The floor suddenly fell out from Arvin’s feet, and the walls of the chapel spun crazily around him. He dropped about a palm’s width through the air, landing unsteadily on the floor of a room with thick stone walls and arrow-slit windows. Two officers wearing armor bearing the baron’s crest who were sitting at a table, deep in discussion, leaped to their feet, startled, then bowed deeply.
“Lord Foesmasher,” one said. “Welcome.”
Foesmasher removed his hands from Arvin’s and Karrell’s shoulders. “These two,” he announced, “are en route to the Chondalwood. Make sure they reach it without Lord Wianar’s patrols spotting them.”
The officers exchanged a glance.
“Is there a problem?” Foesmasher demanded.
“We’re not sure,” one of the officers replied. “Wianar’s men seem to have drawn back from the river. There hasn’t been a sighting of them all day. But there may have been an incident.”
Foesmasher frowned. “May have been?”
“One of the patrols we sent across the river this morning didn’t return,” the second officer said. “Nor did the one we sent to find it. Until we know what happened to them, it wouldn’t be prudent to—”
“These two must reach Chondalwood,” The baron growled. “Tonight.”
The officer gave an obedient bow. “As you command, sir.”
They crossed the Arran River in a wagon drawn by a centaur. The wagon had no driver, nor was the centaur fitted with reins; he seemed to be draft animal and driver in one.
Arvin was amazed to see such a magnificent creature in harness. Centaurs were. creatures of the wild, untamed and proud. This one was the size of a warhorse, his upper torso more muscular than any human’s could ever be, his arms nearly as thick as a man’s thighs. Coarse, almost woolly hair covered his lower torso, but his chest and arms were bare to the elements. He seemed not to mind the cold as he trotted on enormous hooves that thudded heavily on the massive timbered bridge that spanned the river. Every now and then he snorted, his breath fogging the night air, and tossed back his black, tangled mane, exposing pointed ears. Around his waist he wore a belt; from it hung a sheathed knife the size of a small sword. Hanging from the sheath was a purple feather, like the ones Foesmasher’s soldiers wore on their helms.
Two of Foesmasher’s soldiers had been assigned to accompany Arvin and Karrell; each man was armed with a crossbow and sword. The first—Burrian, a burly fellow with a. black beard and enormous, calloused hands who said he had been a woodcutter before joining the militia—would serve as their guide in the Chondalwood. The second—Sergeant Dunnald, a man with a narrow face and long blond hair—would return to Fort Arran with the wagon. Burrian was watchful as they left the bridge, turned right off the main road, and started toward the Chondalwood. Dunnald, however, seemed confident, even a little bored. Arvin hoped that boded well for their journey. Perhaps the two officers they’d met earlier had been alarmists. There were any number of reasons that soldiers might fail to return from a patrol. Even so, Arvin found himself touching the crystal at his neck, for luck.
It didn’t comfort him.
The forest lay some distance ahead, a dark, bumpy line against an even darker sky. Behind them, the bridge across the River Arran fell steadily away into the distance. Fort Arran dominated the far side of the bridge, its crenellated wooden towers keeping watch over the timbered arch that spanned the narrows and the road that led north from it to Arrabar. For now, this road was open, linking the two capitals of Chondath and Sespech. Come daylight, it would be dotted with merchant wagons and travelers. But if war broke out between the two states, Fort Arran would act as a gate, barring entry to any army that Lord Wianar might send marching south.
Arvin glanced up at the sky. The moon was half full, haloed by a thin layer of clouds. At least it wasn’t snowing. The air was cold, but Karrell had cast another of her spells upon him, making him feel cozy and warm. He yawned, exhausted. It must have been well past mid-dark by now. He leaned back, trying to make himself comfortable. Lulled by the thud of the centaur’s hooves and the warmth of Karrell seated next to him at the rear of the wagon under a thick wool blanket, he dozed.
A while later, something poked Arvin’s side, Karrell’s hand. Instantly, he was awake. “What is it?” he asked.
Karrell pointed at something ahead. Arvin tried to peer past the centaur but could see only the dark line of the woods, drawing steadily closer. Between the forest and wagon was a flat expanse of snow-covered ground that sparkled in the moonlight.
“I don’t see anything.”
“Was it the movement near the woods you spotted?” Dunnald asked Karrell. “It’s just a herd of wild centaurs, out for a moonlit trot. There’s nothing to be frightened of.”
Burrian called out to the centaur who drew the wagon. “Some of your old pals, Tanglemane?”
The centaur ignored him.
