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. "Who
are you?"
The old man stepped back from Darll. "I am Werlow,"
he said. "I embody caution."
"Good for you," said Darll. "And what did you do about
Skorm?"
"I convinced the rest of the people to evacuate," Werlow
said. "We elders have stayed, to pray for the coming of
heroes."
"We're here," Jarek said happily. "We're heroes, aren't
we?" He looked to Graym for support.
Graym cleared his throat. "I don't like to boast. We're
desperate men . . . and bold warriors, but we've left our
robbing ways behind us. We have trade goods" - he didn't
want to say 'ale,' though the barrels made it obvious - "that
we're taking all the way to Krinneor, where our fortunes
will be made and our lives will be good, in the richest city
in the world." His voice went husky. "The golden towers,
the marble doors, the excellent drains."
The elders exchanged glances. They were silent.
Finally Rhael said, "The road to Krinneor winds around
the Valley of Tombs. There is no way there, except through
Skorm's army."
The Wolf brothers made most unwarlike whimpering
sounds. Darll edged over and kicked them each, hard.
Graym frowned. "Don't they ever move out of the
cemetery, Miss? Parade, or bivouac, or do any of those nice
martial things that make armies so popular with
politicians?"
Rhael shook her head. "They have no need to," she said
sadly. "They just grow strong and plan to attack us."
"How much, to fight them?" Darll asked suddenly.
The elders looked at each other.
"Nothing," a reed-slender old woman said
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