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A band of rough-looking men came slogging through
the snow. Some wore fresh, hairy hides over their backs,
hides with the Brightblade brand.
"I'm cold!" one declared loudly.
"Shut your gob, Bron. We'll all be warm enough when we
put the torch to the knights' hall!" Ugly laughter greeted the
boast. Sturm heard his mother praying quietly to Paladine.
Soren led them back onto the road. Thev reached the
fork the sergeant wanted. Mistress Cann hauled back the
reins, and the cart slipped off the stones into a narrow,
muddy rut. The naked, black arms of leafless trees closed
over their heads. At last Sturm dropped into a light and
troubled sleep.
He awoke to the sound of weeping. "Mother?" he said.
She put a hand over his mouth. "Quiet, child." He saw
the tracks of tears on her face. He sat up and saw what was
making her cry.
Below, across a snow-gilt field, three houses burned.
Against the curtain of flame dark figures moved. Cows and
calves bawled in pain as cudgels beat them to the ground.
Angry, starving men tore them to pieces with billhooks and
hand scythes.
"They would do the same to us," said Lady Ilys.
Sturm looked to the sergeant in helpless anger. Soren
was afoot, his back to Nuitari, sword drawn
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