The sword, still describing those easy circles that kept his wrist fluid and light, now arced around once more and slammed into the back of the other man's helmet with a loud, ringing clang.

Halt winced, imagining what it must sound like from inside the steel pot. It was too much to expect that a single blow might shear through the tough metal. It would take a series of heavy strokes to accomplish that. But it put a severe dent in the helmet, and the concussion of the blow went straight through the steel to the skull of the knight wearing it.

Unseen by the two Araluens, his eyes glazed out of focus, went slightly crossed, then snapped back again.

Then, very slowly, he toppled sideways out of the saddle, crashed onto the dust of the road and lay there, unmoving. His horse continued galloping for a few more meters. Then, realizing that nobody was urging it on any longer, it slowed to a walk, lowered its head and began cropping the long grass by the roadside.

Horace trotted his horse back slowly, stopping level with the point where the Gallic knight lay sprawled on the road.

"I told you he wasn't very good," he said, quite seriously, to Halt.

The Ranger, who prided himself on his normal taciturn manner, couldn't prevent a wide grin breaking out across his face.

"Well, perhaps he's not," he told the earnest young man before him. "But you certainly looked reasonably efficient there."

Horace shrugged. "It's what I'm trained for," he replied simply.

Halt realized that the boy just didn't have a boastful bone in his body. Battleschool had certainly had a good effect on him. He gestured to the knight, now beginning to regain consciousness. The man's arms and legs made weak, uncoordinated little movements, giving him the appearance of a half-dead crab.

"It's what he's supposed to be trained for too," he replied, then added, "Well done, young Horace."

The boy flushed with pleasure at Halt's praise. He knew the Ranger wasn't one to hand out idle compliments.

"So what do we do with him now?" he asked, indicating his fallen foe with the tip of his sword. Halt slipped quickly down from the saddle and moved toward the man.

"Let me take care of that," he said. "It'll be my pleasure."

He grabbed hold of the fallen man by one arm and dragged him into a sitting position. The dazed knight mumbled inside the helmet, and now that he had time to notice such details, Horace could see that the ends of the mustache protruded from either side of the closed visor.

"Thank yew, sirrah," the knight mumbled incoherently as Halt dragged him to a more or less upright sitting position. His feet scrabbled on the road as he tried to stand, but Halt shoved him back down, none too gently.

"None of that, thank you," the Ranger said. He reached under the man's chin and Horace realized that he had the smaller of his two knives in his hand. For a moment, the horrified boy was convinced that Halt meant to cut the man's throat. Then, with a deft stroke, Halt severed the leather chin strap holding the helmet on the other man's head. Once the strap was cut, Halt dragged the helmet off and tossed it into the bushes at the roadside. The knight let out a small mew of pain as his mustache ends tugged free of the still-closed visor.

Horace sheathed his sword, finally sure that there was no further threat from the knight. For his part, the vanquished warrior peered owlishly at Halt and at the figure towering over them both on horseback. His eyes still wouldn't focus.

"We shell continue the cermbet ern foot," he declared shakily.

Halt slapped him heartily on the back, setting his eyes spinning once more.

"The hell you will. You're beaten, my friend. Toppled fair and square. Sir Horace, knight of the Order de la Feuille du Chene, has agreed to spare your life."

"Oh:thenk you," said the unsteady one, making a vague, saluting gesture in Horace's direction.

"However," Halt went on, allowing a grim tone of amusement to creep into his voice, "under the rules of chivalry, your arms, armor, horse and other belongings are forfeit to Sir Horace."

"They are?" Horace asked, a little incredulously.

Halt nodded.

"They are."

The knight tried once more to stand but, as before, Halt held him down.

"But, sirrah:," he protested weakly. "My erms and ermor? Surely not?"

"Surely so," Halt replied. The other man's face, already shaken and pale, now looked even paler as he realized the full import of what the gray-cloaked stranger was saying.

"Halt," Horace interrupted, "won't he be a little helpless without his weapons-and his horse?"

"Yes, he certainly will," was the satisfied reply. "Which will make it a great deal harder for him to prey on innocent travelers who want to cross this bridge."

Realization dawned on Horace. "Oh," he said thoughtfully. "I see."

"Exactly," Halt said, looking meaningfully at him. "You've done a good day's work here, Horace. Mind you," he added, "it took you barely two minutes to do it. But you'll keep this predator out of business and make the road a little bit safer for the locals. And of course, we will now have a quite expensive suit of chain mail, a sword, a shield and a pretty good-looking horse to sell in the next village we come to."

"You're sure that's in the rules?" Horace asked, and Halt smiled broadly at him.

"Oh yes. It's all fair and aboveboard. He knew it. He simply should have looked more carefully when he challenged us. Now, my beauty," he said to the crestfallen knight sitting at his feet, "let's have that mail shirt off you."

Grudgingly, the dazed knight began to comply. Halt beamed at his young companion.

"I'm starting to enjoy Gallica a lot more than I expected," he said.

T WO DAYS LATER, W OLFWIND LEFT S KORGHIJL H ARBOR AND turned northeast for Skandia. Slagor and his men remained behind, facing the task of making temporary repairs to their ship, before limping back to their home port. The ship was too badly damaged to continue west for the raiding season. Slagor's decision to leave port early was proving to be a costly one.

The wind, which for weeks had blown out of the north, now shifted to the west, allowing the Skandians to set the big mainsail. Wolfwind surged easily over the gray sea, her wake stretching behind her. The motion was exhilarating and liberating as the kilometers reeled off under her keel and the spirits of the crew lifted as they came closer to their homeland.

Only Will and Evanlyn failed to share in the general lightening of mood. Skorghijl had been a miserable place, barren and unfriendly. But at least the months there had postponed the time when they might be separated. They knew they were to be sold as slaves in Hallasholm and there was every chance they would go to different masters.

Will had tried once to cheer Evanlyn about their possible separation.

"They say Hallasholm isn't a big place," he said, "so even if we are split up, we may still be able to see each other. After all, they can't expect us to work twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week."

Evanlyn hadn't replied. Her experience of Skandians so far told her that was exactly what they would expect.

Erak noticed their silence and the melancholy mood that had settled upon them and felt a twinge of sympathy. He wondered if there was some way he could make sure they stayed together.

Of course, he could always keep them as slaves himself, he reasoned. But he had no real need for personal slaves. As a war leader of the Skandians, he lived in the officers' barracks, where his needs were tended by orderlies. If he kept the two Araluens as his own, he'd have to pay to feed and clothe them. And he'd have to be responsible for them as well. He discarded the idea with an irritated shake of his head.