The realization of what this meant quickly sank in.
Onthar grasped Sturm's arms. "We'll face the hordes of
Takhisis if you say so, Ironskin."
"You may have that opportunity," Sturm said grimly. "So go. Warn all your people about Merinsaard. Make sure that no one else brings him cattle, or sheep, or other supplies.
They would meet with the same treatment you did."
"I will spread the word across the plains," Onthar vowed.
"Not even a partridge will get to Merinsaard's stores."
The herders gathered up their few belongings and started for the exit. Sturm added, "There's just one other thing."
"What?" asked Onthar.
Sturm paused. "I want you to take Tervy with you."
"No!" she said loudly. "I stay with youl"
"You can't do that. I've got to travel fast and light, and it will be too dangerous for you to remain with me," Sturm said solemnly.
"It wasn't too dangerous in Merinsaard's room, when I spilled the table and thumped him on the head."
Sturm laid a hand on the girl's shoulder. "You're braver than ten men, Tervy, but there's going to be more than just swords or arrows coming at me. There is evil magic abroad in the land, and the full weight of it may fall on me in the coming days."
Her lips quivered. "I don't care."
"I do. You're a fine girl, Tervy. You deserve a long and happy life." He turned to Frijje. "You'll look after her, won't you?"
The herder, still amazed to hear that the girl had subdued the mighty Merinsaard, replied, "I think she'll end up look ing after me!"
It was agreed then, though not without some tears. Sturm hesitated a moment, then kissed her smudged forehead and sent her way with the herders. The pang of regret he felt was like a fresh wound, but Sturm knew that in the coming days his own odds of survival would be slim.
The guards tensed when Onthar and his party walked into view. Sturm, mask in place, ordered the soldiers to let them pass. "These men are to return with more provender," he boomed.
The herders' ponies were brought out, and they mounted.
Frijje hauled Tervy up behind him. "You will bring the next herd to this same spot," Sturm said loudly.
"Aye, my lord," Onthar replied. "A thousand head, I promise."
Onthar swung his pony southward and kicked its dusty hide. He galloped away with the others strung out behind.
Frijje and Tervy were last. The girl looked back until they were lost from sight. She held her right fist clenched to her chest; the temptation to wave farewell was strong.
Hands clasped behind his back, Sturm strode down the center passage, acting like a general at inspection. He glanced into several rooms until he found what he wanted:
Merinsaard's wardrobe.
Quickly he shed the armor. Merinsaard was thicker through the chest and waist than Sturm, but otherwise they were nearly the same size. He donned a woolen tunic, scarf, and gloves. Though it was warm on the plain, in the higher elevations it would be cold at night. Sturm retained the dragon mask, and threw an ankle-length cloak around his shoulders. The hood hid his dark hair. There was no time to search for the sword that had been taken from him, so he
'borrowed' one of Merinsaard's. Tas would be proud of him, he thought ruefully. The simple-hilted weapon was plated with mirror-finished silver, and fitted with a black leather scabbard. Sturm buckled the sword belt under the cloak.
At the entrance of the grand tent, he shouted, "My horse!" A soldier ran to the picket line and returned with a magnificent white charger.
"The apothecary reports the poultice has healed Mai-tat's hoof," the soldier said in a rapid, breathless voice. "The man begs your lordship to spare him."
Why not? "I give him his life," Sturm said in what he hoped was a convincingly arrogant manner. He put a foot in the stirrup and swung onto Mai-tat. The spirited charger pranced in a half-circle, causing the soldier to retreat.
Sturm opened his mouth to explain his departure, then quickly realized that Merinsaard would likely do no such thing. "I shall return before morning," he said.
"The usual guard postings remain?" said the man who'd brought the horse.
"Yes." Sturm tightened the reins to quell the nervous ani mal. "Let there be no mistakes, or it will be your head!" he said.
He spurred lightly and galloped north, toward Castle
Brightblade. Sturm regretted not having time to scatter the cattle inside the old keep. But there was no time for such diversions; the moment the real Merinsaard awoke and freed himself from his bonds, the hunt for Sturm Bright blade would begin.
Chapter 40
Mai-tat was as fleet as he was beautiful, and in a very short time the dark hump of Vingaard Keep sank below the southern horizon. With the stars to guide him,
Sturm bore northwest. A tributary of the Vingaard River lay due north and the Verkhas Hills to the west. In the fertile pocket of land between the two lay Castle Brightblade.
The white stallion's hooves drummed a solo song on the plain. Several times Sturm halted his headlong flight to lis ten for sounds of pursuit. Aside from the whirring of crick ets in the tall grass, the plain was silent.
A few hours before dawn, Sturm slowed Mai-tat as they closed upon a shadowy ruin. It was an old hut and a land marker, now demolished. The stump of the marker still bore the lower half of its carved name plaque. The lower petals of a rose showed, and beneath that a sun and a naked sword.
Bright Blade. Sturm had come to the southern limits of his ancestral holdings.
4/He clucked his tongue and urged the horse forward. The fields beyond the marker that he remembered as rich graz ing land and bountiful orchards were overgrown and wild.
The neat rows of apple and pear trees were little more than a thicket now. Vines had long since reclaimed the road. Sturm rode on, tight-lipped, ducking now and then to clear the sagging tree branches.
The orchard was split by a creek, he remembered, and so it was still. He steered Mai-tat into the shallow stream. The creek ran a mile or so to the very base of the walls of Castle
Brightblade. Mai-tat trotted through the cool water.
The east was brightening to amber when the gray walls appeared over the treetops. The profile of the battlements and towers brought a lump to his throat. But it was not the same as when he left; creepers scaled the walls in thick mats, blocks of stone had toppled, and the towers were naked to the sky, their roofs burned off years ago.
"Come on," Sturm said to the horse, tapping him gently with his heels. Mai-tat cantered through the creek, kicking up founts with every step. He climbed the bank on the west side and plowed through the hedges. On the castle's west face was the main gate. Sturm clattered up the grass spotted, cobblestone road to the entrance. Shaded from the rising sun, the walls looked black.
The narrow moat was little more than a muddy ditch now; without the dam to divert the creek, it would never keep water. Sturm slowed Mai-tat once they hit the bridge.
Belingen's cruel remarks about knights jumping into the moat echoed in Sturm's mind. The ditch was nothing but a dark, swampy morass.
The gate was gone. Only the blackened hinges remained, spiked to the stone walls with iron nails a foot long. The courtyard was thick with blown leaves and charred wood.
Sturm looked up at the donjon rising before him. The win dows gaped blankly, their sills displaying tongues of soot where fire had raged through. He wanted to call out, to yell,
Father, Father, I've come home!
But no one would hear. No one but ghosts.
The bailey had been used recently to house animals.