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."
Sturm lifted his chin and strode away. Following the line
of burning torches along the corridor, he ran a finger in a
joint of mortared stones, as he had every day since
becoming tall enough to do so. This might be the last time
Sturm would trace the crack. He slowed his pace to make
the feeling linger.
Overhead, a loophole shutter banged loose in the wind.
Sturm mounted the narrow steps to the loophole and
reached out into the cold to catch the wayward shutter.
Through the silently falling snow he saw a red glow on the
horizon. It was too early for dawn.
"Close that shutter!"
Sturm whirled. Soren Vardis, sergeant of the household
guard, was striding toward him. He took the steps two at a
time. Soren reached easily over Sturm's head and closed the
shutter, letting the bolt fall in its slot with a loud clank.
He smiled at the boy. "There are bowmen in the woods,"
he said. "A face in a lighted window makes an excellent
target."
"Sergeant, what will the villagers do?"
A crack in the shutter let in the red glow. It striped
Soren's face with a streak of blood. He looked at Sturm,
standing so straight and proper. "I suppose you have a right
to know," he said. "The peasants are in arms
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