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range stretching from eastern Aquilonia along Nemedia, then down into Corinthia and westward to Ophir. Of course, then Nermesa had been half on foot and pursued not only by soldiers who believed him a spy, but bloodthirsty confederates of Baron Sibelio.
    He reached the first stronghold in good time and the Poitainian knight who owned the castle reacted with at least as much respect for the leopard on the seal as he did King Conan’s lion. The differences between his stays in the garrisons and that in the castle were many, first and foremost in the comforts afforded him in the latter. While heavily fortified and containing a force every bit as capable as, if not more than, those in any of the garrisons, the castle was also a home. Nermesa’s host proved as every bit an agreeable figure as did Sir Prospero when visiting Tarantia.
    Yet, behind that agreeable nature, Nermesa thought he sensed some tension. What it concerned, he could not say, for Sir Octavio—a smartly dressed, graying man—kept it well hidden . . . but only after an initial slip during the Aquilonian’s arrival.
    Sir Octavio had met him just as the high, wooden gate opened. Clad completely in plate and with one of the legendary, two-handed swords strapped across his back, he made for an imposing image. Yet, the Poitainian seemed to gaze at Nermesa as if he were a savior.
    “So, you’ve come, then,” he had started, one gauntleted hand stretched forth to the newcomer. “Quickly done by the king, praise Mitra!”
    Patting the saddlebag containing the pouch, Nermesa, believing that Sir Octavio had been referring to the documents, had dutifully replied, “They’ll be in the hands of the count as soon as possible.”
    The Poitainian’s brow had furrowed at this comment. He had then looked as if he had wanted to say something more but instead turned to the matter of seeing to Nermesa’s needs. Over the hours that followed, Nermesa had surreptitiously sought some clue as to what so bothered Sir Octavio, but did not succeed. He wished that he could bluntly ask, but the one time he started to do so, the other knight found reason to excuse himself. Nermesa could only assume that he would find out once he delivered the parchments to Count Trocero . . . at least, so he hoped.
    His concern and curiosity grew to the point that Nermesa woke earlier than usual. He accepted a brief breakfast, but was gone from the castle before dawn. The Aquilonian then urged his mount all out as he sought the castle of Poitain’s ruler.
    Nightfall came, and still Count Trocero’s sanctum remained beyond him. Nermesa should have stopped somewhere along the way, but kept telling himself that soon, very soon, he would reach his destination.
    The mountainous landscape had long ago given way to the flat, fertile fields of which he had heard so much. Even in the dim light of the moon, Nermesa made out fields of grain and other foodstuffs. The air grew warmer and wetter, but comfortably so. More and more structures arose on each side of him, darkened forms that were surely estate homes and farmers’ huts.
    With the lengthening of night, the Aquilonian soon became the only one on the road. He took advantage of this, using the full expanse of the trail in order to keep his progress at its swiftest.
    But as he raced under a skillfully cultivated overhang formed from rows of tall trees flanking the road, Nermesa noticed vague movement coming from far ahead. He immediately slowed his pace to one more manageable, at the same time readying one hand near the hilt of his weapon.
    The vague movement coalesced into several tall forms which, in turn, became at least half a dozen armored figures. By this time, they, too, had noted him, and now acted accordingly. The riders fanned out, covering not only the width of the road, but sending two of their number behind the flanking trees.
    Despite his near certainty as to their identities, Nermesa had no choice but to draw his sword. As the riders drew