“But—”

Lander whipped the mule, sending the cart lurching forward. They bounced out from beneath the trees and up onto the paved road. In silence the knights of Lunt watched them go, their black cloaks blending into the shadows of the copse, their red surcoats vivid, like splashes of blood.

Sir Metain came trotting after them, grim and silent on his war charger.  Lander’s face burned bright red. “Thod’s thumbs,” he muttered. “Lord Renald himself, and you speaking up as bold as brass. Morde a day, what will become of us now?”

“I gave him little insult,” Dain said, glancing back once more. “I just asked for his name. What right, lord or no, does he have here, stopping us and making his demands?”

“What right?” Lander said, clearly horrified by such a question. “What right?

The right of a lord. What do you think?”

“But he is not lord of this land,” Dain said. “He is not chevard of Thirst. What battle has been done? And why? How did it all happen so suddenly, in the short time we were gone? Did you know there was trouble brewing out here, Lander? Did you go to meet Baldrush despite it?”

“What trouble?” Lander said, but he would not meet Dain’s eyes. “Had you heard aught? You live closer with the knights than do I. Why would I risk my life dodging Nonkind and all sorts of demons if I did not have to?” Dain was not convinced. “Because you wanted this magicked metal.” “Hush!” Lander said, glancing back at Sir Metain. He looked at his load, the two special bars wrapped in cloth to hide them from view. “No one is to know about what I’m doing. No one!”

His thick, calloused hand, powerful from a lifetime of wielding a hammer, gripped Dain’s forearm and squeezed almost hard enough to crack bones. “Keep quiet about it. Morde a day, what eld has ever had a tongue like yours? Supposed to keep yourself to yourself, you are, not challenging chevards and asking questions.”

“But something’s amiss,” Dain insisted.

“Is it now?” Lander retorted with exasperation. “And what would that be? The fact that we’ve barely returned with our lives? The fact that some village yon is on fire and every other village we’ve come to has been deserted or looted or both? What could be amiss? You’re daft, boy, daft!”