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. Mistress Carin snapped the reins, and the
cart jerked forward. Sturm buried his face in his sleeve. He
couldn't bear to leave. In spite of Soren's admonition, the
bitter tears returned.
At the west gate, torches were doused before the portal
opened. The guardsman and the cart moved into the night.
The castle was quickly lost from sight in the swirling snow.
The road west was high-centered and paved with stone, a
relic of the great days before the Cataclysm.
Sturm and his mother were nestled among the soft
heaps of baggage. Though warmed and rocked by the easy
motion of the cart, neither could find sleep. The boy could
hear the sharp clat-clat of the war-shod hooves of Nuitari,
Soren's black gelding. The sergeant kept to a measured pace
as he watched the road ahead for trouble. As soon as was
practical, they would leave the well-marked, well-paved
track for a less conspicuous route. If the peasants had a
mind to pursue them, they would be harder to find that way.
Soren reined up short. He snagged the carthorse's bridle
and pulled the beast off the road. No sooner was the party
screened by a stand of cedars than Sturm heard a low
rumble of voices. His heart beat quickly as he peeked
through the slatted side of the cart
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