Bearers of the Black Staff - Terry Brooks [44]
“Are you saying that what you’ve got out here is a smaller version of what we left behind five hundred years ago?” Sider stared at him. “That nothing has changed except the number of participants?”
Inch nodded. “Pretty much. Sad, huh?”
Sider rocked back and looked off into the distance. It was dark and silent and peaceful, and there was nothing to indicate anything different. Yet there it was, the truth of things from someone who ought to know. The Great Wars might be over and the Races might have changed their look and makeup, but the hostilities that had plagued the world since day one continued. It would never change, he thought. No surprise, but it was hard to acknowledge nevertheless.
“How do you fit into all this, Inch?” he asked finally. “I know what you do, but how do you choose who you work for? You said it wasn’t just the money; it was a freedom of choice. But how do you make that choice?”
“Oh, that.” Deladion Inch shrugged. “It’s not so hard, really. The communities are small, poorly trained, and not well educated, but they’re tough-minded and determined. I find one that has a problem I can relate to and I offer to solve it. Sometimes I don’t even make the offer; I just go ahead and do it. It depends on the situation. I want things to get better; this is how I make that happen. It’s pretty clear to me, mostly.”
Sider wasn’t so sure it would be all that clear to him, but he let it go. Deladion Inch was a confident, self-assured man, and if he was any judge of ability, a dangerous one. He was probably more than a match for any two normal men and maybe more. Sider didn’t think he ever wanted to find out.
Besides, as he had said to Inch earlier, he liked him.
“What about enemies that threaten everyone?” he asked. “Any of those still out there?”
The big man shook his head. “Maybe, but we don’t know about them yet. The Trolls are the most populous people. Used to call themselves Lizards, but quit doing that a long time back. Something about wanting more respect. They live in tribes to the north. Thousands of them belong to each tribe; these are big communities. They did better after the Great Wars than the other Races, maybe because they were better protected by their mutations, maybe because they were farther away from the worst of things. In any case, they came out of it better and propagated quicker. I’ve been up that way a few times, met a few of their leaders, and seen their cities. They’re smiths and ironworkers, for the most part. They make their own weapons and armor. No one in his right mind would go up against them.
“Other than that?” He furrowed his brow. “There are rumors …” He trailed off. “But there are always rumors, aren’t there? I haven’t seen anything of the sort that you’re asking about, and neither has anyone I’ve talked to.”
“I was just wondering how big a threat those of us living in the valley might face from those of you who don’t. If agenahls are the worst of it, maybe it isn’t so bad, after all.”
Deladion Inch was silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on Sider. “Well, I wouldn’t be too quick to make that presumption from anything that I’ve told you,” he said finally. “Ask yourself this. Do your people have weapons and armor? Do they have training in the use of both? Do they know how to conduct themselves in a fight where the loser gets wiped out and the village gets burned back into the earth? If the answer is no, you’re all in a lot of trouble.”
Sider Ament didn’t say anything in response. He nodded wordlessly and thought that the other man had an