attempt to extort booty from them through "negotiation" was absurd. Everyone knew that Tomsien was coming, with a huge army of Confederate regulars. The barbarians could boast all they wanted, but every single time in history they'd come up against a large Vanbert force, the Southrons had gotten their heads broken.
The city notables of Franness knew that history as well as anyone. Franness was a walled city, with a real wall and not just a flimsy palisade. And everyone—every Confederate city notable, for sure—also knew what the penalty would be if they capitulated to the barbarians and Tomsien emerged triumphant. That, too, was a long Confederate tradition—city councils of besieged cities who surrendered before the wall was breached were subject to decimation, just as routed army units were.
That assumed, of course, that the Confederacy would recapture the city. But . . . It had never failed to do so yet.
Odd, though. Prelotta was close enough now for Helga to be able to see his expression clearly. The open, flanged helmets the Southrons favored did not obscure faces much. It was always hard for her to tell, because of the grotesque scars and tattoos, but she thought the Reedbottom chief looked rather satisfied with himself.
And so he proved.
"They refused, of course," he announced, as soon as he drew up his mount. "Even heaped the most scurrilous insults upon my head!"
Grinning while he said it. True, with the cheek scars, Prelotta's grin never seemed especially humorous to Helga. But she'd come to know the Reedbottom chief fairly well in the time since she'd arrived in Marange, and he was clearly not in a foul mood.
Adrian, as always—and in a way which continued to amaze Helga—managed exactly the right
The city notables of Franness knew that history as well as anyone. Franness was a walled city, with a real wall and not just a flimsy palisade. And everyone—every Confederate city notable, for sure—also knew what the penalty would be if they capitulated to the barbarians and Tomsien emerged triumphant. That, too, was a long Confederate tradition—city councils of besieged cities who surrendered before the wall was breached were subject to decimation, just as routed army units were.
That assumed, of course, that the Confederacy would recapture the city. But . . . It had never failed to do so yet.
Odd, though. Prelotta was close enough now for Helga to be able to see his expression clearly. The open, flanged helmets the Southrons favored did not obscure faces much. It was always hard for her to tell, because of the grotesque scars and tattoos, but she thought the Reedbottom chief looked rather satisfied with himself.
And so he proved.
"They refused, of course," he announced, as soon as he drew up his mount. "Even heaped the most scurrilous insults upon my head!"
Grinning while he said it. True, with the cheek scars, Prelotta's grin never seemed especially humorous to Helga. But she'd come to know the Reedbottom chief fairly well in the time since she'd arrived in Marange, and he was clearly not in a foul mood.
Adrian, as always—and in a way which continued to amaze Helga—managed exactly the right