The herd settled into a standard oval formation. Sturm couched his goad under his left arm. The bar was eight feet long, and he could easily touch the ground with it, even from as high a perch as Brumbar's back. Indeed, Sturm's own height, placed on the broad back of the Garnet horse, made him taller than any other rider in the group. He could see far across the tight mass of cows, their dusty coats and long horns always shifting, always moving, even when the herd itself was not in forward motion.

A horn blasted from the far shore, signaling that the pre vious herd had cleared the ford. Onthar stood in his stirrups and whipped his goad back and forth (there was a black pennant fixed to the tip). The riders whistled and shouted to stir the beasts forward. A wall of beef surged toward Sturm, but he yelled and waved the goad before the cows' faces.

The animals turned away to follow those in front.

The track down to the river was a morass. Thousands of cattle and horses had churned it up, and under the rising sun the mud stank. Onthar and the front riders splashed into the

Vingaard with the herd bulls. The steers and cows came after, and the rear riders were last of all. The stench and bit ing flies over the river were ferocious.

Brumbar put his heavy feet into the water. His iron shoes, suited to paved roads, did not provide a very sure grip on the round, wet rocks. Despite the uncertain footing, Brum bar went on, unperturbed. And then, perhaps twenty yards into the river, Sturm's horse slid sideways off the rocky ford.

Water rushed over Sturm's head. He immediately kicked free of the stirrups and thrust up for the surface. His head burst into the air, and he took a deep breath. Brumbar was out in the stream, swimming steadily for the south shore.

Frijje reined up and shouted, "You all right, Sturm?"

"Yes, the stupid horse slid off the ford!," He swam a few strokes toward the herdsman. Frijje extended the butt of this goad for Sturm to grab and hauled the soaked knight to the ford's sloping edge. Sturm stood up. Atop the stones, the water was only knee-deep.

"Can you ride me across, Frijje?" he asked.

"Can't leave the herd," was the reply. "You'll just have to catch up." Frijje rode on, long braids bouncing on his back.

Sturm slogged through the muddy water back to the south bank, where Brumbar had climbed out and was drying off in the morning sun.

"Come here, you ignorant brute," Sturm said, then smiled. An ignorant brute Brumbar might be, but the horse stood quietly after his watery ordeal, calmly awaiting his rider's pleasure. Sturm swung into the saddle and twisted

Brumbar's head. Onthar's herd was almost to the other shore. Sturm had lost his goad, and his pride had taken a beating, too, but he wasn't finished.

"Heyah!" he cried, snapping the reins on Brumbar's neck.

The horse took off, big feet pounding down the bank and into the river. Straight down the center of the ford they went, Brumbar kicking up an impressive froth as he gal loped. They gained the north side just as the last herder,

Rorin, was leaving the water.

"Have a good swim?" Rorin asked, grinning.

"Not too bad," Sturm responded sheepishly. "Lend me a goad, will you? I've got to get back to my place." Rorin yanked an extra pole from a boot on his horse's neck and tossed it to Sturm. Sturm caught it neatly.

The cattle churned over the sandy flood plain on the Vin gaard's north side. Here, at last, Brumbar's shoes proved their worth. While the herders' unshod ponies floundered in the loose sand, Sturm and Brumbar headed off a dangerous side movement by the rear third of the herd. Like some huge living tapestry, the herd and its riders climbed the bank to the drier, grass-covered plain of northern Solamnia. Once they were well clear of the river crossing, Onthar led them into a wide gully and halted the herd.

"Keep your place," he said as he rode up to Sturm. Onthar scanned the river for stragglers. "I hear you fell in," he add ed.

"Iron horseshoes and wet rocks don't make for a firm grip," Sturm said.

"Uh-huh. You lose the goad I gave you?"

"Yes, Onthar," Sturm said. "Rorin lent me another."

"Lost goad costs two coppers. I'll deduct it from your pay." Onthar swung around and rode on to speak with

Rorin.

The more Sturm thought about it, the angrier he got with

Onthar. To charge for the lost goad seemed downright petty.

Then the teachings of the Measure reminded Sturm to see the situation from Onthar's point of view. Maybe they hadn't known Brumbar was shod. Ostimar did advise him to stay away from the ford's edge. Onthar had originally paid for the goad he'd lost. Given the scarcity of hard money in a life like herding, charging two coppers for a lost stick wasn't petty. It was absolutely necessary.

Sturm pulled off his bandanna and wrung it out. His clothes would dry rapidly in the sun, and there was a long day's ride still to go. He straightened in the saddle and thought of himself as being on a war foray. Alert yet relaxed. That's the way his old friend, Soren, had practiced soldiering, as sergeant of the castle guard for Sturm's father.

A braver, more devoted man had never lived.

Onthar circumnavigated the herd, and when he was satis fied that all was in order, he returned to the head and sig naled to resume the drive. The bawling calves and cows slowly came about as Onthar led them north and east toward Vingaard Keep, some sixty miles away.

It was a long, hard day, and the herders spent every min ute of it in the saddle. Sturm had always thought of himself as an accomplished long-distance rider, but compared to

Onthar's men, he was a tenderfoot after all. Except that it wasn't his feet that grew tender.

The herders rotated positions, moving slowly counter clockwise around the herd. The midday meal, such as it was, was eaten when a man reached the front. Then there were no cows to watch, only the lay of the land ahead. Sad dle food was jerky and cheese and raw onions, all washed down with bitter cider.

The sun was still well up when Onthar called a halt.

Sturm estimated that they'd covered twenty-five miles since crossing the river. Frijje, Belingen, and Rorin pushed the herd into a shallow ravine in the middle of the grassland.

Judging by the trampled grass and scoured ground, this pit had been used by previous herds on their way north. Osti mar and Onthar took Sturm on a circuit of the pit and showed him how to set up the fence that would keep the ani mals from wandering in the night.

"Fence?" Sturm said. He hadn't seen anyone carrying anything as bulky as a fence.

Onthar pulled a wooden stake about two feet long with a fork at the top from a canvas satchel and stuck it in the ground. He tied the end of a length of rope to the fork and stretched it out eight or ten feet, where Ostimar set another stake. On and on this went, until the whole herd was sur rounded by a single thickness of rope.

"And this flimsy barrier will keep them in?" asked Sturm.

"Cows and steers aren't real wise," Ostimar explained.

"They'll think they can't push through the rope, so they won't try. 'Course, if a real panic set in, a stone wall wouldn't stop 'em."

"What would frighten them that much?"

"Wolves," noted Ostimar. "Or men."

The herders camped on the highest ground overlooking the pit. Rorin and Frijje scythed down sheafs of tall grass for cattle fodder, but the herd would get no water until the next day, when they reached Brantha's Pond.

Onthar built a fire from wind-blown twigs gleaned from the grass. The fire drew the other herders in. The common kettle was brought out and hung from its peg over the flames. Each man stooped over the pot and added something – water, cheese, flour, bits of meat, vegetables, and fruit. When the pot was full, Frijje knelt by the fire and stirred it.