some security in the treacherous footing.
It was nearly impossible to keep the torches lit. The men on horseback were
having a harder time of it than Walegrin and his team. Walegrin watched the mud
directly in front of them and lost track of how many checkpoints or spotters
they had passed. They halted once, when the undergrowth cracked louder than the
rain, but it was only a family of half-wild pigs. Everyone laughed nervously and
Walegrin touched the oxen with his whip again. Another time Strat spotted
shadows moving above them on the ridge, but it was only their own men breaking
cover.
They had reached the stony trail leading to the estate when the oxen bellowed
once in unison, then sank to their knees. Walegrin dropped the saddle-strap and
went racing back to the cart where his sword was stashed. The horses panicked,
rearing up and collapsing as much from the bad footing as from the metallic
drone every man and beast was hearing, feeling, between his ears.
“Do something!” Walegrin yelled to his passenger as he tugged his sword free of
its scabbard. The first touch of En-librite steel against his skin made a shower
of green sparks, but it dulled the pain in his head as well. “Stop her, Randal!”
“There’s no one out there,” the mage replied, poking his head and shoulders
through the cart’s open window. His archaic armor, like Walegrin’s sword, had a
faintly green presence to it.
“There’s damn sure someone out here!”
Walegrin stood on the drover’s bench. Save for Strat all of the escort had been
thrown into the mud; save for Strat’s bay all the horses were either on their