“That rast of a Grodnim swod will have a good story to account for the loss of his bow.”
“Aye, master. And I will have a story that tells of how a maniac called Dak acted like a — uh... no one will believe me.”
“If the risslacas had not been stopped,” I said, letting my mount gallop ahead, “no one would have told any stories.”
“That is true, by Zair!”
So it was in a growing spirit of comradeship, for all that Duhrra insisted on slipping the odd “master” into his sentences, and occasionally letting fall that i***t’s “duh,” we came at last to the Grand Canal, after a long enough and tiring journey.
There was no sign on the southern shore of the Grodnim army.
The northern shore, as I well knew, had a thriving series of communities held together in service to the Todalpheme, those wise m
