The curly-haired woman sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Where do you want them to meet you?”
“Right here. And hurry, before any more men flee!”
Angela nodded, then she and the werecat trotted away, sticking close to the sides of the buildings for protection.
“Roran,” said Horst, clutching his arm, “what do you have in mind?”
“I’m not going to go up against him by myself, if that’s what you’re thinking,” said Roran, nodding toward Barst.
Horst appeared somewhat relieved. “Then what are you going to do?”
“You’ll see.”
Several soldiers carrying pikes ran up the steps of the building, but the red-haired dwarves who had joined Roran’s force held them off with ease, the steps for once giving them the advantage of height over their opponents.
While the dwarves fenced with the soldiers, Roran went to a nearby elf who—with a snarl fixed on his face—was emptying his quiver at a prodigious speed, sending each of his arrows arcing toward Barst. None of them, of course, found their mark.
“Enough,” said Roran. When the dark-haired elf ignored him, Roran grabbed the elf’s right hand, his bow hand, and pulled it to the side. “That’s enough, I said. Save your arrows.”
A growl sounded, and then Roran felt a hand around his throat.
“Do not touch me, human.”
“Listen to me! I can help you kill Barst. Just … let me go.”
After a second or two, the fingers gripping Roran’s neck relaxed. “How, Stronghammer?” The bloodthirstiness of the elf’s voice contrasted with the tears on his cheeks.
“You’ll find out in a minute. But I have a question for you first. Why can’t you kill Barst with your minds? He’s only one man, and there are so many of you.”
An anguished expression crossed the elf’s face. “Because his mind is hidden from us!”
“How?”
“I do not know. We can feel nothing of his thoughts. It is as if there is a sphere around his mind. We can see nothing within the sphere, nor can we pierce it.”
Roran had expected something like that. “Thank you,” he said, and the elf made a slight motion of his head in acknowledgment.
Garzhvog was the first to reach the building; he emerged from a nearby street and ran up the steps with two huge strides, then turned and roared at the thirty soldiers following him. Seeing the Kull safe among friends, the soldiers wisely dropped back.
“Stronghammer!” exclaimed Garzhvog. “You asked, and I have come.”
After a few more minutes, the others Roran had sent the herbalist to fetch arrived at the great stone building. The silver-haired elf who presented himself was one Roran had seen with Islanzadí on several occasions. Lord Däthedr was his name. The six of them, all bloody and weary, stood in a clump among the fluted pillars.
“I have a plan to kill Barst,” Roran said, “but I need your help, and we have little time. Can I count on you?”
“That depends on your plan,” said Orik. “Tell it to us first.”
So Roran explained it as quickly as he could. When he finished, he asked Orik, “Can your engineers aim the catapults and ballistae as accurately as needed?”
The dwarf made a noise in his throat. “Not with how humans build their war machines. We can put a stone within twenty feet of the target, but any closer than that is up to luck.”
Roran looked at the elf lord Däthedr. “Will the others of your kind follow you?”
“They will obey my orders, Stronghammer. Do not doubt it.”
“Then will you send some of your magicians to accompany the dwarves and help guide the stones?”
“There would be no guarantee of success. The spells might easily fail or go astray.”