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But what even Sturm and Lord Alfred knew, what most
of them knew, and Breca especially, was that the
dragonsoldier was not finished with Breca, that this attack
was as fierce and as lethal as any with a bow or with those
terrible curved swords I still see in sleep until the welcome
darkness of morning comes again. For the heart of the battle
was at stake before the arrows flew, before the swords
clashed, at least in the eyes of the knights, who thought in
terms of spirit and morale, of a high game which begins not
when the first piece is taken nor even the first pawn moved,
but when the players sit before the chessboard.
Breca, on the other hand, was past strategy and morale,
safe for now in another world I came to witness in the
weeks that followed, in the tower and in the waiting. He
was a swordsman, any thrust the same as any other, to be
deflected or parried if he were still to call himself a
swordsman. The snow settled on his helmet until I feared
that soon it would cover him, cover him entirely in the face
of his enemies, and then cover all of us - on foot, on
horseback, on mule-back - until what remained was a pitiful
series of drifts in the country of the enemy.
And the dragonsoldier called once more out of the
vallenwoods
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