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It was one night, not long before his riding forth,
pursuing a disaster of which you have no doubt heard, that I
was awakened once again by the sound of the horn
winding. I armed myself, thinking continually, PERHAPS
THIS TIME, PERHAPS HE WILL NOT CRY WOLF
FOREVER, and moved through a courtyard as silent as if
nothing had happened, the footmen crouched around the
fires sleeping or drinking or dicing, or drinking and dicing
themselves to sleep, all as if the night were soundless and as
safe as any other. And of all these, only Breca watched the
battlements where, outlined in red and silver, a glittering
figure all metal and antler sounded a lonely horn.
I stood beside Breca, who never took his eyes from the
solitary figure as he leaned on the pommel of his two-
handed sword, chuckling a dry laugh as desolate as the
winter outside the fortress and, glancing sideways at me,
murmuring, THAT ONE HAS A THOUSAND DEATHS ON
HIM. HE HAS BEEN DISMOUNTED BY THE WINTER
AND THE ICE AND THE WAITING AND THERE IS NOT
A THING IN THE MEASURE TO COVER THIS, SO THEY
WILL DO NOTHING.
And when I ventured that perhaps Lord Derek had lost
some faculties, but that the most brilliant of generals often
seemed at sea in the times of peace and waiting, Breca
asked me where I had read such things, FOR YOU MUST
HAVE READ THEM
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