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THREE!

Bardon dragged the snake’s body farther into the woods than was necessary. With every step, he pondered the question of what his reaction should be to these two inconvenient women.

Gracious Wulder, by Sir Dar’s example, I know that when someone is in need, that need takes precedence over any personal plan. So, here I quibble. Where it would be expected to set aside a personal plan, it would be unacceptable to ignore a mandate from You. Is my sabbatical a personal plan or a divine assignment?

The snake’s body snagged on a bush, jerking Bardon to a halt. He turned and yanked. It didn’t budge. He walked back, held the lower branches back with his foot, and pulled. The bush let go, and he trudged on along the narrow path. He entered a forest glade and headed for the other side.

You and I both know that there really aren’t two choices, but only one. You wouldn’t have put this need in my path if You didn’t want me to react as You’ve taught me. I will do as You require.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up. Bardon unsheathed his sword at the first rumbling growl. He let the dead weight of the snake slip from his fingers and took a step backward. Crouching with his weapon ready, he looked into the cool yellow eyes of a five-foot-long mountain cat. Just within the line of trees, the animal pressed its entire body close to the ground, legs bent, ready to pounce. Golden stripes adorned the animal’s tan hide. The cat’s tufted ears lay back against its skull. With its lips pulled back, the wild beast’s snarl showed pointed teeth.

“I am really not in the mood for this, cat.”

A growl vibrated through the meadow. The cat’s tail swept back and forth across the forest floor.

“Wouldn’t you like this snake for dinner? You can have it. My treat.”

The cat stepped forward.

“Believe me, the snake would be a tastier, easier dinner.”

He inched back. The cat inched closer.

Bardon sighed. He flexed his fingers on the hilt of the sword. The weapon had been crafted by Wizard Fenworth and placed in Bardon’s hand by Paladin himself. On the occasions he’d had to use the sword, it had never failed him. Sometimes, he thought Fenworth had embedded special powers within the weapon. Other times, he thought Wulder had blessed the blade for righteousness. But killing a mountain cat over a dead snake did not seem to be a noble cause. Still, being eaten seemed less than a noble end to his career as a knight. He pulled his hunting knife out and balanced the two weapons.

Bardon’s lip twitched in humor. Greer would tell him this awkward situation was his own fault. “Never mess with a snake,” was the dragon’s creed.

“Never mess with a mountain cat” is more apropos at the moment.

Where are you, Greer?

He watched the cat as he listened for the mental connection to his dragon. Greer answered readily, having already placed a large giddinfish on the grass in front of the fair N’Rae. As usual, the dragon’s take on Bardon’s problem sounded impertinent. Bardon concentrated on the wild animal before him as he responded.

I do not think the cat prefers warm-blooded, fresh meat to cold, dead snake. But I prefer not to test your theory. Could you hurry a bit? I want to be out of here before I become its next meal.

He managed to ease backward a few steps before the cat prowled into the meadow. The feline warily approached the serpent carcass, nose quivering, large eyes on the man, not the snake.

Yes, of course I want a ride, Greer. This is ill-timed humor.

The cat didn’t come straight at him, but sashayed in zigzag fashion, always with whiskers trembling and eyes fixed on the man. Bardon held his sword and knife ready but hoped Greer would reach them before he had to fight.

He had plenty of battlefield experience. He’d matched prowess with skilled bisonbeck soldiers. He’d engaged many grawligs, and they were barbarous creatures.

One-on-one with a wild cat involves different skills. Wild beasts fight with a finesse lacking in the savage low races. Still, I’ve fought a trundle bear and won. Bardon shook his head slightly and clenched his weapons. But trundles are a smallish bear. Not at all in the same class as this beast. He looked at the magnificent cat, a creation of Wulder, and willed Greer to swoop in over the trees.

The dragon’s grumbling rolled through his thoughts, and he answered.

It’s not my fault you gorged yourself on fish and berries…I know you like to nap after a feast…I’m not the one who offered to catch dinner for the women…The sooner you get me out of here, the sooner you can stretch out beside the lake and bask in the afternoon sun.

The cat curled its lip and snarled.

Hurry!

He had succeeded in reaching the forest line. The snake’s remains lay in two pieces across the middle of the clearing. The cat stopped and sniffed. The animal’s head jerked back, its chin lifted to the sky, and it roared.

Shivers surged over Bardon’s arms and back. He flexed his fingers on the hilt of the sword, then the hand that held the knife. The muscles across the cat’s shoulders bunched. Its paws kneaded the ground.

“Getting ready to attack, aren’t you?” Bardon noted his hands squeezing and relaxing on the handles of his weapons, much as the great feline kneaded the turf. The squire grunted. “Well, so am I! But I’d prefer to just go our separate ways. You go have dinner with the snake. I’ll go eat fish with the emerlindian ladies.”

The cat licked its lips.

“No, kitty.” Bardon kept his voice low and soothing. “This is a bad idea.”

A rumble emanated from the cat’s throat, and it sprang across the dead snake, launching himself directly at the sword. Bardon twirled out of the way, allowing the animal to fly past and crash into the underbrush of the forest. The cat recovered and thrashed out of the branches, leaving a mangled bush behind. It charged Bardon, who stepped aside barely in time. He pricked the cat’s shoulder as it went by.

The feline didn’t charge again but circled. Bardon carefully kept turning, sword and knife at the ready.

“I didn’t want to do that, cat. But you don’t appear to be familiar with the high races and their weapons. This blade hurts. You should avoid it.”

Leathery wings beat the air above them. The cat snarled and crouched, backing toward the woods.

Bardon sheathed his weapons and waited. Greer landed in front of him, bellowed at the cat, and flashed his large, sharp teeth. His tail lay flat on the ground, pointed directly at his rider. Bardon ran up the incline of the tail, sat high on the dragon’s back, and hooked his feet under the shoulder joints of the wings. He pressed his body against the back of Greer’s neck and gripped the spikes that protruded from where the dragon’s head joined his neck.

Not exactly comfortable because of the ridges running down Greer’s back, Bardon nonetheless felt secure. He’d ridden bareback before in many training sessions.

The dragon spread his wings and lifted into the air. The cat darted into the cover of the trees.

That worked. It’ll go off and lick that wound I gave it. Possibly, it has learned to be more cautious of the high races. “To the wise one, a prick on the finger avoids a hole in the heart.”

Greer snorted and shook his head.

Yes, I know I don’t need to quote Wulder to you. It’s habit. For three years, I’ve had to back up every action of the day to Scribe Moran at the evening vespers. The girder exercise, you know? An act of will must be consciously chosen with principles to support the deed, and ramifications accounted.

The dragon stretched his wings, caught a thermal, and circled. Bardon knew Greer found the tedious girder ritual boring. But the young squire knew it was necessary. The practice forced novices to order their lives, and the exercise prevented chaos. But Greer would not prolong any conversation dealing with girdering.

Yes, I know you have rescued me twice in one day. Pardon me for not expressing my gratitude more promptly…Of course I’m aware that your loyalty is a blessing of great practical value.

The dragon continued to circle, rising higher. Bardon felt the chill as they climbed. With Greer’s droll comments still registering in the back of his mind, the squire turned his attention to Wulder. After years of study in The Hall and under Sir Dar, he still didn’t have a grasp of what to expect from his Creator.

You’ve sent me on sabbatical, Wulder. I know You order my days. What is the purpose of a writher snake, a hungry cat, and these women?

Oh, Greer, give it a rest. Let’s return to these two women and find out just what their quest is. Maybe they only need an escort down to the valley to market.

Three? Three! Three women?