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crouched low as a party of horsemen approached from the north and rode by at a smart trot.
    There were nine or ten riders in all. Apparently three or four knights accompanied by their squires, pages, and other attendants. They were not Austerneve men-at-arms, nor did any of them wear a snouted helmet of black metal, of that much he was certain. However, squinting through the tangle of brambles, he was not able to see clearly enough to make out such details as the devices on their shields and breastplates. But they had come from the north, where they might well have met and spoken with Black Helmet and his followers. So Tymmon remained hidden and waited until the whole troop had disappeared far down the road before he ventured out and continued on his journey.
    Tired and hungry, wet and smeared with mud, he trudged on and on, placing one cold, numb foot ahead of the other in weary desperation. Beside the road, cultivated fields alternated with rough unfilled pasture land, but there was no sign of farm or village.
    It was some hours later, and to the west over the now distant forest the sky was turning to shades of orange and red, before he saw the first sign of human habitation, a column of smoke twisting up into the sunset sky. Turning in that direction, Tymmon was soon able to see the thatched roofs of a cluster of farm buildings. It seemed to be a well-kept and prosperous farm. Surely at such a place there would be some task that a willing worker might do in exchange for food and shelter.
    At first the farmyard seemed deserted, but as Tymmon drew nearer he noticed someone working in a kitchen garden behind the cottage. A sturdy, broad-backed woman, dressed in gray homespun, her head covered by veil and wimple, continued to swing her short-handled garden hoe as Tymmon made his way, hopefully, toward her. Hopefully, because a woman—perhaps a mother—surely would be more compassionate toward a homeless wanderer, a poor, pitiful, starving lad who...
    But there was also a dog. An angry one, by the sound of it, and as Tymmon cleared the corner of the farmhouse he saw it, chained to a post in the dooryard. A short, squat creature, it raved and slobbered as it strained against its collar in its eagerness to attack. Tymmon stopped, hoping desperately that the chain would hold and that the woman would notice and quiet her watchdog. But she only shouted something and went on hoeing, and then a man appeared who was almost as threatening as the dog.
    Coming out from behind a stable, so bearded and bushy-haired as to arouse fearful thoughts of monsters and werewolves, the man strode toward the chained animal shaking a heavy spade over his head.
    “Quiet, Wolf! Hush, you demented creature. Quiet, before I give you something to howl about.” The dog stopped barking and cowered in the dirt, and the man changed directions.
    “You there,” he shouted. “Who are you? What are you doing on my land?”
    Tymmon’s knees threatened to betray him and send him, like the dog, cowering to the earth. But he managed to stand his ground, and when the farmer came to a stop only a few feet away, he pushed back his hood, held his head erect, and tried to smile.
    “Greetings, kind sir,” he said. “My name is Tymmon, son of Komus, and I am traveling in search of my fortune. I would only like ...
    A large hand grasped his shoulder roughly and the farmer’s deep-set eyes glared into his. “Komus?” the deep voice said. “That is a good northland name, but you look like no northlander I have seen. A gypsy you are or I mistake myself. And I’ll have no gypsies on my land. Now get you out of here before I set Wolf loose on you.”
    “Wait, Arl.” It was the woman from the garden, who was now hurrying toward them. “Wait. Let the boy stay. Go to the dooryard, boy, and wait for us by the well. I must speak with my husband. Go now!”
    “What are you saying, woman,” the farmer shouted. “The gypsy leaves. I’ll have no...
    Tymmon had started