He smiled at her. "How old are you, Tervy?"
   "Say?"
   "How many years have you lived?"
   She looked back over her shoulder, her brow furrowed
 with incomprehension.  "How long  ago were  you born?"
 Sturm said.
   "Baby doesn't know when born." Maybe her people were
 too primitive to count the years. Or perhaps it wasn't
 important;  probably  few  of them  survived to  middle years.

  "Do you have a family? Mother? Brothers and sisters?"
  "Only  uncle.  He  dead, out  there. You  cut, here  to here,"
 she said, running a finger across her throat. He felt a twinge
 of shame.
   "I'm  sorry,"  Sturm  said regretfully.  "I didn't  know." She
 shrugged indifferently.
 He kicked  his bedroll  so that  it opened  feet to  the fire.
 Sturm  lay  down. "Don't  worry, Tervy;  I'll look  after you.
 You're my responsibility." But for how long? he wondered.
   "Ironskin keep Tervy. Tervy not run away."
 Sturm  pillowed  his  head  on  his  arm  and  dropped  off to
 sleep. Hours later, the sharp howl of a  wolf roused  him from
 slumber. He tried to sit up but found that  a weight  held him
 down.  It  was  Tervy.  She  had crawled  atop Sturm  and gone
 to sleep, her arms draped over him.
 Sturm eased the girl to  one side.  She fought  sleepily, say-
 ing, "If charm fail, wolves come,  have to  get me  before get
 you. Protection."
 Smiling, he  ordered her  in hushed  tones to  do as  he said.
  "I can protect myself," he assured her. Tervy  curled up  on a
 narrow strip of his blanket and returned to sleep.

                          * * * * *

   Tervy  spent  half  the   morning  trotting   alongside  Sturm
 and Brumbar. He had offered to let her ride, but  she insisted
 on  keeping  pace on  foot. However,  as the  northern plain's
 summer  sun  took  its  toll,  Tervy  relented  and  hopped on
 Brumbar's rump, behind Sturm.
 "This the biggest horse in the world!" she declared.
 He  laughed.  "No,  not  very  likely." Her  conclusion wasn't
 difficult  to  understand, considering  that Brumbar  was half
 again as tall and twice as heavy as the average plains pony.
 At  midday,  the  herd  caught  wind  of  Brantha's  Pond. The
 pond  had  been  built  by  Brantha  of Kallimar,  yet another
 Solamnic  Knight,  150  years  before. The  pool was  two hun-
 dred  yards  across, a  perfect circle  whose shore  was paved
 with blocks of granite from the Vingaard Mountains.
 The  thirsty  cattle  quickened  their  pace. The  herders had
 to concentrate at the head  of the  moving mass  to discourage

 the  animals  from  breaking  into  a  dangerous  stampede. At
 first, Sturm was mystified by their  haste, but  Tervy sniffed
 the  air  and  informed  him  that she,  too, could  smell the
 water.
    Within  an  hour,  the silver-blue  disk of  Brantha's Pond
 came into view. Another  herd, far  larger than  Onthar's, was
 being  driven  away.  Horses, wagons,  carts, and  their occu-
 pants clustered around the pond's edge.
    Sturm's   own   interest   quickened,  stimulated   by  the
 impending  contact   with  new   people.  The   herdsmen  were
 good fellows (well, there was Belingen),  but they  were taci-
 turn  and  rather  dull  in  conversation. Sturm  had actually
 begun to miss the distracting talk of the gnomes.
 The   travelers   abandoned   the   pond's   edge   when  they
 heard the  massed mooing  of Onthar's  herd. The  cattle broke
 ranks and lined the  shore, burying  their peeling  pink noses
 in  the  green  water.  Sturm pulled  Brumbar up  short. Tervy
 threw a leg over  and dropped  off. She  ran toward  the pond.
 "Hey!  What  are   you  doing?"   Sturm  called.   Before  his
 eyes, the girl stripped off her collection of skins and vaulted
 onto the back  of  a  drinking  cow.  She  stood  up   and  walked
 across the hind ends of two more beasts,  then dived  into the
 water. Sturm urged   Brumbar   down   to  the   granite  paving.
 The girl swam in  short, quick  strokes to  the center  of the
 pond  and  disappeared.  Sturm  watched  the   green  surface.
 No  bubbles.  No  turbulence  other than  that created  by the
 drinking cattle. Then  Tervy burst  out of  the water  not ten
 feet  from  Sturm,  scattering  the  cows  who  were  drinking
 there.
   "Give hand," she  said, and  Sturm leaned  down to  pull her
 out of the water. "I not stink now, hey?"
   "Not as much,"  he admitted.  He handed  her clothes  to her
 and tried not  to let  his embarrassment  show. "Did  you jump
 in because we said you smelled?"
   "I  not  care  what  they  speak,"  Tervy said,  tossing her
 shoulder  at  Onthar  and  his  men. "I  not want  Ironskin to
 smell me bad."
   He was touched by her gesture. Sturm turned Brumbar
 around and rode out of the congested pond bank. He teth-
 ered  his  horse  with  Onthar's  ponies  and saw  the herders

 squatted   on   the   ground,   eating  whatever   they  could
 scrounge  from  their  rucksacks. Tervy  was hungry,  too. She
 snitched a flake of jerky from Belingen's  bag. He  caught her
 at it, and boxed her  ears. She  promptly put  a thumb  in his
 eye. Belingen  howled with  rage and  groped for  his skinning
 knife.
   "Put it away,"  said Sturm.  Belingen found  himself staring
 up thirty-four inches of polished steel.
   "That raider wench nearly put my eye out!" he snarled.
   "You  punched  her pretty  good. That  should satisfy  you -
 or are you fighting with girls now?"
     Sturm decided to take the girl to the caravan wagons and
   see what he could buy to eat. Tervy's ponytail dripped water
       down her back as she eagerly trotted along beside him.
   "Ironskin  will  truly  buy  food  with money?"  she said,
 incredulous.
   "Of course. I don't steal," Sturm said.
   "You have much money?"
   "Not so much," he said. "I'm not rich."
   "That I figure. ъich  man always  steal," Tervy  said. Sturm
 had to  smile at  the blunt  wisdom of  her statement.  He was
 smiling a lot lately, he suddenly realized.
   Sturm  found  an  Abanasinian  group  that   was  journeying
 to Palanthas.  Besides the  hired driver,  there was  a merce-
 nary,  a  woman  soothsayer,  and  an  elderly tanner  and his
 apprentice. Sturm swapped stories  of Solace  with them  for a
 while, then came  away with  slices of  dried apple  beaded on
 a string, some pressed  raisins, and  a whole  smoked chicken.
 For  the  fine  victuals, he  dipped into  the purse  that the
 Knight  of the  ъose had  given him  and paid  twenty coppers,
 well more than his total wages as a herdsman.
   Tervy  danced  around  him,  fairly bursting  to get  at the
 food. The apples didn't  interest her,  but she  devoured most
 of  the  chicken,  down  to  some  of  the small  bones. Sturm
 untied the cheesecloth bundle that held the raisins.
       "What that?" Tervy said, chicken grease smeared across
 her face.
   "ъaisins," Sturm said. "Dried grapes. Try some."
   She  grabbed  a  handful  and stuffed  them into  her mouth.
 "Umm, sweet." Spilling  raisins all  around, she  finished the

 first  handful  and  reached  for  another. Sturm  swatted her
 hand.
   "You eat all those " she said, wide-eyed.
   "No," he said. "You can eat them if you do it in a civilized
 manner. Like this."  He picked  up four  raisins, put  them in
 the palm of his left hand, and ate  them one  by one  with his
 right.  Open-mouthed  with  curiosity,  Tervy  duplicated  his
 artions precisely, except when it came to getting  the raisins
 from her hand to her mouth one at a time.
   "Too slow!" she declared, and crammed them all in at
 once. Sturm pulled her wrist down.
   "People  will  stop  treating  you  like  a savage  when you
 stop acting like one," he said. "Now  do it  the way  I showed
 you." This time she did it just right.
   'You eat like this all time " asked Tervy.
   "I do," said Sturm.
   "Ah,"  she  exclaimed  knowingly.   "You  big   man.  Nobody
 steal your food. I little, eat fast so nobody steal my food."
   "No  one's  going  to  take  food away  from you  here. Take
 your time and enjoy it."  When they  had finished  their meal,
 they  strolled  back  to  the  herders'  camp. Tervy  gazed at
 Sturm with a mixture of awe and amusement.
   Onthar  announced  that  it  would take  only two  more days
 to  reach  Vingaard  Keep.  Once  the  cattle were  sold, each
 man would  be paid  his wages  and could  sign on  for another
 drive, if he so desired.
   Sturm was the only one  to decline.  "I have  other business
 in the north," he stated. Frijje asked him what.  "I'm looking
 for my father."
   "Oh  What's his name " asked Onthar.
   "Angriff  Brightblade."  None  of  the herders  responded to
 this  disclosure. However,  behind Sturm,  Belingen stiffened.
 His  mouth dropped  open to  speak, but  he closed  it without
 saying a word.
   "Well, I hope  you find  him," Onthar  said. "You're  a fair
 hand  with  cattle and  good with  that sword.  These others,
 they don't know a sword from a sharpened stick.
      "Thank you, Onthar," Sturm said. "Traveling compan-
 ions help shorten the journey."
   Frijje played his pipe a while. Tervy, who had been sitting

  by  Sturm's  side,  arms  wrapped  around  her shins,  was won-
  derstruck  by  the  funny  noises that  the young  herdsman was
  making. Seeing her interest, Frijje handed her the  flute. Ter-
  vy blew in the end as Frijje had  done, but  could only  make a
  faint, unmusical rasp. She flung the pipe back to Frijje.
    "Magic," she stated flatly.
    "No, my  girl. It's  all skill."  He dusted  the dirt  from the
  mouthpiece and trilled a fast scale.
    "You move fingers like a cleverman," she pointed out.
    "Believe  what  you  want."  Frijje  lay  back  and  played a
  slow  ballad.  Sturm  put  his head  down, but  Tervy continued
  to watch Frijje as long as he played.
     In  the  days  that  followed,  Tervy's command  of language
  increased  dramatically.  She  told Sturm  that among  her peo-
  ple  no  one spoke  without leave  from the  head man,  so that
  by habit they all spoke  in clipped,  short sentences.  She had
  learned  the  Common  tongue in  order to  be a  scout. Tervy's
  raider  band  had  stalked  Onthar's herd  for more  than eight
  hours before striking.
    "We didn't know you had a sword," she said.  "If we
  know - if we had known, we'd have used another plan."
    "Such as?"
    She grinned. "Would've jumped you first."
    These  conversations  took  place  while  Sturm   worked  the
  herd  and  Tervy rode  behind him.  The resilient  Tervy wasn't
  the least bit worn from riding the hard pillion all day. And in
  the  evening,  when  the  communal  stew  pot  came   out,  she
  earned  her  portion  of  Sturm's meal  by cleaning  and oiling
  his boots, his sword, and sword belt.
    "You've picked up a  squire," Belingen  said, as  Tervy dili-
  gently buffed Sturm's boots with a piece of sheepskin.
    "Um,  and in  a year  or two  she'll be  a fine  companion on
  cold nights," Ostimar added with a wicked grin.
    "Why  wait  so  long?"  ъorin  said.  The   herders  laughed
  roughly.
    "What do they mean?" Tervy asked.
    "Never  mind,"  Sturm  said.  For  all  her  toughness, Tervy
  was  completely  innocent,  and  Sturm  saw  no reason  for her
  to change.

                        Chapter 39

                        The Trader
                     at Vingaard Keep

   The  squat   fortifications   of   Vingaard    Keep   loomed
 over the low-lying plain with a presence  that far  exceeded its
 modest  height.  Onthar  led  the  herd  up  out of  a flood-cut
 gully  and  the  keep  stood  out like  a mountain  peak, though
 they were still miles away.  Sturm was  near the  front position
 then, and the sight of the ancient knightly fortress  filled him
 with  excitement  and  longing.  From  Vingaard,  Castle Bright-
 blade was only a day's ride.
       "Why do people build such places?" Tervy asked from
 behind him.
  "A keep is a stronghold, to live in and defend against
 attacks," Sturm said.
  "Lived in by other ironskins."

  "Yes, and their families."
  "Ironskins have families?"
  "Well,  of  course,  where  do  you  think little  ironski -
 knights come from?" he asked, amused.
  A  haze  hung over  the old  keep, which  was little  more than
 a  ruin  these   days.  After   the  Cataclysm,   marauders  had
 burned the keep. The  walls still  stood, but  the tower  was an
 empty shell.
  Closer  in,  the  haze  proved  to  be  dust  and   smoke  from
 tramping  feet  and  campfires.  A  sizable  body of  troops was
 encamped  around  the  outer  wall.   No  banners   flew.  Sturm
 could  not  tell  whose  troops  they  were, but  their presence
 explained  the  need  for  large  numbers  of  cattle.  Such  an
 army needed huge amounts of food.
  ъiders  slipped  in  on  both  sides,  observing  the  oncoming
 herd.  Sturm  scrutinized  them  in  return.  Their   armor  was
 plain,  undistinguished  as to  origin or  age. The  cavalry men
 wore barred  visors on  their helmets  and carried  long lances.
 Their  proportions  appeared  human,  but  they  kept to  such a
 distance that it was impossible to be sure.
      Tervy was intrigued. "More ironskins," she breathed.
  Sturm  corrected  her. "Not  all men  in armor  are knights,"
 he  said.  "You  be  very  careful  around  them.  They  may  be
 evil." He felt her thin arms tighten a little around  his waist.
 Whatever her failings in education, Tervy knew evil.
  The  keep  grew  larger  as the  day wore  on, and  the outrid-
 ers  thickened  on  the  herd's flanks.  Sturm rode  past Onthar
 while  making  his  circuit.   "What  do   you  make   of  those
 men?" asked Sturm.
  "Cavalry,"  Onthar  said.  He  chewed  a  long blade  of grass.
 "Glad  to  see 'em.  Won't be  any raiders  about with  them out
 there."
  Onthar  halted  at  midday  for  a  word  with  his men.  "I do
 the  talking,  and  I  do  the  dealing. Any  man speaks  out of
 turn at a parley like this loses his head. I don't know if these
 are  mercenaries,  or  some  warlord's  new  army,  but  I don't
 want  any  trouble.  So  keep  your   mouths  closed   and  your
 hands empty."
  Half  a  mile  from  the  keep, a  column of  horsemen galloped
 out to meet the herd. Sturm was on  the right  edge of  the for-

  mation  then,  and  he  saw  the  men   ride  out.   Onthar  met
  them, and the cattle milled to a stop and  fell to  cropping the
  grass.
     Sturm couldn't hear what was being said, but Tervy
  mumbled something. He said, "What did you say?"
    "I'm catching their words," she replied.
    "You're what?"
    "Catching  their  words.  If  you  watch  their  mouths  move,
  you  can  catch the  words they  speak, even  if you're  too far
  away to hear them."
    Sturm turned sharply to her. 'You're jesting with me!"
    "Cut my heart out if I lie, Ironskin. The man, Onthar,
  said  he  has  brought  his  animals  because  he heard  a great
  lord was buying cattle for  top coin.  And the  man in  the iron
  hat said, yes, they can use all the fresh meat they can get."
    "Can you really tell what they are saying?"
    "I can, if you let me look." Sturm  wheeled Brumbar
  around so that Tervy had the best view of the parley.
    "Onthar  says  he will  bargain with  the great  lord himself,
  no one else. Iron Hat says, 'I speak for the great lord in small
  things.' 'Listen to me,' Onthar says,  'my herd  is not  a small
  thing. Either the great lord speaks to me, or  I will  drive the
  cattle  over  the  mountains  to  Palanthas,  where  beef always
  commands a high price.' Iron Hat is angry, but he says,  'I will
  go and speak to the great lord; wait and I will return  with his
  tidings."' She smiled at Sturm. "How was that?"
    The cavalry officer  did in  fact bring  his horse  around and
  gallop  back  to  the keep.  Sturm asked,  "Where did  you learn
  such a trick?"
          "An old man in our band practiced this art. He was the
  best  scout  on  the  plain. He  could catch  words true  from a
  bowshot away. He taught me before he died."
    "Where did he learn it?"
    "From a kender, he said."
    They waited in the broiling sun until the cavalryman
  returned.  His  fine  mount  pranced  out  to  where  Onthar sat
  slouched  on  his  stubby  pony. Tervy  squinted into  the glare
  and caught their words again.
    "He says to drive the herd into the baney, the bailey - ?"
    "Bailey," Sturm said. "The courtyard inside the keep."

    "Yes, and 'the great lord will treat with you personally.'
 Onthar agrees."
 le With many  whistles and  pricks of  the goad,  the herders
 got the  cattle moving  again. The  nine hundred  beasts fun-
 neled into the  keep's gate.  The bailey  easily accommodated
 the  animals.  When  the last  calves were  spanked, bawling,
 into the gate, soldiers drew the bars shut.
    There were  clusters of  tents all  along the  outer wall.
 Onthar and his  men tethered  their horses  on a  picket line
 and followed a plumed soldier along the tent line.
    "Are these all the men  you have?"  said the  soldier. His
 face was hidden by his visor.  "I would  have thought  such a
 large herd would require more handlers."
   "Not if the men are good," Onthar said.
   Sturm  was  counting tents.  Four men  per tent,  sixty tents
 so far - he had an uncomfortable feeling about this.
   They came upon a very large tent, trimmed with dark
 blue  brocade  and  golden fringe.  Guards snapped  to atten-
 tion  and  crossed  halberds at  their approach.  The visored
 soldier  spoke to  them, presenting  Onthar and  his company.
 The  guards  resumed  normal  positions.  The  plumed officer
 extended his hand, and the herders went in alone.
   The   interior   was   sumptuous.   Carpets   covered   the
 ground, and tapestries,  hanging from  the ridge  poles, gave
 the illusion of being in a solid  building. While  the others
 were  gawking at  the richness  of their  surroundings, Sturm
 was staring at the designs of the rugs and wall hangings. The
 recurring motif was that of a  rampant red  dragon, clutching
 a sheaf of spears in one claw and a crown in the other.
   "Ironskin," Tervy said, too loudly.
   "Not now."
   A  curtain  of  shimmering red  beads closed  the corridor.
 Onthar  feigned  disinterest  and  swept  the  curtain aside.
 Sturm thought the red 'beads' looked very much like rubies.
   Two  halberds  swung  down  to  bar  Onthar's  progress. He
 regarded the guards idly, as  if he'd  seen such  beings many
 times and they bored him.  Beyond the  guards, a  large, pow-
 erfully built man sat at a three-legged table that was draped
 with  a golden  cloth. He  wore scale  armor enameled  in red
 and blue, and  a fearsome  helmet sat  facing outward  on the

 gold-topped table.
    The  man  looked  up. His  hair was  white, though  he was
 by no means elderly. It swept  back from  his massive  brow to
 fall around his shoulders. His skin was pale.
    "Come  in.  You  are  Onthar the  Herdsman, are  you not?"
 said the man.
    "I am, my lord. May I ask what I shall call you?"
    "I am Merinsaard, Lord of Bayarn."
   Sturm clenched his fists tightly  at his  sides. Merinsaard!
 The  name  spoken  by  Sturm's   storm  phantom!   Sturm  con-
 centrated on the hard face  and long  white hair.  Danger ema-
 nated from this man. Sturm  tried to  catch Onthar's  eye, but
 could not.
   There  were  no  chairs  for Onthar  and his  men. Ordinary
 folk did not sit in the presence of the great lord.
   Merinsaard stated,