ide against  the fringe
 riders,  Two  other  herds  had  right-of-way over  Onthar's, so
 the  men  had  to bide  their time  as the  other two  swarms of
 cattle  forded  the  river  ahead  of  them.  The  Kerdu passage
 was a  quarter-mile wide  and more  than half  a mile  across to
 the other bank. The ford's  edges fell  away sharply,  and Osti-
 mar warned Sturm not to stray off the stones.
   "I've seen men and horses drop off the edge and never
 come up," he cautioned. "Nothing  ever found  but their
 goads and bandannas, floating on the water."
   "I'll keep that in mind," Sturm replied.
   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,
 ъorin, was leaving the water.
   "Have a good swim?" ъorin asked, grinning.
   "Not  too  bad,"  Sturm responded  sheepishly. "Lend  me a
 goad, will  you? I've  got to  get back  to my  place." ъorin
 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. "ъorin lent me another."
   "Lost  goad  costs  two  coppers.  I'll  deduct it  from your
 pay."  Onthar  swung  around   and  rode   on  to   speak  with
 ъorin.
   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 ъorin  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. ъorin 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.
     "Not a bad day," said ъorin.
     "Hot," Ostimar pointed out. "Should rain."
     "Some  of  us  don't mind  taking a  swim instead  of work-
  ing," Belingen cracked. Sturm sensed a challenge in his eyes.
    "Some of us ought to get  wet more  often," he  parried. "It
  would help to cut the smell."
    Frijje  stopped  stirring  the  pot.  The herders  looked at
  Sturm intently. Belingen said coldly, "Only a city  fool would
  ride a shod horse across a river ford."
    "True  enough,"  Sturm  countered.   "How  many   times  did
  you  do  it,  Belingen,  before  you  thought  to  remove your
  horse's shoes?" He  saw the  Estwilder close  one hand  into a
  fist. Sturm knew that the only way he  could keep  the respect
  of these rough, simple men  was to  match Belingen  insult for
  insult. If  he showed  any softness,  real or  imagined, they
  would let Belingen treat Sturm any way he liked.
    The  next  thing  Sturm  knew,  Onthar  was  on   his  feet,
  shouting. "Get up! Get  up, you  idiots! ъaiders!  ъaiders are
  after the herd!"
    A  rumble  of   massed  hooves   and  screams   proved  that
  Onthar was telling the truth. "111 get my sword,"  Sturm said,
  running to find Brumbar.
    The  herders  vaulted  onto  their  short ponies  and pulled
  their goads  out of  the ground.  Sturm climbed  heavily onto
  Brumbar.  Drawing  his  sword,  he  spurred  after   his  com-
  rades.
    In the  twilight, he  could see  that the  attackers outnum-
  bered  Onthar  and  his  men  - perhaps  a dozen.  The raiders
  wore  fantastic masks  with glaring,  painted eyes  and horns,
  tusks, and garish frills made of wildly painted  leather. They
  were armed  with sabers  and short  bows. Several  steers were
  already down, lying on their sides with arrows sticking out.
    Onthar charged into the  pack of  yelling thieves.  His goad
  took one raider in the chest, but the slim shaft  snapped. The
  cattle thief toppled off his horse with thirty inches  of goad
  buried in his chest. Onthar  shouted to  ъorin, who  slapped a

 new weapon into his leader's hand.
    Sturm angled to the other  side of  the raider  band. Brum-
 bar burst through the  ranks of  the raiders'  lighter beasts,
 overturning  two  of  them.  Sturm  cut  down   one  bow-armed
 thief  wearing  a  horrible,  leering  mask. Another  took his
 place,  slashing  hard  with  a  crudely  forged  saber. Sturm
 turned  the  thin, curved  blade and  thrust home  through the
 raider's throat. The thief's body fell forward but  was caught
 in the stirrups; the horse galloped away  from the  fight, the
 dead man dragging behind.
    The mounted thieves seemed to be getting  the worst  of it,
 until Sturm realized  that there  were foes  on foot  as well.
 Masked figures stole out of t-he grass and fell on  the arrow-
 shot animals. As the  battle raged  around them,  they swiftly
 skinned and butchered the  steers. The  raiders left  hide and
 carcass, but carried away whole sides of beef. Frijje  cut off
 one pair's escape by spearing one and trampling the  other. It
 was a brutal, nasty fight.
    Sturm felt a sharp blow on  his back.  As he  pivoted Brum-
 bar, he felt a short arrow sticking from his back.  The raider
 who  had  loosed it  was only  a few  yards away.  The popeyed
 face on the leather mask reflected  its wearer's  obvious sur-
 prise  that  Sturm  hadn't  fallen.  The raider  couldn't know
 that Sturm still wore his mail shirt under his riding tunic.
    Sturm flew at the archer.  The raider  turned to  flee, but
 Brumbar's  long  legs  rapidly  outgained  the  thief's short-
 legged  pony.  Some  instinct  for   mercy  made   Sturm  turn
 away  his  sword edge,  and he  brought the  flat of  the tem-
 pered  blade down  on the  raider's head.  The thief  threw up
 his hands and slid sideways off his pony.
    The other raiders were in hot  flight. Onthar's  men chased
 them some way, but quickly returned to guard  the rest  of the
 herd.  Sturm  dismounted  and  dragged  the  unconscious raid-
 er to Brumbar. He threw the  light body  across the  horse and
 led them back to Onthar.
    "Filthy  dirt-eating swine,"  Onthar said,  spitting. "They
 got four. The robbers eat well tonight!"
    "Not all of them," Sturm said. At least four of the raiders
 were dead. "I caught one." The herders clustered around.
 Frijje grabbed the raider by  his characteristic  ponytail and

 jerked his head back. Still out cold. Frijje tore  the painted
 mask away.
   "Haw! It's a girl!" he grunted.
   It was indeed, a girl of maybe fifteen or sixteen  years. Her
 blond  hair  was  greasy and  limp, and  her face  was smeared
 with paint from the mask.
   "Phew!"  said ъorin.  "She stinks!"  Sturm hadn't  noticed -
 the herders themselves were rather pungent.
   "Slit her throat and leave her on the steppe for  the others
 to find," Belingen advised. "They'll learn  not to  steal from
 Onthar's herd."
   "No,"  said  Sturm, interposing  himself between  the uncon-
 scious girl and the others.
   "She's a thief!" Ostimar protested.
   "She's unarmed and unconscious," Sturm insisted.
   "He's right," Onthar said after a moment's reflection.
 "She's worth more to us alive anyway."
   "How so, Onthar?" asked ъorin.
   "Hostage. Keep the others of her band away, maybe."
   "Too  much  trouble,"  Belingen grumbled.  "I say  just kill
 her and be done with it.".
   "It's not  for you  to say,"  Onthar replied.  "Sturm caught
 her, she's his now. He can do whatever he wants with her."
   Sturm flushed slightly  when ъorin  and Frijje  laughed, but
 he said, "I shall follow your advice,  Onthar. We'll  keep her
 as a hostage."
   The  herd  leader  nodded.  "She's  your  problem  then. You
 are  responsible  for  anything  she does.  And what  she eats
 comes out of your pay."
   He'd expected that. "Agreed," said Sturm.
   The  girl  groaned.  ъorin grabbed  her by  the back  of her
 hairy  hide chaps  and dragged  her off  Brumbar. He  held her
 up by the  scruff of  the neck.  The girl  shook her  head and
 opened her eyes.
   "Ma'troya!" she cried,  upon seeing  her captors.  She tried
 to run, but ъorin  held her  feet off  the ground.  She kicked
 him on the shin until  he threw  her to  the ground.  Her hand
 flashed to her waist and  came up  with a  short, double-edged
 knife. Sturm  clamped his  strong hand  over hers  and plucked
 the little skinning knife away. "Ma'troya!" the  girl repeated

 helplessly.
     "What is she saying?" Sturm asked.
     "That's an eastern dialect," Onthar  said. "But  111 wager
 she speaks our tongue. Don't you, girl?" The girl's  dark blue
 eyes flickered with recognition. "Yes, I see you do."
     Sturm lifted  the girl  gently to  her feet.  "What's your
 name?" he said quietly.
     "Tervy."  She  pronounced  this  with  a 'ch'  sound, like
 Tchair-vee.
     "Well, Tervy, you're going to be staying  with the  herd a
 lot longer than you expected."
    "You kill me now!"
    "I don't think so," Sturm said dryly.
    "They want kill me," gasped the girl,  her eyes  darting at
 the herders.
    "Be still," Sturm said. "No one will hurt you if you  do as
 you're told."
    Onthar  dislodged the  arrow from  Sturm's tunic  and hand-
 ed it to the young knight. "A souvenir," he said.
      Tervy regarded the arrow quizzically, then looked up at
 Sturm. "I shoot you, you not bleed, not die. Why so?"
    He pulled up his tunic and showed her the  hip-length shirt
 of  mail  he  wore.  Tervy  had never  seen armor  before. She
 hesitantly put out a dirty hand to touch the metal mesh.
    "Iron skin," she uttered with awe.
    "Yes,  iron  skin.  It  stops arrows  and most  swords. Now
 I've captured you, and you're going  to stay  with me.  If you
 behave, I'll feed and take care of you. If you're wicked, I'll
 hobble you and make you walk behind the cattle."
    "I do as you say, Ironskin."
    Thus  Sturm  acquired a  prisoner, a  hostage, a  servant -
 and  a nickname.  From that  time on,  the herders  called him
 Ironskin.

                       Chapter 38

                   Tervy and Ironskin

    By the time the herders returned from repulsing
 the raiders, dinner was congealed. It was  too dark  to hunt
 for more kindling, so Onthar ordered Frijje to  collect some
 chips from the cattle pit.
 "Faw!"  he  grumbled.  "That's  a dirty  job. I  know! Make
 the girl do it." Onthar deferred to Sturm.
 "I doubt she could get much filthier," Sturm admitted. "I'll
 go with her."
   Tervy  showed no sign   of   displeasure   when   Sturm
 explained what she  was to  do. She  plunged into  the herd,
 shoving aside yearling calves and cows. She filled a bandan-
 na with the few  pats that  were dry  enough, and  came back
 out. Showing them to Sturm, she said, "Enough?"
 "Enough. Take them to Frijje."

   The coals were  stirred and  the fire  blazed up  again. The
 stew was dished  out. Tervy  watched expectantly,  licking her
 lips. Sturm asked for another bowl.
   "There  are none,"  Ostimar said  sullenly. "Not  for raider
 scum."
   Sturm ate only a third of his portion and  gave the  rest to
 Tervy. She ate wolfishly, slapping gobs of thick stew into her
 mouth with her dirty fingers. Even ъorin,  the least  clean of
 the herders, was disgusted.
   When it was time to bed down, Sturm asked, "Should
 someone stay awake, in case the raiders return?"
   "They won't come back," Onthar assured him.
   "Some other band might."
   "Not at night," grunted ъorin, hunkering down on his
 blanket.
   "And why is that?"
   "ъaiders don't move at night," Ostimar explained.
 "Wolves'll get 'em in the dark." He pulled his horsehair blan-
 ket  up  to  his  chin  and slipped  his rolled  bandanna down
 over his eyes.
   Wolves?   The   herdsmen    didn't   seem    worried   about
 wolves.  Sturm  mentioned  as  much  to  Frijje, the  last one
 awake.
   "Onthar has  a charm  against wolves,"  he said.  "He hasn't
 lost a beast to wolves in three years. G'night."
     Soon the circle around the campfire was filled with soft
 snores  and  wheezes.  Sturm watched  Tervy, sitting  with her
 knees tucked under her chin, staring at the dying fire.
   "Do I have to  tie you  up?" he  said to  her. "Or  will you
 behave?"
   "I not  run," Tervy  replied. "Out  there is  tyinsk. Wolves."