Then the sunlight vanished. The heavy black clouds which had foretold countless
perversions of weather since the Storm God’s demise condensed overhead. A blast
of ice-laced wind roared down the alley making the horse rear in panic. The
children and beggars struck the moment Molin’s attention was on the horse
instead of Sanctuary, and the priest found himself in the midst of a deadly
little alley-fight even as needle-like pellets of sleet began their own assault
from the sky.
He dropped the reins, a signal to his army-trained horse that it was free to
attack, and drew the sword from its saddle-sheath. The odds swung back in his
favor once he got a film grip on the hand pressing a knife into his kidney and
tossed that urchin back into the street. Whatever his attackers had expected it
wasn’t a merchant who fought like one of the thrice-damned Stepsons and, though
they would have dearly loved to drag this anomaly back to their leader for a
closer interrogation, they cowered back under the eaves. Molin gathered the
reins, pounded his heels against the gelding’s flanks and made a dash for the
Palace.
“Send for a groom to take this horse to the stables and see that he’s well-cared
for,” Torchholder demanded when he reached the guardhouse at the West Gate of
the Palace, forgetting his torn and dripping tradesman’s clothes.
“Forgettin’ your place, scum? I don’t take orders from stinkin’ Downwind scum
…”
“Send for a groom-and hope that I forget your face.”
The soldier froze-tribute to the instant recognition the Storm Priest’s oratory