It was as if the snow itself were glowing, rather than merely reflecting the moon and stars; the sky was dark, and all color had been leached from the world. His boots were full of powdery snow that was melting and soaking his feet; his coat was frosted with snow that had been blown from the drifts, and the butt of the spear he had slung on his back dragged across the mounded snow wherever the drifts came much above his knees, tugging at him every so often. He was having second thoughts. The chances of getting to the Wizard Lord before an alarm was raised were not really good, he knew, and anywhere in Barokan, Artil would have his magic. He could fly away and leave Sword facing a hundred guardsmen. He could fly out of reach and send animals or weapons at Sword. He could summon storms. The Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills had used beasts and storms against the Chosen, and while Artil had never done so, had instead relied on his soldiers, there was no reason to think that would last. If Sword became a real threat, then Artil would surely resort to magic, as Wizard Lords always did.
