excitedly.
At once, Sturm spurred Luin forward, sword flashing over his head. With the ancient Solamnic cry on his lips-
He was by the first two before they could raise their shields, sword crashing into the head of one. With a lightning turn in the saddle, Sturm brought the blade down on the other, and then, more quickly than thought, reined Luin toward the next three, who shrieked and moved sluggishly toward the shallow river.
They appeared to be already moving in waist-deep water.
Sturm rode between them and wheeled Luin about at the banks of the Vingaard. Sword upraised dramatically, he faced them with another loud, piercing cry. Terrified, the draconians dropped their weapons and plodded in different directions, their rasping shrieks lost in the music and the rising wind.
Leaning forward hard in the saddle, Sturm watched them scatter. It would be simple to follow them, to hunt each of them down. But into his memory came the vision Ragnell had shown him that night in the great lodge of Dun Ringhill-the wintry landscape of Throt, the ransacking of the goblin village, the cruel swordplay over the wretched, spitting creatures.
'No,' he whispered. There might come a time for hunting them down, but not now. Nor was he the man. He watched until they vanished behind rocks and bushes and brambles, then turned to the ford and the crossing.
The water tumbled slowly around him, licking tamely at the hocks of his mare. Over the steady sound of the river, Sturm thought again that he heard the music. He remembered the sound of Mara's flute, and something deep in his memory and imaginings told him that she was safe.
From his vantage point on the knoll above the west bank of the Vingaard, Tivok watched the lad rein his horse into the shallow water. The draconian wrapped himself against the icy east wind and waved to his comrades camped upriver. It was the second squadron. The four of them-little baaz draconians stationed by the makeshift dam-would be watching. They would scatter rock and felled branches until the waters surged through with an unleashed swiftness and power, racing south and swelling the banks of the river. If they timed it right, the first waves would strike the shallows when the rider came to midstream.
Tivok chuckled. We would see how this stripling handled a horse.
He was sure this was the one. He had heard the Solamnic oath ringing in the brisk air and seen the sword rise and flash overhead like heat lightning in a distant sky.
Nashif would be punished for letting this one pass.
Tivok signaled again to be certain, then licked his sword to poison the blade.
The snow was falling heavily now, and the banks upriver were crazed with a thin film of ice.
Hawode, second-in-command to Captain Tivok, shifted uncomfortably on a clutter of rock and wood. It was downright tiresome watching that little rise for a sign from the commander. Wasn't there an old saying about a watched pot?
His head hurt. He was drowsy. Draconians weren't made for this season and its weather, their cold blood lulling them when the temperature dropped. Already he had wakened one of the wounded ones, pummeling her with the butt of his sword and promising her more dire punishments if she slept again.
She had regarded him balefully from under her black hood. It made him long for the promised summer.
He shook his head, scattering the pain. The hill grew more and more faint as the snow thickened, and twice he had lost sight of it for a panic-stricken moment. He had thought of taking initiative then, of opening the dam and letting the water rush forth, in the desperate hope that Tivok had signaled unseen from the knoll.
It was stupid, he knew. So he hadn't done it. He sat there and sulked until the outline of the hill had formed again out of the blinding white, and his panic had settled back into a dim unease.
If this was spring in Solamnia, pondered Hawode, his thoughts lazy and dwindling, he would hate to see…
The thought froze unfinished in the icy air. The draconian dozed, his slumber deepening with the snow as he joined his three companions in the wintry and dreamless sleep of reptiles.
Tivok was furious when the rider reached the other bank.
He hissed and lumbered down the hillside, sliding through two inches of fresh snow, his cape billowing like the sail of a ramshackle ice-rigger.
They had all failed him-Nashif and the ambush party, Hawode and those on the upriver dam. He had dreaded that it would come to this, but he dreaded worse the loss of Solamnic gold.
He skidded, fell, and righted himself, cursing softly. His sword shot from his hand, leaving a thick green streak on the breast of the snow. It lay on its edge at the bottom of the hill, its barbed blade glinting, washed clean by the melting snow.
After all, thought Tivok, picking up the weapon, he had plans of his own this side of the river. His thoughts on the struggle to come, he sheathed his weapon absently and loped to the western bank of the ford.
Luin shivered as the wind struck her wet flanks. Sturm dismounted quickly and drew a blanket from the saddle, drying off the mare as best he could.
The crossing had been easy, almost suspiciously so. The music had faded in midriver, but the mare had plodded along complacently and steadily from the east bank to the west. Though the change in the weather promised an uncomfortable ride, the longest part of the journey was behind Sturm now, and no more perils awaited him save the last and most deadly-the confrontation at the Tower with Boniface.
Again the lad mulled over the past fortnight, sorting evidence from rumor and fact from hearsay. He would have been an easy target, kneeling absently by the flanks of the mare, his hands and mind preoccupied, had not Tivok approached by the water's edge, his footsteps breaking loudly through a thick sheet of ice.
Sturm lurched to his feet at once, drawing his weapon and wheeling to face the large draconian. With a menacing hiss, Tivok drew his blade and brought it whistling down. Sturm raised his sword to block the blow and felt the clash and grating of blades all the way up his arms and into his shoulders.
The draconian was stronger than he. He couldn't hope to match him blow for blow.
Sturm scrambled away from Tivok, dodging a pivoting slash from the creature's barbed sword. Snorting with surprise, Luin trotted down to the riverbank, leaving the two combatants to their business. Holding his sword level and to the fore, Sturm circled the draconian, crouching and ready for the onslaught.
Tivok, however, was no green, untutored fighter. He bided his time, moving steadily with the circling lad, and when the moment came, it was sudden and accurate and almost deadly. Sturm toppled away from the unexpectedly quick rush and thrust, blocking one blow and deflecting another, slipping over the icy ground until he was out of sword's reach. Only the quickness of his youth and the winter sluggishness of his enemy's blade saved him from quick death on a ragged edge.
Nevertheless, the draconian had drawn blood. Sturm rose unsteadily, clutching his leg.
Tivok stepped back, leaning scornfully on his sword.
'That, Solamnic, should be sufficient,' he announced.
Sturm said nothing but steadied for another onslaught.
'The blade, you see, was poisoned, as is our practice, dishonorable though your Order may find it.'
'What has my Order to do with this?' Sturm asked angrily, lifting his sword.
'Its money has paid for the poisoning,' Tivok retorted with a dry laugh. Tauntingly he raised his sword as well, turning the blade slowly.
'Wh-What do you mean by that?' Sturm asked. His leg throbbed and he stumbled.
'Solamnic money paid me and my mates,' Tivok explained, his voice halting and sweet, as though he were teaching a young and thick-witted child. 'The finest swordsman of your Order offered me gold and ordered me here to await your return.'
'Boniface?' Sturm asked, though he already knew the answer. The draconian began to circle, his black tongue flickering.
'Don't anger yourself,' Tivok teased, sword changing from hand to hand. 'Poison moves all the more swiftly through hot blood.' He laughed and took one tentative step toward the lad. 'But Boniface it was,' he whispered melodramatically, his eyes glittering with wicked merriment. 'Called himself Grimbane, he did, as if we hadn't heard
