"They come, master, to the number of eleven," his lookout boy came running with news at mid-afternoon of the seventh day. "One priest in copper, ten Tarkians in iron, a five each of bowmen and spearmen."
Tedric did not have to tell the boy where to go or what to do or to hurry about it; as both ran for the ironmaster's armor the youngster was two steps in the lead. It was evident, too, that he had served as squire before, and frequently; for in seconds the erstwhile half-naked blacksmith was fully clothed in iron.
Thus it was an armored knight, leaning negligently upon a fifteen-pound forging hammer, who waited outside the shop's door and watched his eleven visitors approach.
The banner was that of a priest of the third rank. Good—they weren't worried enough about him yet, then, to send a big one. And only ten mercenaries—small, short, bandy-legged men of Tark—good enough fighters for their weight, but they didn't weigh much. This wouldn't be too bad.
The group came up to within a few paces and stopped.
"Art in armor, smith?" the discomfited priest demanded. "Why?"
"Why not? 'Tis my habit to greet guests in apparel of their own choosing."
There was a brief silence, then:
"To what do I owe the honor of this visit, priest?" he asked, only half sarcastically. "I paid, as I have always paid, the fraction due."
"True. 'Tis not about a fraction I come. It is noised that a strange god appeared to you, spoke to you, instructed you in your art; that you are making an image of him."