on the boy’s shoulder. “No, young lord. Your father has
given orders that you and the Lady Ilys be sent to far Solace
for safety. Our duty is to obey.” He knelt in front of Sturm
and scrubbed away the tears with his rough thumbs. “None
of that now, lad. Your mother will need all your strength to
make this journey. It will fall to you to be the Brightblade
man of the party, you know.”
Wind sighed through the north corridor. The double
doors to the courtyard were open. A two-wheel cart waited
in the calf-deep snow. Lady Ilys, splendid in a cape of white
rabbit, was bidding farewell to her husband.
“May the gods go with you,” Lord Brightblade said,
clasping her hands between his own. “You will always be
my lady.”
Their cheeks touched. “And you, my lord,” said Lady
Ilys.
The sniffling from the front of the cart was Mistress
Carin. Sturm and Soren halted before Lord Brighblade. The
sergeant saluted. The master of Brightblade Castle clapped
the guardsman on his ironclad shoulders.
“My best man-at-arms,” he said. “Keep them safe,
Soren Vardis.”
“Aye, my lord.”
He faced his son. “Sturm, heed what your mother and
the sergeant tell you.”
“Yes, sir.” How he ached for just one embrace! But that
was not his father’s way, not even at a time of parting.
Soren lifted him into the back of the cart, then mounted
his own horse. Mistress Carin snapped the reins, and the
cart jerked forward. Sturm buried his face in his sleeve. He
couldn’t bear to leave. In spite of Soren’s admonition, the
bitter tears returned.
At the west gate, torches were doused before the portal
opened. The guardsman and the cart moved into the night.
The castle was quickly lost from sight in the swirling snow.
The road west was high-centered and paved with stone, a
relic of the great days before the Cataclysm.
Sturm and his mother were nestled among the soft
heaps of baggage. Though warmed and rocked by the easy
motion of the cart, neither could find sleep. The boy could
hear the sharp clat-clat of the war-shod hooves of Nuitari,
Soren’s black gelding. The sergeant kept to a measured pace
as he watched the road ahead for trouble. As soon as was
practical, they would leave the well-marked, well-paved
track for a less conspicuous route. If the peasants had a
mind to pursue them, they would be harder to find that way.
Soren reined up short. He snagged the carthorse’s bridle
and pulled the beast off the road. No sooner was the party
screened by a stand of cedars than Sturm heard a low
rumble of voices. His heart beat quickly as he peeked
through the slatted side of the cart.
A band of rough-looking men came slogging through
the snow. Some wore fresh, hairy hides over their backs,
hides with the Brightblade brand.
“I’m cold!” one declared loudly.
“Shut your gob, Bron. We’ll all be warm enough when we
put the torch to the knights’ hall!” Ugly laughter greeted the
boast. Sturm heard his mother praying quietly to Paladine.
Soren led them back onto the road. Thev reached the
fork the sergeant wanted. Mistress Cann hauled back the
reins, and the cart slipped off the stones into a narrow,
muddy rut. The naked, black arms of leafless trees closed
over their heads. At last Sturm dropped into a light and
troubled sleep.
He awoke to the sound of weeping. “Mother?” he said.
She put a hand over his mouth. “Quiet, child.” He saw
the tracks of tears on her face. He sat up and saw what was
making her cry.
Below, across a snow-gilt field, three houses burned.
Against the curtain of flame dark figures moved. Cows and
calves bawled in pain as cudgels beat them to the ground.
Angry, starving men tore them to pieces with billhooks and
hand scythes.
“They would do the same to us,” said Lady Ilys.
Sturm looked to the sergeant in helpless anger. Soren
was afoot, his back to Nuitari, sword drawn. The fire
displayed his blue eyes burning under the brim of his
helmet. There was nothing he could do against twenty. And