The witch picked up the Starblade and balanced it on her knees, looking thoughtful.

“What will you do now?” I asked.

“I will spend the winter back in the County. Tom is dead, and I am truly sorry that it happened. But although my first plan has been thwarted, it cannot be the end of my endeavors. I will travel north again next spring and continue to learn what I can about our enemies. If we are to have any chance of survival, it must be done. The threat grows by the day. The Kobalos may even attack the northern principalities this winter.”

32

A Terrible Mistake

TOM Ward was dead. On the day of his burial Grimalkin and I left our tent about an hour before noon. I looked up at the sky. It had stopped raining for now, but to the south, clouds threatened another deluge.

When we arrived at the tent of Prince Stanislaw, Tom’s coffin was resting on the grass in the open. The prince was standing next to it, a sword at his hip, flanked by two of his guards. He looked angry—more ready for battle than for a burial. But he nodded to us, then beckoned four of his men forward, and they hefted the coffin up onto their shoulders.

Without further ado, we set off north. The prince and his escort led the way. I was surprised to see how many warriors lined the route, with many others joining the procession behind us. I suppose they must have been impressed by the fact that, although he had been fatally wounded, Tom had first put an end to the assassin who had been killing their own champions for so long.

I remember thinking that the burial site must be on high ground, because we were trudging upward. It made sense. No doubt the river flooded the plain in spring as the snow and ice melted.

At last we reached an open grave with a large headstone. The bottom of it was full of water. There were other graves too—perhaps a couple of dozen in all—but they had been filled in. Some were recent, the earth freshly mounded; others had become shallow depressions, and others still were already covered with grass. Just two or three had headstones; most had a rough wooden cross, while a few lacked any marker at all. The challenge of the Shaiksa assassin had lasted for months. No doubt these were the graves of those who had died at his hands.

We took up positions close to the open grave, facing the headstone. Grimalkin stood on my left; the high steward, Majcher, on my right; and Prince Stanislaw beyond him. The guards waited behind us.

Standing behind the stone was one of the bearded and gloved magowie, no doubt the one who advised Prince Stanislaw. He held his arms wide and began to chant in a singsong voice. I was glad that I couldn’t understand a word that he was saying—it was just so much false nonsense. All that was required to show respect to the dead was a few quiet words.