d and
  burning in the  road. From  the extent  of the  damage already

 done, the fire must have started hours before.
   Crows  and other  carrion birds  stirred at  his approach.
 Between  two  gutted  wagons,   Sturm  found   bodies.  One,
 thick-waisted and richly dressed, obviously was a successful
 merchant. He had two arrows in his chest.  Beside him  was a
 younger man with the stump of a  broken mace  still clutched
 in his hand.
   A  groan  brought  Sturm  running.  A  few  yards  away, a
 big,  well-muscled  man sat  with his  back against  a scrub
 pine. He was a warrior. His  body bled  from a  dozen wounds
 and arrayed at the warrior's feet were six dead goblins.
   "Water," moaned the fighter. Sturm put  a hand  behind the
 warrior's head and raised  his bottle  to the  man's parched
 lips.
   "What happened here?" asked Sturm.
   "Bandits.  Attacked  wagons.  We  fought  -"  The  big man
 coughed. "Too many."
   Sturm  examined the  fighter's wounds.  He didn't  have to
 be  a healer  to know  the warrior  was doomed,  and because
 the man was a warrior, Sturm told him so.
   "Thank  you," he  said. Sturm  asked if  he could  do any-
 thing  to  make  the  man more  comfortable. "No,  but Pala-
 dine bless you for your mercy."
   Something rustled behind the pine.  Sturm reached  for his
 sword,  then  saw  the broad  brown muzzle  of a  horse poke
 through the branches.  The dying  warrior called  the animal
 by  name.  "Brumbar,"  he  said.  "Good  fellow."  The horse
 pushed  through  the scrub.  He was  an enormous  animal, as
 black as coal. Brumbar dropped his nose  to nuzzle  his mas-
 ter's face.
   "I see that you are a man of arms," rasped the  warrior to
 Sturm. "I  beg you,  take Brumbar  as your  mount when  I am
 dead."
  "I will," Sturm said gently. "Is there anyone in Garnet I
 can tell about your fated?"
   The man slowly closed his eyes. "No one. But do not  go to
 Garnet, if you value your life." His chin fell to his chest.
   "But  why?"  Sturm  asked.  "Why  shouldn't  I  go  to the
 city?"
   "Loosen my breastplate..."

   Sturm undid  the sraps  and pulled  the steel  cuirass aside.
 Beneath  the  armor,  the  man  wore  a quilted  shirt. Embroi-
 dered over his heart was a  small red  rose. Sturm  stared. The
 dying  man  was  a  knight  of  the  Order's highest  rank, the
 Order  of  the  ъose!  Only Solamnic  Knights of  noble lineage
 could enter that exalted brotherhood.
   "The forces that destroyed the  knights control  Garnet," the
 man said.  His breath  came in  ragged gasps.  "I know  you are
 one of us. It would not be safe for you there... assassins... "
   "Who  are  you?  What  is  your  name?"  Sturm  asked franti-
 cally, but the Knight of the ъose would never again speak.
   Sturm  gave  the brave  fighter an  honorable burial.  It was
 well  after  sundown  when  he  finished. He  collected Brumbar
 and  went  through  the  saddlebags  thrown across  the horse's
 rump. There were dried rations in  one bag,  and in  the other,
 surprisingly, were hundreds of  coins, all  of them  small cop-
 per  pieces.  Sturm  understood.  The  dead  knight  was living
 incognito  because  of  the  widespread  hatred  of  the Order.
 He'd  adopted  the  guise  of a  guard for  hire, and  took his
 wages  in  copper. No  one would  ever expect  a Knight  of the
 ъose to live so humbly.
   Sturm  left  the   Garnet  road.   He  chose   another  trail
 through the highlands, one  not frequented  by traders,  or (he
 hoped)  bandits.  Garnet  he passed  in the  night. He  saw the
 glow of its street lamps in the  distance. ъeining  in Brumbar,
 he  listened.  Wind  whirled  around  the  mountain  passes.  A
 wolf gave voice, far away.

                   Chapter 36

                    Solamnia

      His new horse was a steady plodding beast. Brum-
 bar, in Old Dwarvish, meant 'Black Bear.' Black he  was, and
 bearishly stolid. Sturm didn't mind.  The kind  of traveling
 he was doing now was better suited to a steady animal, rath-
 er than some excitable, fragile charger. Brumbar had  a back
 so broad that Sturm imagined he could put his feet up on the
 animal's  nodding  neck  and  take  a  nap.  Festooned  with
 Sturm's pack and other belongings, Brumbar kept  a jingling
 pace all day long.
 The  Lemish  forest  thinned  out  to  a few  spindly pines,
 growing  weakly  amid  the  grassy  undergrowth. It  was hot
 on the plain, and very dry. Sturm began to ration  his water
 when the streams and springs started getting fewer  and far-
 ther between.

   Being off  the road,  he saw  few people.  This southernmost
 finger  of  the  Solamnic  Plain,  thrust  between  the Garnet
 Mountains and the Lemish forest,  was too  dry for  cattle and
 farming.  There  were  no  robbers  here,  either;  there  was
 nothing to steal.
   Alone, Sturm took time to  reflect on  things. Since  he and
 Kitiara  had  left  Solace  so  many weeks  ago, he'd  come to
 realize  that  there  was  danger  on the  horizon everywhere.
 The strange lizardlike  mercenaries he  had heard  called dra-
 conians  had  been  seen  in  port  cities. Caches  of weapons
 being  moved about.  Large numbers  of brigands  infesting the
 roads  of  the northern  countries. Dark  magic at  work. Gob-
 lins  led   by  a   human  magician.   What  was   the  common
 thread in all this? he wondered.
   War. Invasion. Evil magic.
   Sturm  gave  Brumbar  a  kick,  and  the big  horse shuffled
 into  a  trot.  A  welter  of  vague impressions  and shrouded
 memories  surfaced  in  his  mind.  The  visions  he'd  had on
 Lunitari  were  lost  to him  in detail,  but shadows  of them
 remained, dimly. The strongest  of these  was that  his father
 was  alive  somewhere.  There  was  something  about  the  old
 castle, too, and death  that was  somehow linked  to lingering
 impressions of Kitiara's.
   Oh, Kit. Where are you now?
   The  day's  shimmering heat  built towers  of black  clouds in
 the  sky.  Lightning  danced  far away,  and peals  of thunder
 crossed the grassland long after the flashes of lightning were
 gone.  The  smell  of  rain pulled  Brumbar toward  the storm,
 and Sturm let him go. He was thirsty, too.
   The  storm seemed  to retreat  from them  even as  they rode
 to  meet  it.  Brumbar splashed  through gullies  running fast
 with rainwater, The air was wet, oppressive,  yet the  edge of
 the  rain  receded  from   Sturm's  approach.   The  lightning
 played about a stand of pines to the  east. Sturm  reined away
 from  the  dangerous  display,  but  Brumbar had  other ideas.
 Puffing  hard  through  his  dry  throat,  the   horse  headed
 straight for the trees.
   Light, steamy drops of rain began to hit them. Brumbar
 cantered heavily through the widely spaced trees. The rain
 fell harder. Ahead, Sturm saw  a dark  shape flit  between the

 pines. He blotted water from his eyes and looked again.
   A  rider in  a flowing  cape was  weaving among  the trees.
 Now and then, the pale oval of a  face turned  back, as  if the
 rider were peering  over his  shoulder at  Sturm. He  seemed to
 have a long mustache much like Sturm's own.
    Brumbar  slowed  by a  shallow pool  of water,  but Sturm
 spurred him on;  he was  curious about  the other  rider and
 wanted to catch up to him.
    "Hello!" called Sturm. "Could I talk to you?"
    A  bolt  from the  churning sky  struck the  ground a  score of
 yards away, leaving a smoking  crater in  the grass.  The rider
 didn't  respond  to  Sturm's  call,  but  continued   to  weave
 around the pines. Sturm  slapped the  reins across  his horse's
 neck,  and  Brumbar  launched  into  a  jarring   gallop.  They
 were closing on the stranger.
    The rider's  dark hair  was slicked  down by  the driving
 rain.  He did  indeed have  a long  mustache, symbol  of the
 Knights of Solamnia.
    The stranger's horse was light and agile,  but it  must have
 been  running  hard  too  long.  Brumbar  closed  rapidly. Only
 the  passing  of  a tree  between them  kept Sturm  from reach-
 ing out to grab the other man's lashing cape.
    "Wait!" Sturm shouted. "Stop, I want to talk to you!"
    The stranger's horse went hard to the left, circling around
 Sturm.  The  man  drew  up  and  stopped  thirty   yards  away.
 Brumbar  shuddered  to  a  halt.  The wind  was up  and blowing
 rain  into Sturm's  face, so  he turned  his horse  around. The
 stranger was waiting for him.
    "I didn't mean to chase you," Sturm called out, "but -"
    He  never heard  the stroke  of lightning  that hit  the ground
 between  him  and  the  stranger. Nor  did he  feel it.  In one
 instant, he was talking and in the  next, he  was lying  on the
 muddy  grass  with  rain pattering  on his  face. His  arms and
 legs were leaden and weak.
    A  dark  form  loomed  over  him.  For  a  second,   he  was
 afraid. Lying there, helpless, Sturm was easy prey for  a thief
 or assassin.
    The stranger, still horsed, towered over him. Against the
 gray sky, with the rain in his eyes, all Sturm could see of him
 was  dark  hair,  high  forehead  and  drooping  mustache.  The

 cape  was  close  about  the man's  shoulders, which  were wide
 and powerful.
   The stranger sat  in the  saddle, looking  down at  Sturm and
 saying nothing. Sturm managed to gasp, "Who are you?"
   The  man  parted  the  cape,  revealing the  hilt of  a large
 sword.  Sturm  made  out  the  shape  of  the  pommel  and some
 of the filigree work. With a  start, he  realized that  he knew
 that sword. It was his father's.
   "Beware  of  Merinsaard," said  the man,  in a  voice Sturm
 didn't recognize.
   With  tremendous  effort,  Sturm  got  to  his   knees.  "Who
 are  you?"  He  reached  out  a  muddy  hand  to  the stranger.
 Where he should have  touched the  leg of  the man's  horse, he
 met  nothing.  Horse  and  rider  vanished,  silently  and com-
 pletely.
   Sturm  staggered  to  his  feet. The  rain was  over. Already
 the  sun  was  poking  through  the  tattered  clouds.  Brumbar
 was  several  yards  away,  drinking from  a puddle.  Nearby, a
 pine tree had been blasted to smoking splinters by lightning.
   Sturm  put  his  face  in  his  hands.  Had  he seen  what he
 thought  he'd  seen?  Who  was  the  phantom  rider?  And  what
 was Merinsaard? A person, a place?
   Wearily  he   mounted  Brumbar.   The  big   horse  shifted
 under  Sturm's  weight,  and  his  broad hooves  squelched in
 the  mud.  Sturm  looked  around.  There  were no  other hoof
 prints in sight besides Brumbar's.

                             * * * * *

   Though  described  as a  plain, the  country of  Solamnia was
 not perfectly flat,  as were,  say, the  Plains of  Dust. There
 were ridges and  gullies, dry  creek beds  and small  stands of
 trees that grew like islands in the midst of the  grassy steppe
 land. Sturm rode north at an easy pace,  eating wild  pears off
 the trees and filling his water bottle from the herders' wells.
   He  soon  found  himself  moving  among  small herds  of cat-
 tle,  tended   and  guarded   by  hard-looking   peasants  with
 mauls  and  bows.  They  watched  him  closely  as he  rode by.
 ъaiders  were  common,  and in  their eyes  he might  have been
 a scout for a  larger band  of rustlers.  Also, Sturm  wore the

  mustache  and  horned  helmet  of  a  Solamnic  Knight  - items
  not  calculated  to  make  him  popular  among  the  people who
  had  overthrown  the   Order.  Sturm   didn't  care.   He  rode
  proudly,  sword  turned  out  to  show  that  he was  ready for
  trouble. At night, he took special care with polishing his hel-
  met, boots, and sword, to make them shine.
    He decided to avoid the  city of  Solanthus. After  the over-
  throw, Solanthus had proclaimed  itself a  free city,  not sub-
  ordinate  to  anyone  but  its  own  Guildmasters.   Sturm  had
  heard  of  several  knights,  friends  and  compatriots  of his
  father,  who  had  been  imprisoned  and  executed   in  Solan-
  thus. While he  was willing  to proclaim  his heritage  in open
  country, he saw no reason  to walk  into the  city and  put his
  head into a noose.
         The country beyond Solanthus sloped gently down to the
  Vingaard  ъiver.  It  was  rich  land. The  clods turned  up by
  Brumbar's iron-shod hooves were black and fertile.
    The herds were thicker  the closer  to the  river he  got. He
  spent  an  entire day  guiding Brumbar  through ranks  of rusty
  brown  cows  and calves.  The heat  and dust  were so  bad that
  he  traded  his  helmet  for  a cloth  bandanna, like  the herd
  riders wore.
    The  herds  converged  on  the Ford  of Kerdu,  an artificial
  shallows  created  centuries  before  by  the  Solamnic Knights
  (another  benefit   that  the   common  folk   had  forgotten).
  Thousands  of  small  stones  were  dumped  into  the  Vingaard
  ъiver  to make  a fording  place. As  the river  slowly scoured
  the stones away,  each new  generation on  the river  banks had
  to renew the ford with its own gathering of  stones. A  sort of
  winter  festival  had  developed  around  the   collecting  and
  dumping of rocks in the river.
    It soon became too  congested for  Sturm to  ride, so  he got
  off  Brumbar  and led  the horse  by his  bridle. Here,  by the
  river,  the day's  heat rapidly  dispersed after  sunset. Sturm
  walked  down  to  the  river  bank  where  a  hundred campfires
  blazed. The herders were settling for the night.
    A   half-dozen   sun-browned   faces   turned  up   as  Sturm
  approached  the  nearest  camp.He  raised  his  palm  and said,
  "My hands are open," the traditional herders' greeting.
    "Sit," said the herd leader, identified  by the  carved steer

  horn  that  he  wore  on a  thong around  his neck,  Sturm tied
  Brumbar to a small tree and joined the men.
     "Sturm," he said, sitting.
     "Onthar," said the  leader. He  pointed to  the other  men in
  turn.  "ъorin,  Frijje,  Ostimar,  and Belingen."  Sturm nodded
  to each one.
     "Share  the  pot?"  said  Onthar. A  black kettle  hung over
  the  fire. Each  man  had  to provide  some ingredient  in order
  to  share  the  common  meal.  Herder's  stew  -  an expression
  known  throughout  Krynn  as  meaning a little  bit  of  every-
  thing.'
    Sturm lifted the flap of  his pack  and saw  the last  of his
  provisions: an inch-thick slab of salt  pork, two  carrots, and
  a stoppered gourd half full of  rye flour.  He squatted  by the
  kettle, took out his knife, and started slicing the meat.
     "Been a good season?" he asked politely.
     "Dry," said Onthar. "Too dry.  Fodder on  the lower  plain is
  blowing away."
     "No  sickness,  though,"  observed  Frijje,  whose  straw-
  colored hair hung in two long braids. "We  haven't lost  a sin-
  gle calf to screwfoot or blue blister."
      Shoving wispy red hair from his eyes, ъorin said, "Lot of
  raiders."  He  whetted a  wicked-looking axe  on a  smooth gray
  stone. "Men and goblins together, in the same gang."
     "I've  seen  that,  too,"  Sturm  said. "Farther  south in
  Caergoth and Garnet."
     Onthar regarded him with one thin brown eyebrow
  raised. "You're not from around here, are you?"
     Sturm finished the salt  pork and  started slicing  the car-
  rots. "I was born in Solamnia, but grew up in Solace."
    "ъaise a lot of pigs down there, I hear," Ostimar said. His
  voice  was  deep  and  resonant,  seemingly  at  odds  with his
  small height and skinny body.
     "Yes, quite a lot."
     "Where you headed, Sturm?" asked Onthar.
     "North."
     "Looking for work?"
     He stopped cutting. Why not? "If I can get some," he said.
     "Ever drive cattle before?"
     "No. But I can ride."

    Ostimar   and   Belingen   snorted   derisively,   but  Onthar
  said,  "We  lost  a  man to  goblin raiders  two weeks  ago, and
  that left us with a hole in our drag line. All you have to do is
  keep  the  beasts  going  ahead. Well  be crossing  the Vingaard
  tomorrow, heading for the keep."
    "The  keep?  But  it's  been  deserted  for years,"  Sturm said.
    "Buyer there."
    "Sounds fine. What's the pay?"
    "Four coppers a day, payable when you leave us."
    Sturm knew he was supposed to haggle, so he said, "I
  couldn't do it for less than eight coppers a day."
    "Eight!" exclaimed Frijje. "And him a show rider!"
    "Five might be possible," said Onthar.
    Sturm shook the gourd to break up the lumps of flour.
  "Six?"
    Onthar  grinned, showing  several missing  teeth. "Six  it is.
  Not  too  much  flour  now  -  we're  cooking  stew,  not baking
  bread."  Sturm stirred  in a  handful of  gray rye  flour. ъorin
  gave  him  a  copper   bowl  and   spoon.  The   stew was dished
  up, and the  men  ate quickly  and silently.  Then they  passed a
  skin  around. Sturm  took a  swig. He  almost choked;  the bag
  held  a  potent,  fermented  cider.  He  swallowed   and  passed
  the skin on.
    "Who's buying  cattle at  the keep?"  he said,  after everyone
  had eaten and drunk.
    "Don't  know,"   Onthar  admitted.   "Men  have   been  coming
  back  from  Vingaard  Keep for  weeks with  tales of  gold, say-
  ing there is a buyer up there paying top  coin for  good beasts.
  So the keep is where we're going."
    The  fire  died  down. Frijje  produced a  hand-whittled flute
  and  began  to blow  lonely, lilting  notes. The  herders curled
  up  on their  single blankets  and went  to sleep.  Sturm unsad-
  dled Brumbar  and curried  him. He  led the  horse to  the river
  for  a  drink and  returned him  to the  sapling. That  done, he
  made a bed with his blanket and the saddle.
    The  sky  was clear.  The silver  moon was  low in  the south,
  while  Lunitari  was  climbing  toward  its zenith.  Sturm gazed
  at the distant red globe.
    Had  he really  trod its  crimson soil?  Had he  really fought
  tree-men, seen  (and ridden)  giant ants,  and freed  a chatter-



 box dragon from  an obelisk  of red  marble? Here,  on Krynn,
 among  the  simple,  direct  herdsmen,  such   memories  were
 like a mad  dream, fevered  images now  banished by  the more
 practical concerns of Sturm's life.
   The young  knight slept,  and dreamed  that he  was gallop-
 ing  through  Solace, pursuing  a caped  man who  carried his
 father's sword. He never gained on the stranger.  The vallen-
 wood trees were bathed in a  red glow,  and all  around Sturm
 felt the cold air echo with the sound of a woman's laughter.

                      Chapter 37

                  The Ford of Kerdu

      Sturm was roughly shaken awake before the sun
 was up. All  along the  river's south  bank the  herders were
 stirring, packing their meager  possessions on  their horses,
 and  preparing  for  another  day's move.  Sturm had  no time
 for anything other than a brief cup  of water.  Frijje thrust
 some jerky in his hand and told him to mount up.
    Belingen galloped to him and  tossed  him a  light wooden
 pole  with  a  bronze  leaf-shaped  head.  This was  his herd
 goad.  When  the  cows  were  balky  or  wanted to  wander in
 the wrong direction, he was to  poke them  with the  goad to
 set them straight.
 "And woe to you if you cut the hide," Belingen said.
 "Onthar prides himself on his herd not being scarred." With
 an arrogant toss of his head, Belingen spurred his horse back

 to the front of the herd.
   The  cattle,  more  than  nine hundred  head, sensed  the rise
 in  activity and  surged from  side to  s