carry medical supplies. Durek says to take your smallest water container as water will be easy to find once we’re inside. Breakfast’ll be ready in half an hour or so, all you can eat. Briefing afterwards, and then we move.”
“Full belly before battle in the best of military traditions,” Arian grinned at her. The scarred woman’s green eyes fairly glowed in the darkness at the prospect of action. “You’ve been here before: what’re the odds we’ll get stuck into it near our entrance?”
“Not too likely as we come through in a pretty isolated spot, although you never can tell. In the past raids, though, our fighting was always inside the city proper, usually on ramps or stairways.” The Silver Eagle tossed him a casual salute and moved off to repeat her instructions.
Shaking out two of his blankets, Arian put his last two pairs of clean socks and a change of smallclothes in their center, following it with a oilskin bag containing his soap, tooth powder, tooth brush, foot powder, and his cleanest towel. Rolling the blankets into a long roll he bound it with four leather cords spaced at even intervals and then tied the two ends together, making a blanket roll that would ride over his left shoulder. He set out his mail tunic, steel helm, iron-bound round shield, a ration bag, a wood canteen, and his Healer’s kit to be donned later, packing away the rest of his gear and lugging it over to the indicated cart, falling in behind Kroh to receive rations.
When it came his turn he stepped up to Bridget, who laid out his rations on a blanket-covered chest: two hard sausages wrapped in wax paper, each as long as his forearm and three inches thick, a sealed pouch of waxed paper containing dried fruit, twenty-eight hard trail biscuits, a pound of hard cheese, a waxed paper pouch of oatmeal, and paper twists containing salt, brown sugar, and tea. In all, it was ample for four days. Of course, it might have to last a good deal longer.
“Put your gear in the back of the second cart,” the serjeant advised him, choking back a yawn. “Damn, I hate mornings.” The monk stowed his food in his ration bag and delivered his gear to the indicated cart, stacking it neatly on top of the other sacks and saddlebags. There was plenty of room: grain had made up the largest part of the cart’s cargo on the way up here as horses couldn’t travel thirty miles a day on mere grazing.
Someone whistled softly to signal that breakfast was ready; Arian drew his utensils and bowl from the pouch on the outside of his ration bag and headed to the fire, stomach rumbling. When he reached the fire Gabriella dumped a heaping ladleful of hot oatmeal into his shallow earthenware bowl, followed it with a couple thick strips of fried salt pork, and covered the whole with a layer of crusty hot dough made from flour and crushed trail biscuits. Kurt poured his wooden mug full of tea and gave him five shakes of the honey pot at the monk’s request.
Choosing a place on the tongue of a cart next to Trellan, Arian said grace and then stirred his tea vigorously before digging in to the mess in his bowl. He would have sent such a concoction back with a blistering refusal in any inn worthy of the name, but after days of a single hurried hot meal at the middle of a hard day’s ride, preceded and followed by cold rations, it seemed quite a feast.
“Want my pork ?” Trellan asked, holding the stiff strips up on his fork.
“Yes, thank you,” Arian held his bowl so the sailor could drop them in. “That’s right, you never eat salt pork, and I’ve always meant to ask why.”
The Navian bobbed his head from side to side as he dealt with a mouthful of dough. “No matter how you clean the barrels and prepare the brine, on a long voyage its green and foul by the time you’re on the last leg. Cook’ll fry it, bake it, boil it in saltwater, but nothing kills that taste, nothing at all. I’ll never eat salt pork if there’s anything else
“Full belly before battle in the best of military traditions,” Arian grinned at her. The scarred woman’s green eyes fairly glowed in the darkness at the prospect of action. “You’ve been here before: what’re the odds we’ll get stuck into it near our entrance?”
“Not too likely as we come through in a pretty isolated spot, although you never can tell. In the past raids, though, our fighting was always inside the city proper, usually on ramps or stairways.” The Silver Eagle tossed him a casual salute and moved off to repeat her instructions.
Shaking out two of his blankets, Arian put his last two pairs of clean socks and a change of smallclothes in their center, following it with a oilskin bag containing his soap, tooth powder, tooth brush, foot powder, and his cleanest towel. Rolling the blankets into a long roll he bound it with four leather cords spaced at even intervals and then tied the two ends together, making a blanket roll that would ride over his left shoulder. He set out his mail tunic, steel helm, iron-bound round shield, a ration bag, a wood canteen, and his Healer’s kit to be donned later, packing away the rest of his gear and lugging it over to the indicated cart, falling in behind Kroh to receive rations.
When it came his turn he stepped up to Bridget, who laid out his rations on a blanket-covered chest: two hard sausages wrapped in wax paper, each as long as his forearm and three inches thick, a sealed pouch of waxed paper containing dried fruit, twenty-eight hard trail biscuits, a pound of hard cheese, a waxed paper pouch of oatmeal, and paper twists containing salt, brown sugar, and tea. In all, it was ample for four days. Of course, it might have to last a good deal longer.
“Put your gear in the back of the second cart,” the serjeant advised him, choking back a yawn. “Damn, I hate mornings.” The monk stowed his food in his ration bag and delivered his gear to the indicated cart, stacking it neatly on top of the other sacks and saddlebags. There was plenty of room: grain had made up the largest part of the cart’s cargo on the way up here as horses couldn’t travel thirty miles a day on mere grazing.
Someone whistled softly to signal that breakfast was ready; Arian drew his utensils and bowl from the pouch on the outside of his ration bag and headed to the fire, stomach rumbling. When he reached the fire Gabriella dumped a heaping ladleful of hot oatmeal into his shallow earthenware bowl, followed it with a couple thick strips of fried salt pork, and covered the whole with a layer of crusty hot dough made from flour and crushed trail biscuits. Kurt poured his wooden mug full of tea and gave him five shakes of the honey pot at the monk’s request.
Choosing a place on the tongue of a cart next to Trellan, Arian said grace and then stirred his tea vigorously before digging in to the mess in his bowl. He would have sent such a concoction back with a blistering refusal in any inn worthy of the name, but after days of a single hurried hot meal at the middle of a hard day’s ride, preceded and followed by cold rations, it seemed quite a feast.
“Want my pork ?” Trellan asked, holding the stiff strips up on his fork.
“Yes, thank you,” Arian held his bowl so the sailor could drop them in. “That’s right, you never eat salt pork, and I’ve always meant to ask why.”
The Navian bobbed his head from side to side as he dealt with a mouthful of dough. “No matter how you clean the barrels and prepare the brine, on a long voyage its green and foul by the time you’re on the last leg. Cook’ll fry it, bake it, boil it in saltwater, but nothing kills that taste, nothing at all. I’ll never eat salt pork if there’s anything else
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