don’t go rushing out until I give you a whistle! Now, what about shorty here? He hasn’t got a bow, and he’s too small to go hand-to-hand with those beefy soldiers the Overking favors…. Can he tend wounded?”

This irritated the young thief, so he snapped off a response before the barbarian could swallow the hunk of tough meat he was chewing on and reply to the query, which was actually directed at Chert.

“The name is Gord,” he said angrily. “I answer all questions about myself, and I fight well enough for any to fear-beefy soldier and beefy woodsman alike!”

As soon as he’d said that last statement, Gord regretted his words. What he had said was insulting and unfair-and it was foolish to pick a quarrel with one’s swordmate. Besides, while she was large indeed, the proportions displayed by Wren were by no means beefy. Voluptuous, yes, but not beefy. The woman took no offense; in fact, her reaction was quite the opposite of what Gord had expected to hear.

“Gord it is,” she said, buffeting him on the back in comradely fashion. “If you fight as tough as you talk, then I’ll be glad to have you by my side.”

Gord drew forth his sling, displaying the thonged leather pouch to both Wren and Chert. “This bit of hide can send stony kisses to enemies just as your bows send their shafts,” he said, “although I admit that amidst these trunks it is a more difficult task. I also ply shortsword and dagger with sufficient skill to have brought ruin to one or two foemen. Trust me to fight alongside my fellows as long as there is cause to do so.”