All summer long her hounds had been running along the old tree trunk fence. Last night, it had finally given way, collapsing with a dull double crack and leaving easy passage for deer. As much as Storm Silverhand loved to look out the window in the misty dawn and see deer prancing among the trees, she didn't want to see them out the other window-in her fields of lettuce and squash and asparagus. So, this early morn found her puffing down the back trail, a full-grown duskwood tree on her shoulders; one just right to fill the gap.

It was as long as three horses, and weighed almost as much. Storm's face was dark with effort as she bent to put it in just the right place. One of the wolfhounds raised its head and smiled at her. She tousled its ears affectionately. "Thanks for the help, Old Boldblade," she told it in mock disgust, and then headed for the rain barrel to wash off the sweat.

It was early, yet, and chill mists were still drifting along the ground like vengeful ghosts. Even so, the Bard of Shadowdale wore only floppy old boots, elbow-length gauntlets of heavy leather, and a fine sheen of sweat. Halfway to the barrel, she changed her mind about washing. By the looks of the fast-brightening sky, the sun was going to be hot today. It would be more comfortable, by far, to get a good lot of firewood chopped and split before full sunlight reached the chopping floor.