Tirrsmont at twilight and spent the night behind the castle’s grey stone walls. The lord of Tirrsmont pleaded scant room inside the buildings of his inner bailey. He also pleaded scant food, though he feasted Duke Baird and two of the senior knights, along with his own family, on suckling pig, saffron rice and other delicacies.
Camped in the outer bailey, the army was jammed in among thin, ragged survivors of last year’s fighting who were housed there. Kel looked into the commoners’ haunted eyes and felt rage’ burn her heart. Most of the newcomers’ rations of porridge and bacon went to the refugees. They accepted the food in silence and fled.
“How can they treat their own people so shabbily?” Kel asked Neal. “The lord and his family look well-fed.”
“You worry too much about commoners,” remarked Quinden of Marti’s Hill, who shared the first-years’ fire. “They always look as pathetic as they can so we’ll feed them. I’ve never met a commoner who doesn’t beg while they hide what they’ve stolen from you.”
“You’re an obnoxious canker-blossom,” Neal snapped. “Go ooze somewhere else.”
“On your way, Quinden,” added Merric. “Before we help you along.”
Quinden spat into their fire to further express his opinion, then wandered off.
“I pity the folk of Marti’s Hill when he inherits,” murmured Kel.
In the morning they rode on to Fort Giantkiller. This was country that Kel knew, though the trees were bare and the ground clothed in snow and ice. They were entering the patrol area she had covered the year before with Third Company. This was hard land, with little farming soil. Any wealth came from the fur trade, silver mines, logging and fishing. They might have trouble feeding themselves if supply trains didn’t arrive. On the bright side, the enemy would have even more trouble staying fed, with the mighty Vassa River at their backs to cut off supplies from Scanra.
Some daylight remained when they reached Fort Giantkiller. Kel saw many changes. The fort had been turned from a quickly built home for a company of over one hundred into a fortress with two encircling walls. An abatis had been installed on the outer wall: a number of logs sharpened on the forward end, planted in the side of the ditch. They made a thorny barrier that horses would baulk at trying to jump. Watchtowers now stood at each corner of the inner wall. The Tortallan flag snapped in the wind. Below it flapped the commanding officer’s banner, a rearing black dog with a black sword in its paws on a white field bordered in gold: the arms of Fief Cavall. Below it were the flags of the army brigade charged with the defence of the district.
Inside, Kel saw even more changes. Third Company’s tents were gone, replaced by two-storey log buildings. Giantkiller now housed at least five hundred men, their horses and supplies. Lord Wyldon had taken command of the district even as Kel and Lord Raoul had ridden south for her Ordeal. He must have rushed to get all his troops decently housed before winter put a stop to most outdoor work.
“Kel, Kel!” someone cried. A stocky young man barrelled into her, flinging strong arms around her to give her a crushing squeeze.
“Mithros save us, I’d forgotten the Brat,” Quinden muttered behind Kel.
Kel looked down an inch into a familiar round face and laughed. Owen of Jesslaw’s grey eyes blazed with delight; a grin revealed wide-spaced front teeth. His cap of brown curls tumbled over his forehead. As Wyldon’s squire, he wore his master’s badge and colours. “We knew you couldn’t hold the border alone, so we came to lend a hand,” she said as he released her. Owen’s wild courage was a byword among the pages and squires; he would throw himself into a fight even when he was outnumbered.
“Neal, you came!” Owen cried as he crouched to scratch the gleeful Jump’s lone ear. Sparrows swirled around his head as he did so, cheeping their own welcome.
Camped in the outer bailey, the army was jammed in among thin, ragged survivors of last year’s fighting who were housed there. Kel looked into the commoners’ haunted eyes and felt rage’ burn her heart. Most of the newcomers’ rations of porridge and bacon went to the refugees. They accepted the food in silence and fled.
“How can they treat their own people so shabbily?” Kel asked Neal. “The lord and his family look well-fed.”
“You worry too much about commoners,” remarked Quinden of Marti’s Hill, who shared the first-years’ fire. “They always look as pathetic as they can so we’ll feed them. I’ve never met a commoner who doesn’t beg while they hide what they’ve stolen from you.”
“You’re an obnoxious canker-blossom,” Neal snapped. “Go ooze somewhere else.”
“On your way, Quinden,” added Merric. “Before we help you along.”
Quinden spat into their fire to further express his opinion, then wandered off.
“I pity the folk of Marti’s Hill when he inherits,” murmured Kel.
In the morning they rode on to Fort Giantkiller. This was country that Kel knew, though the trees were bare and the ground clothed in snow and ice. They were entering the patrol area she had covered the year before with Third Company. This was hard land, with little farming soil. Any wealth came from the fur trade, silver mines, logging and fishing. They might have trouble feeding themselves if supply trains didn’t arrive. On the bright side, the enemy would have even more trouble staying fed, with the mighty Vassa River at their backs to cut off supplies from Scanra.
Some daylight remained when they reached Fort Giantkiller. Kel saw many changes. The fort had been turned from a quickly built home for a company of over one hundred into a fortress with two encircling walls. An abatis had been installed on the outer wall: a number of logs sharpened on the forward end, planted in the side of the ditch. They made a thorny barrier that horses would baulk at trying to jump. Watchtowers now stood at each corner of the inner wall. The Tortallan flag snapped in the wind. Below it flapped the commanding officer’s banner, a rearing black dog with a black sword in its paws on a white field bordered in gold: the arms of Fief Cavall. Below it were the flags of the army brigade charged with the defence of the district.
Inside, Kel saw even more changes. Third Company’s tents were gone, replaced by two-storey log buildings. Giantkiller now housed at least five hundred men, their horses and supplies. Lord Wyldon had taken command of the district even as Kel and Lord Raoul had ridden south for her Ordeal. He must have rushed to get all his troops decently housed before winter put a stop to most outdoor work.
“Kel, Kel!” someone cried. A stocky young man barrelled into her, flinging strong arms around her to give her a crushing squeeze.
“Mithros save us, I’d forgotten the Brat,” Quinden muttered behind Kel.
Kel looked down an inch into a familiar round face and laughed. Owen of Jesslaw’s grey eyes blazed with delight; a grin revealed wide-spaced front teeth. His cap of brown curls tumbled over his forehead. As Wyldon’s squire, he wore his master’s badge and colours. “We knew you couldn’t hold the border alone, so we came to lend a hand,” she said as he released her. Owen’s wild courage was a byword among the pages and squires; he would throw himself into a fight even when he was outnumbered.
“Neal, you came!” Owen cried as he crouched to scratch the gleeful Jump’s lone ear. Sparrows swirled around his head as he did so, cheeping their own welcome.
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