“You’ve been a great help, Dawkin,” Morgan said with a grin, nodding toward Duncan.

“Oh, it won’t do ye a bit of good,” the man chattered on, as Duncan leaned toward him. “The trail’s now’t but a track, an’ it’s washed out. Ye cannae get through…”

His voice trailed off and his head lolled onto his chest as Duncan exerted control, and he lapsed almost at once into comfortable snores. With a smile, Duncan got to his feet and glanced down at the man; then, on second thought, he bent to remove the Torin badge from the man’s shirt. He handed it to Morgan with a wry grin as they made their way back to the horses, and Morgan polished it against his sleeve before affixing it to his cap. The stolen pewter winked warm and silvery in the leaf-filtered sunlight as the two mounted up.

“Remind me to offer a special prayer of thanks for Master Dawkin, Duncan—the next time we visit Saint Torin’s officially.”

“I shall, indeed.” Duncan chuckled. “The next time we visit Saint Torin’s officially.”

An hour later found the two riders high in the mountains walling Lake Jashan and Dhassa from the rolling plains to the west. After taking the fork in the defile that Dawkin had described, they had made their way down a gentle slope to a grassy meadow beyond, where half a dozen scrawny sheep and goats cropped contentedly at the rich mountain grass. They saw no one in the vicinity, and the animals had paid them little attention beyond eyeing the horses warily for a few minutes. It had taken a while to locate the trail that led from the other side of the meadow, but at last it was found and the two proceeded on their way.

The trail, once found, was little more than the track Dawkin had described, and obviously little used. The new green growth of spring grass had hardly been disturbed, and field flowers seemed to spring in riotous profusion from every patch of earth and rock cranny. The trail worsened as they rode, the ascent steepening and the footing becoming less certain. The horses were still able to pick their way without too much trouble, but far ahead they could hear the sound of rushing water. Morgan, in the lead, chewed at his lip thoughtfully as he listened, finally turning back to glance at Duncan.

“Do you hear that?”

“It sounds like a waterfall. What do you want to bet that—”

“Don’t say it!” Morgan replied. “I was thinking the same thing.”

The sound of rushing water grew louder as they rounded the next bend in the trail, and they were not surprised to find their way barred shortly by a rather sizeable stream. A cascade roared down the mountainside to their left and formed a fast-flowing torrent that disappeared into the forest to their right, in the direction of Lake Jashan. There appeared to be no way around it.

“Well, what have we here?” Morgan said, drawing rein to survey the flood.