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"Catch him, Hawk!" the procurer hissed, and Hawkril spun around atop Craer with fearsome speed to thrust a hand into the knight's gut ere he collapsed.

"Stand him up and lean him back," Overduke Delnbone added, springing to his feet. "We need to keep his blood off the helm and tunic."

"Neither will fit me," Hawkril observed, plucking the helm from the dead cortahar's flopping head before it could fall off.

The procurer snared the alarm-horn from around a limp, dead arm, and gave his friend a sour look. "You just dislike Storn gear. Put them on." He glanced back along the battlements, and snapped, "Lower him, quickly! A snake-priest is back there, sternly commanding Embra's cloud to begone."

Hawkril did so, dragging the tunic up with one hand as he held the corpse's belt firmly with the other. Craer swarmed over the garment, and in another breath had relieved the guard of two daggers and a slender purse. "Drop him into the moat," he hissed. "Drop, don't throw."

Hawkril gave his friend a weary look. "I'm not completely stone-headed, you know."

Craer blew him a mock kiss. "I know, my Horse."

Hawkril rolled his eyes and lowered the body between two merlons, dangling it at the full length of his arm before letting go.

The splash was louder than they'd hoped it would be, and they both saw the priest's head jerk around to stare directly at them.

Or rather, at Hawkril. Craer was crouching down behind his friend, hissing, "Act like a Storn cortahar standing nightguard."

"Like an idiot, you mean?" the armaragor growled. "Or do you mean stare out from the walls with a bored look on my face?"

"Bebolt him, he's casting a spell! We'll just have to hope Embra quells it. Stride toward him like a guard. I'll be right behind you, but remember: I'm not here. No turning to look to me-and no talking, either! Breezes take our words too far."

"Aye, Mother. Any more advice for the witless warrior?" Hawkril growled, settling the cortahar's helm over his head and smoothing down the front of the scarlet hawk-adorned tunic as he started walking, slow and purposeful, along the battlements. "Like perhaps what you want me to do when I get nose to nose with this particular hostile holy hand of the Serpent?"

"I'll think of something," Craer muttered, from a foot or so behind the armaragor's shoulders.

"That's exactly what I'm afraid of, Longfingers," came the dry, flat reply.

A few steps later, Hawkril finished refolding his cloak, tucked it back into his shield, and added, "We're past halfway there, and yon priest's starting toward us, now. Think faster, little thief."

"Anyone with him?"

"Of course. Four cortahars. You don't think Serpent-clergy dare to do anything dangerous alone, do you?"

"Any bows? Handbows?"

"None I can see. Swords and grim looks-oh, and his spells, of course."

"We have to trust in your lady-love to break those. Mist all gone?"

"Aye, but Embra's sending more now. There're about a dozen more Storn swords by the turret-that's who's calling to the priest. He's turning back to see, and 'tis coming up over the battlements like an eel, right in front of him. Aye, he's going to be mightily suspicious of this mist."

"My, my, another chance to practice his mighty suspicion. How nice for him."

Hawkril sighed. "Craer, as much as I love your familiar leaden wit, how about reassuring me just a trifle? In the matter of just what, by all the Three, I'm supposed to do now? These battlements are quite wide enough for them to come at me six or seven at a time, you know."

"Keep walking. I need us to be much closer."

"Craer! I've dined quite heavily enough from your 'Trust me and my mysterious little stratagems, thick-headed warrior' platter. I can act far more effectively if I know what you're planning, and want me to do-beforehand!"

"Ah, a fair point. A fair point, indeed. There's just one little problem, Tall Post."

Hawkril waited, striding on. And waited.

Finally, he sighed and came to a stop, turning