The Battle for Skandia- Character Reaction

25

"Svengal, it's your turn!" The book was tossed across the table, and the skirl caught it easily.

"I'm surprised they haven't ripped out the pages," Halt muttered. Will raised an eyebrow.

"Like you're any more gentle." The older Ranger sniffed in disdain.

BETWEEN THEM, HALT AND WILL HAD FOUND A HUNDRED SLAVES who claimed to have some level of skill with the bow. Horace grinned. Finding them had been one matter. Convincing them that they should volunteer to help defend Hallasholm was something else.

Will snorted. "Something else indeed. I'm not sure I want to think of what might have happened had Ragnak not set them free."

As a burly Teutlander forester, who seemed to have assumed the role of spokesman for them, told the two Rangers, "Why should we help the Skandians? They've done nothing except enslave us, beat us and give us too little food to eat."

Will pursed his lips, slumping back in the seat. There really wasn't much he could say to counter that, he admitted.

Halt eyed the man's ample girth speculatively. If some of the slaves were underfed, this one could hardly claim to be one of them, he thought. Halt shook his head. Still, he decided to let that matter pass.

"You might find it more agreeable to be a slave of the Skandians than to fall into the hands of the Temujai," he told them bluntly.

"Ah, so subtle, Halt," Crowley said.

Another of the assembled men spoke up. This one was a southern Gallican and his outlandish accent made his words almost indecipherable. Horace snorted. Will finally pieced the sounds together in sufficient order to know that the man had asked: "What do the Temujai do with their slaves?" Will shook his head.

Halt turned a steely gaze on the Gall. Gilan snickered. "They don't keep slaves," he said evenly, and a buzz of expectation ran through the assembled men. The big Teutlander stepped forward again, grinning.

"Grinning?" Crowley stroked his chin. "I can't imagine grinning at the thought of death. Not when I'll probably die at the end of a weapon."

"I don't know." Gilan grinned. "You're getting on in your years, aren't you, Crowley? Maybe you'll just die of old age. No exciting, reverential death for you." The Commandant made a face.

"Then why would you expect us to fight against them?" he asked. "If they beat the Skandians, they'll set us free." Erak snorted.

There was a loud mumble of consent among the others behind him. Halt held up a hand and waited patiently. Eventually, the hubbub—Arald would have a grand time with that word, Halt thought—died away and the slaves looked at him expectantly, wondering what further inducement he could offer them—what he would consider to be more attractive to them than the prospect of freedom. Halt coughed.

"I said," he intoned clearly, so that everyone could hear him, "they don't keep slaves. I didn't say they set them free." He paused, then added, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, "Although the religious ones among you may consider death to be the ultimate freedom."

"Way to break it gently," Will quipped.

This time, the commotion among the slaves was even louder. Finally, the self-appointed spokesman stepped forward again and asked, with a little less assertion, "What do you mean, Araluen? Death?"

Halt rolled his eyes. "Perhaps you should give your slaves some education." Erak sighed at the obvious disdain of the word slave.

Halt made a careless gesture. "The usual, I suppose: the sudden cessation of life. The end of it all. Departure for a happier place. Or oblivion, depending upon your personal beliefs." Crowley raised an eyebrow.