At least the entire city had a decent wall around it, with the exception of the break around the docks, of course. It was thirty feet high and made of stone, but was sparsely manned with guards. The masters had told him the guards were mostly for show since the kingdom was not at war, and Rezkin could easily believe it. Rezkin thought he might be able to get an entire battalion across those walls without anyone noticing. Still, the only violence the kingdom saw was feuds between lords over boarders or honor or some such, and those battles never came to the cities.

Upon reaching the northern gate, Rezkin noticed that everyone who approached did so on foot. As he dismounted behind the last person in line, he watched the proceedings ahead. A pair of guards stood on either side of the gate, which was wide open, and a second set of guards stood to one side speaking with the people who were entering and making notes on a scroll. An old man driving a cart pulled by a donkey entered the line behind him. A very young small-man, with perhaps four or five years, sat on the bench next to the older man and was chattering excitedly. Rezkin turned so that his back brushed up against his horse, and he could see the pair in his peripheral vision. He did not like having people at his back.

“Gampa,” said the small-man, “what kind of horse it that?”

“Shush,” replied the withered old man. “I don’t rightly know. I ain’t never seen one like it, myself, but I’d say from the stories, it’s a warhorse of some sort.”

“Squeeee! Does that mean he’s a hero?” asked the small-man excitedly pointing at Rezkin.

Hero? Why does he think I am a hero? I would have to have done something notable to be a hero.

“Bah, Braen, not everyone who has a warhorse be a hero. Not every warrior or soldier be a hero neither. Don’t you go thinkin’ men with swords is good men ’cause most of ’em ain’t,” replied the old man.