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. For something was clearly afoot, and Heros
described it as a bitter dance of moons, Derek's on the wane
and Sturm's waxing, power flowing like light away from
one man into another.
Heros championed neither of the factions: both were, as
he would say, TOO VARIABLE. There was Sturm on the
rise, once dishonored, once the companion of dwarves and
kender and elves and the vagabond mage with the hourglass
eyes whom nobody had trusted or quite mistrusted, and
could the road back to honor lie in the company of such a
patchwork crew? Heros did not have the answer, and
without certain answers it was his nature to disapprove.
Derek, on the other hand, had ceased to be an option,
his armor too bright from polishing too much and too long,
his eyes too bright from something far more unsettling than
wine or the fever of approaching battle. He had taken to
winding a horn in imitation of Huma, and at all hours of the
night the footmen were called on alert, equipped and
assembled to find only that the alarm had been raised by
Lord Derek himself, alarmed by what he considered the
unnatural closeness - or sometimes distance - of the red
moon and the silver. And the men did not complain loudly,
nor comment too loudly when Lord Derek wore the horns
of a stag on his helmet, as if in recalling the old divine
contest between the hero and the quarry, he had chosen to
play both the hunter and the hunted
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