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Rogero brought Vinderon to a halt. The windhorse stood still, his breathing quiet, no quiver to his muscles or sweat shining beneath his reddish-gray coat, even though Rogero had just ridden him hard over hills and valleys and fields, so far it that would have taken a normal horse days to cover that much ground.
A light dusting of snow had fallen over Rogero’s camp overnight. Most of it had already melted in the morning sun. But he could still see a heavier layer of white in the distance, capping the ridge of Monarch Pass.
That worried him. Several things worried him now.
Rogero dismounted and dragged from Vinderon’s back the sacks of grain and oats given to him that morning by the sullen, fearful farmers whose lands he had so recently conquered.
Food for Rogero’s men. They were st
