She closed her eyes, hugging the dead memories of the only people she’d ever made the mistake of allowing herself to love, and moistened a cloth from Lord Bahzell’s water bottle to wipe Farmah’s unconscious brow.

The underbrush slowed Bahzell, but there’d been times on the Wind Plain when he would have given an arm-well, two or three fingers from his off hand-for cover to match it. He reached the crest of the hill and raised his head above the bushes, and his eyes glittered as he saw what he’d hoped for.

No wonder there was so much underbrush and the few trees were all second growth. The moon was full enough, even without the odd chink of light streaming through the shutters of the three cottages which were still occupied, for him to tell the farm below him had known better days. Half the outbuildings were abandoned, judging by their caved-in thatch, but the overgrown hills about the farm had almost certainly been logged off in those better, pre-Churnazh days. They’d gone back to wilderness for lack of hands to work the land, yet someone still fought to save his steading from total ruin. The garden plots closer in to the buildings looked well maintained in the moonlight, clusters of sheep and goats dotted the pastures . . . and a paddock held a dozen horses.

Bahzell chuckled and let his eyes sweep patiently back and forth. Farms usually had dogs, and there was probably someone on watch, as well. Now where would he have put a sentry . . . ?

His ears rose in respect as he caught the faint glint of moonlight on steel. It wasn’t on the ground after all, for a sort of eaves-high walkway had been erected around the roof of the tallest barn. It gave a commanding view over the approaches to the farm, and there wasn’t a single watchman; there were two of them, each marching half the walkway’s circuit.

He settled down on his belly, resting his chin on the hands clasped under his jaw, and pondered. Those would be no fine saddle beasts down there, but any horse was better than the pace Tala could manage afoot. Yet how to lay hands on them? What would have been child’s play with two or three other Horse Stealers to help became far more problematical on his own-especially when he had no wish to hurt any of those farmers if he could avoid it. Anyone who could maintain even this much prosperity so close to Churnazh deserved better than to be killed by someone running from that same Churnazh, so-

He pursed his lips with a sour snort as he watched the sentries. It was hardly the proper way for a Horse Stealer to go about things, but he was in a hurry. Besides, if he was lucky, no one would ever learn of his lapse.

He rose quietly and headed back to tell Tala what he intended.

There were dogs. A chorus of Rūmbling snarls warned him as they came out of the dark, and he reached back to his sword hilt, ready to draw at need. But there was no need. No doubt there would have been if he’d come in across the fields, which was why he’d been careful to stick to the center of the track leading to the farm, and his open approach held them to a snarling challenge while the pack leader set up a howl to summon their master.

Bahzell stopped where he was, resting his palm on his pommel, and admired the dogs’ training while he waited. It wasn’t a long wait. Half a dozen sturdy hradani, all shorter than he, but well muscled from hard work and better food than most Navahkan city-dwellers ever saw, tumbled out of cottage doors. Bare steel gleamed in moonlight as they spread out about him, and Bahzell couldn’t fault their cautious hostility.

“Who be ye?” a strident voice challenged. “And what d’ye want, a-botherin’ decent folk in the middle o’ the night?!”

“It’s sorry I am to disturb you,” Bahzell replied calmly. “I’m but a traveler in need of your help.”

“Hey? What’s that? In need o’ help?” The voice barked a laugh. “You, wi’ a great, whackin’ sword at yer side an’ a shirt o’ mail on yer back, need our help?” The spokesman laughed again. “Ye’ve a wit fer a dirty, sneakin’ thief-I’ll say that fer ye!”

“It’s no thief I am tonight,” Bahzell said in that same mild voice, deliberately emphasizing his Hurgrum accent, “though I’ve naught against splitting a few skulls if you’re caring to call me so again.”

The spokesman rocked back on his heels, lowering his spear to peer at the intruder, and Bahzell gave back look for look.

“Yer not from around here, are ye?” the farmer said slowly, and it was Bahzell’s turn to snort a laugh.

“You might be saying that.”

“So I might.” The farmer cocked his head up at Bahzell’s towering inches. “In fact, ye’ve the look o’ one o’ them Horse Stealers. Be ye so?”

“That I am. Bahzell, son of Bahnak, Prince of Hurgrum.”

“Arrr! Tell us another ’un!” someone hooted, but the spokesman shook his head and held up a hand.

“Now, lads, let’s not be hasty. I’ve heard summat o’ this Bahzell. ’Tis said he’s tall as a hill, like all them Horse Stealers, an’ danged if this ’un isn’t.”

Bahzell folded his arms and looked down on them. The tallest was barely five or six inches over six feet, and he saw ears moving and eyes widening in surprise as they peered back up at him.

“But that Bahzell, he’s a hostage up t’ Navahk an’ all,” a voice objected.

“Aye, that’s true,” someone else agreed. “Leastways, he’s s’posed t’ be.” A note of avarice crept into his voice. “Reckon they’d pay t’ get ’im back agin, Turl?”

“Not s’much as tryin’ t’ lay him by the heels ’ud cost us , Wulgaz,” the spokesman said dryly, “an’ I’ve few enough t’ work the land wi’out his spilling yer guts in the dirt.”

Bahzell’s teeth gleamed in a moonlit smile, and the one called Wulgaz shuffled quickly back beside his fellows.

“Mind ye, though, stranger,” Turl said sharply, “there’s enough o’ us t’ spill yer guts, too, if it comes t’ that!”

“I’m thinking the same thing,” Bahzell agreed equably, “and if it’s all the same to you, I’d sooner I kept mine and you kept yours, friend.”

“Would you, now?” Turl gave a gravel-voiced chuckle and grounded the butt of his spear so he could lean on it. “Well then, Lord Bahzell-if that’s truly who ye be-what brings ye here?”

“Well, as to that, I’d half a mind to be stealing some of your horses, till I spied those lads of yours up on the roof.”

“Did ye, though?” Turl cocked his head the other way. “ ’Tis a strange way ye have o’ provin’ ye mean no harm!”

“Why? Because I’d a mind to take what I need? Or because I decided to buy, instead?”

“Buy?” Turl snapped upright. “D’ye mean t’ say buy , M’lord? Cash money?”

“Aye. Mind you, I’m thinking it would have been more fun to steal them,” Bahzell admitted, “but it’s a bit of a hurry I’m in.”

Turl gaped at him, then laughed out loud. “Well, M’lord, if its fun ye want, just go back down th’ track and me an’ the lads can step back inside an’ let ye try agin. Course, the dogs’ll be on ye quick as spit, but if that’s yer notion o’ fun-” He shrugged, and Bahzell joined him in his laughter.

“No, thank you kindly. It may be I’ll take you up on that another day, but I’ve scant time for such tonight. So if you’re minded to sell, I’ll buy three of them from you, and tack to go with them, if you have it.”

“Yer serious, ain’t ye?” Turl said slowly, rubbing his chin. “ ’Twouldn’t be ye’ve need t’ be elsewhere, would it, M’lord?”

“It would, friend, and the sooner the better.”

“Um.” Turl looked at his fellows for a long, silent moment, then back at Bahzell. “Horses are hard come by in these parts, M’lord,” he said bluntly, “an’ harder t’ replace. ’Specially when partin’ wi’ ’em seems like t’ bring th’ Black Prince an’ his scum down on ye.”