He still knew when the release came. It came so nearly at the same moment for both of them that Blade and Lorya couldn't have said who was first, even if they'd cared about knowing.

They only cared that Lorya had to bite back a scream, then went completely rigid, arms and legs frozen. Blade gave a thick, gasping cry, and his powerful body thrashed and jerked. He cried out again, Lorya's breath hissed out of her body in one long sigh, then her teeth met in his ear as his head sank down on her breast.

They were a long time in that position, neither of them entirely conscious. Somehow Blade's weight did not crush Lorya underneath him and somehow she did not cry out from his pressing upon her. Finally they untangled themselves, but had neither the strength nor the desire to move far apart. Blade managed to pull the quilt over them before sleep took him.

They awoke at the dreariest hour of dawn and Blade found that Lorya's desire was also awakened. His brief thoughts of pushing her away lasted only until her hands and lips went to work. Then they came together with a passion as great as the night's, and far more tender. This time Lorya wept as she lay in Blade's arms afterward. Blade himself would not have greatly minded hearing that the Wizard of Rentoro was dead and his castle fallen into rubble.

By the time they came downstairs, it was several hours into a gray, windy morning. Everyone else at the inn had already eaten breakfast, and the innkeeper grumbled about «slug-a-beds» as he served them porridge, cheese, and wine.

Then there was nothing to do but go outside, pack their gear, and ride off on their separate ways. They were back in their disguises as an agent of the Wizard and his servant, so there could be no affectionate farewells. Lorya mounted her heuda and rode off toward the north without a backward look. Blade watched until the slender, stiff-backed figure was out of sight in the misty rain that was starting to fall. Then he turned and looked the other way, down the road to where the white posts marked the beginning of the Wizard's personal territory. He mounted and spurred his heuda into movement.

He'd done his best for Lorya. She was on her way to the safest place within easy reach. She had the skill and determination she'd need to survive whatever happened to him, and she had all the rest of the gold.

He'd thought of taking some himself, but why bother? If the Wizard and the Wolves gave him a friendly reception, he wouldn't need money. If they didn't well, he'd either be on his way out of the Wizard's lands so fast he wouldn't be stopping to pay for anything, or he would never be going anywhere or paying for anything again.

Blade rode past the white posts at a canter, then slowed to a trot as soon as they were out of sight behind him. He wanted to spare the heuda even more than usual. He might have to ride for his life before this day was over, and he wanted his mount as fresh as possible.

It was two hours before Blade saw a single Wolf. During those two hours he rode steadily onward, stopping twice to let the heuda catch its breath. He rode with his sword belted on over his coat, ready at hand, and with one dagger in his boot and another up one sleeve. His crossbow was slung on one side of his saddle and a bag of bolts for it on the other side. He wasn't sure if the Wizard's agents ever rode up armed to the teeth like this, but he didn't care. In Blade's experience, few men ever died from having too many weapons ready to use.

The road was wide enough for three men to ride abreast and surfaced with hard-packed gravel. It twisted and turned in curves and sharp bends. Some of these curves and bends took it around hills or ravines. Others seemed intended to bring it within easy range of perfect ambush sites

Twice Blade crossed small wooden bridges. He noticed that the roadbed of each bridge was made of loose planks, while the supports were held together by ropes and wedges. A dozen trained men could take this bridge apart in an hour, using nothing but their bare hands. An invader could still push cavalry and infantry across the stream and on across country. He could not do the same with the heavy wagons carrying food or siege equipment.

Just beyond the second bridge, Blade came to a farm, perched on a hill beside a bend in the road. Its fields were masses of rank weeds and its barn was a sagging pile of decaying timber. No one had raised a crop here for many years. Yet the farm still had its uses as part of the Wizard's defense plans.

The walls of the farmhouse were loopholed for crossbows. A stout brick wall surrounded the farmyard. Near the top, black iron spikes, sharp and freshly painted, jutted outward from the brick. A wooden barrier crowned the wall and it also was loopholed. In the center of the farmyard rose a circular stone tower with a tiled wooden cupola and a weathervane on top.

Over the past century the Wizards of Rentoro had created a formidable defense in depth. Spies and Wolves made rebellion almost impossible, but the Wizards still weren't taking any chances.

By luck or through the Wizard's mistakes a rebel army might assemble and march on the castle. It would not be able to use the Wizard's roads. Instead it would be forced to disperse and scatter across the country as it marched. Then the Wolves, concentrating with their unnatural speed, would come down on the scattered columns. An invader would be lucky to get within sight of the castle's walls.

At least Blade could now understand why he hadn't met any Wolves on the road. With these defenses stretching for miles ahead of him, there was no need to hurry in stopping a lone rider. The Wolves would be waiting for him where they could do so most comfortably, and they would speak to him when they found it convenient.

The farm disappeared around the bend of the road. Blade trotted into a forest and the heuda began to labor slightly as the road climbed a hill. Half a mile farther on he came out of the forest, back into the gray daylight, and found the Wolves waiting for him.

There were only three of them-one of the leaders and two men-at-arms. The men-at-arms wore their usual armor and weapons, but the leader was dressed more for dancing than for fighting. He wore a black tunic embroidered with gold and with silver lacing down the front, blue hose, a flowing red cloak with a fur collar-in general, the clothes of a Renaissance nobleman on his way to a party. A white sash around the man's thick waist supported a blue-enameled wolf's-head badge and a jeweled dagger.

The face above the lace collar was less elegant. It was tanned, scarred, coarsened by years of too much food and wine, but still hard and ugly. It was a face Blade had seen many times-the professional mercenary, without scruples, friends, or any place in the world except what he can win by his sword and loyalty to his chief. A dangerous man in a fight, but otherwise more accustomed to obeying orders than to making up his own mind, and therefore perhaps less dangerous to Blade here and now.

Blade rode straight up to the three Wolves, paying no more attention to them than to the rain. He pulled to a stop twenty feet away, just as the leader started toward him. One of the men-at-arms drew his sword, while the other unslung his crossbow.

«The Wizard gives you welcome,» said the leader. His voice matched his face-rough, harsh, and much less polite than his choice of words.

«I come on the affairs of the Wizard,» said Blade. Only a Wolf or an agent who'd served the Wizard for many years would use the forbidden proper name without betraying himself by nervousness or hesitation.

The man nodded. «It is written?» he went on, pointing at Blade's saddlebags.

«It is here,» said Blade, pointing at his forehead. «It is for the Wizard, and none other.»