"Now," the chief said, "surrender at once. Take off your armor or do battle with us."
The thousands of warriors—possibly millions, because more were arriving every second—shouted their blood-wrath. The cry was taken up on the outskirts and echoed to the hills, where more fighting men were pouring down into the crowded plain.
Fannia's face contorted. He couldn't give himself and Donnaught up to the Cascellans. They might be cooked at the next church supper. For a moment he considered going after the fuel and letting the damned fools suicide all they pleased.
His mind an angry blank, Fannia staggered forward and hit the chief in the face with a mailed glove.
The chief went down, and the natives backed away in horror. Quickly, the chief snapped out a knife and brought it up to his throat. Fannia's hands closed on the chief's wrists.
"Listen to me," Fannia croaked. "We're going to take that fuel. If any man makes a move—if anyone kills himself—I'll kill your chief."
The natives milled around uncertainly. The chief was struggling wildly in Fannia's hands, trying to get a knife to his throat, so he could die honorably.
"Get it," Fannia told Donnaught, "and hurry it up."
The natives were uncertain just what to do. They had their knives poised at their throats, ready to plunge if battle was joined.
"Don't do it," Fannia warned. "I'll kill the chief and then he'll never die a warrior's death."