When they said the lord’s men were coming to visit, I did not think they meant Fordrellon. It had been years since I had last seen him, enough that I almost believed he had died during the war. Yet there he was, on a new horse, with a new tabard bearing some insignia I didn’t recognize.
I ducked down behind the wagon as his band of paladins rode up, and my breath sounded louder in my ears than even the squeal of the sticky wagon wheel. I stared at their steeds’ hooves from between the slats: dainty cloven things, very much different and very much conspicuous compared to the plate-sized hooves of the draft horses. I kept running through my head what I could possibly say if Saul called me back onto the wagon bench, let alone what I would do if I was identified. He didn’t call me, however, and the wagon creaked on before the paladins turned away, ushered to the farmhouse a mile down the lane where the farmers’ wives would entertain them until our work was done for the day. I ran to catch up with the wagon, keep it between me and them. I knew I would have to make myself scarce until the paladins were well on their way.