“It’s just a peasant,” said one, reining in his prancing charger. “And a smelly one at that.”

“They’re all smelly,” said another, bearded face twisted in disgust.

“Look here, boy,” said a third, whose helm bore a green feather plume. “How long have you been here?”

“All morning, master,” Tol replied. He was surprised by his own coolness. Though his heart was racing, his tongue was calm. No quaver spoiled his voice.

“Seen any riders come by? Riders with red trappings?”

“Yes, my lord.” Tol ceased his labors with the hoe, but kept his eyes downcast.

“How many?” asked the man in the green-plumed helmet. Tol shrugged, and the tip of a nicked iron saber pressed into his ear. “Loosen your tongue, boy, or I’ll have it out for good.”

“Three horses, good master, with no men on them! And one with a rider.”

All the warriors but one had spoken. Unlike the rest, this fellow wore a closed helm. Its fiercely grinning, hammered bronze visor covered his face completely. As tall as his companions, he was of slighter build, and even to Tol’s unschooled eyes his arms seemed finer and more costly.

“What did the rider look like?” the visored man asked, voice low but carrying.

Tol looked up at him, then quickly back down at the ground. The evil, grinning metal visage filled him with dread. Even though he was farthest away and his sword was sheathed, the visored warrior somehow seemed the most dangerous of them all.

“He was a big man, lord,” Tol said truthfully, “with hair and beard the color of straw.”

His answer obviously pleased them. “Odovar!” said the horn bearer, glancing at the masked man. “Which way did he go, boy?”

Tol indicated the tracks of the big man’s horse. “Yonder, lords.”