This time, though, Darry answered, “Is it true we’ve got to skedaddle out of Rising Rock? Don’t want to believe it, but it’s what people say.”

“They say it on account of it’s true, and may the gods fry Thraxton the Braggart for making it true,” Ned answered. His serfs already knew what he thought of his commander. They chuckled and nudged one another, vastly amused to hear one dark-haired lord pour scorn on another.

A sly blond named Arris asked, “How will we keep Franklin if we can’t stay in Rising Rock?”

“That’s a good question,” Ned answered. “Drop me in the seven hells if I know. Drop Thraxton in the seven hells if he knows, either. And drop him past the seven hells if the thought ever got into his tiny little mind before he let Guildenstern flank him out of this place.” That set the serfs nudging and chuckling again.

Arris asked, “But how will we get our farms, boss, if those gods-hated southrons keep pushing us back?”

In the days when the war was young-days that seemed a thousand years gone now-Ned had promised to take the bonds from all the serfs who served him through the fighting, and to set them up as yeomen with land of their own. Free blond farmers weren’t common in the northern provinces of Detina, but they weren’t unknown, either, especially in the wild northeast from which Ned himself had sprung.

Now he shrugged. “One way or another, boys, you’ll get yourselves farms. If I can’t give ’em to you, you’ll have ’em from the southrons. King Avram says so, doesn’t he? And if King Avram says something, it must be so, isn’t that right?”

Just as the serfs might have mobbed him and fled, they might have said yes to that and put their hope in the southron king rather than in Ned. But they didn’t. They cursed Avram as fiercely as any other northern man in indigo pantaloons might have done. Ned laughed to hear them, laughed and ruffled their yellow hair and punched them in the shoulder, as a man will do among other men he likes well.

“If you people haven’t given up on King Geoffrey, I don’t reckon I can, either,” Ned said. He nodded to Darry. “Saddle me a unicorn. I’m going to ride out and see exactly where the southrons are at.” He tossed his head in fine contempt. “It’s not like anybody’ll know unless I go out and see for myself, I’ll tell you that for a fact. Thraxton’s the best stinking wizard in the world, right up to the time somebody really needs his magic. Then he flunks.”

“Yes, Lord Ned,” Darry said. “I’ll get you a beast.” As Ned ducked into his pavilion, Darry and the other serfs spoke in low voices full of awe. Ned chuckled to himself. The blonds, back in the days before the Detinans came from overseas, had worshiped a pack of milksop godlets that couldn’t hold night demons at bay. They still walked in fear after the sun went down. Ned, now, Ned feared no night demons. With the Lion God and the Thunderer and the Hunt Lady and all the rest on his side, any demon that tried clamping its jaws on him would find it had made a bad mistake.

Outside the pavilion, one of the serfs said, “Ned, he could go up against a night demon without any gods behind him, and he’d still rip its guts out.”

“Of course he would,” another serf answered. “He’s Ned.”

Ned grinned as he tested the edge of his saber with his thumb. The blade would do. And he wasn’t so sure the blonds were wrong, either. Fortunately, he didn’t have to find out. He knew the strong gods, and they knew him.

When he went out again, the unicorn awaited him. He would have been astonished had it been otherwise. Handing him the reins, Darry said, “You make sure you come back safe now, boss.” Real anxiety filled his voice. If Ned didn’t come back safe, how many northern officers were likely to honor his pledges to the men who served him? Would Count Thraxton, for instance? Ned laughed at the idea, though Darry wouldn’t have found it funny.

None of Ned’s pickets challenged him when he rode east toward the enemy. None of them knew he’d gone by. He didn’t think of himself as a mage. Soldiers who did think of themselves so usually made him bristle-Thraxton sprang to mind. But he was Ned of the Forest. However he got it, he had a knack for pulling shadow and quiet around himself like a mask. Few could penetrate it unless he chose to let them.

Owls hooted. Somewhere off toward Sentry Peak, a wildcat yowled. Mosquitoes buzzed and bit. Ned slapped and cursed. He might cloak himself from the minds of men. Mosquitoes had no minds, not to speak of. They didn’t care who he was. They probably bit Thraxton with just as much abandon. Or maybe not, Ned thought scornfully. Why should they like sour wine any more than people do? That made him want to laugh and curse at the same time.

The moon, low in the east, came out from behind a pale, puffy cloud and spilled ghostly light over the fields. Forests remained black and impenetrable, even close by the road. Maybe night demons really did den in them. If so, none came forth to try conclusions with Ned. Confident in his own strength, he rode on.

Ahead in the distance, lights twinkled like fireflies: the campfires of Guildenstern’s army, King Avram’s army, the army of invaders. “Why can’t they just leave us alone?” Ned muttered under his breath. “We weren’t doing them any harm. We weren’t about to do them any harm.”

But the southrons were pushing close to Rising Rock, close to driving King Geoffrey’s men out of Franklin altogether. To force them back, to make sure Geoffrey’s kingdom stayed a kingdom, someone would have to strike them a blow. Ned of the Forest shook his head in frustrated fury. Count Thraxton wasn’t going to do it. Count Thraxton was going to tuck his tail between his legs and skedaddle up into Peachtree Province.

“And he’s a great general? He’s a great mage?” Ned of the Forest shook his head again, this time dismissing the idea out of hand. Thraxton bragged a fine brag, but the proof of those lay in living up to them. Had Thraxton done that even once, the southrons could never have come so far.

Ned rode through open woods toward the campfires. The fires lay even closer to Rising Rock than he’d thought they would. He shook his fist at them. He’d grown rich and important hunting down runaway serfs and hauling them back to their liege lords. If Avram broke the feudal bonds that held serfs to their lords’ estates, how would he stay rich? He would he stay important? He saw no way-and so he fought.

He was musing thus-dark thoughts in dark night-when a sudden sharp challenge rang out from ahead: “Halt! Who comes?”

“A friend,” Ned answered, reining in in surprise. He usually came and went as he chose, with no one the wiser. Maybe his dark mood had let his protection falter-or maybe the nervous sentry had a mage close by. Putting an officer’s snap in his voice, Ned asked, “What regiment is this?”

“Twenty-seventh, of the third division.” That came at once, followed a couple of heartbeats later by a grudging, “Sir.”

It told Ned what he needed to know. The southrons, merchants and bookkeepers in their very souls, numbered their regiments. King Geoffrey’s were known by their commanders’ names. The “friend” ahead was an enemy. Ned said, “I am going to ride on down a little ways and find a better crossing for the stream ahead.”

He steered his unicorn into deeper shadows, and then away. The southron sentry didn’t shoot. As Ned headed back to his own encampment, he cursed under his breath. He’d found out what he needed to know, but he didn’t much care for it.