‘I am not a soldier, Galar Baras.’

His shoulders shook in silent laughter, ‘Oh, have I not heard that said enough yet?’

‘How can you hope to resurrect the Hust Legion?’ she asked. ‘To what it once was? Where, sir, will you find glory in these men and women?’

He straightened, but kept his face averted. ‘I can but try.’

* * *

‘Nothing downtrodden in yonder peasants,’ Prazek observed.

‘Nothing peasantry in them either, brother,’ Dathenar replied.

Ahead upon the track stood a score or more figures. They had been hurrying from the west, bundled under gear wrapped in blankets and furs. Upon spying the two approaching riders, they had drawn up in a clump, barring the way.

Clearing his throat, Dathenar said, ‘Lacking a king, they merely await your first and, one hopes, most stirring speech, Prazek.’

‘I have speech to stir indeed.’

‘Emotions to churn, thoughts to swirl, but save your last handful of spice, Prazek, for the final turn.’

‘You invite a burning hand, Dathenar, to give bridling sting to my slap.’

‘Shall a slap suffice? I see not the yoke of drudgery before me, but loot collected in the dark, and in haste. And see how they are armed, with cudgels, spears and brush-hooks.’

‘Forest bandits, perchance? But then, why, their zeal with said brush-hooks is unequalled in the annals of wayfarers, for not a tree stands to hide their hidey-hole.’

‘Zealotry has its downside,’ Dathenar added, nodding.

Three over-muscled men had stepped out from the crowd. Two wielded spears made of knives bound to shafts, while the one in the centre carried a pair of brush-hooks, one of which appeared to be splashed with frozen blood. This man was smiling.

‘Well met, sirs!’ he cried.

The two riders reined in, but a dozen or so paces distant from the three men.

‘Met well indeed,’ Prazek called back, ‘since by cogent meditation I conclude you to be recruits of the Hust Legion, but it seems you travel without an officer, and perhaps have found yourselves lost so far from the camp. Fortunate for you, then, that we find you here.’

‘For this day,’ Dathenar added, ‘you will see our lenient side, and rather than tangle your mob’s many legs with something as mentally challenging as a proper march in cadence, you can scurry back to the camp like a gaggle of sheep.’

‘Sheep, Dathenar?’ Prazek asked. ‘Surely, by the belligerence arrayed before us, we must consider the simile as inaccurate. Better we deem them goats.’

‘Listen to these shits!’ one of the men said, and the others laughed. ‘You sweat perfume too, do you?’

‘Goatly humour,’ Prazek explained to Dathenar. ‘Forever barking up ill-chosen trees. Sweat, good sir, belongs to the unwashed multitudes, such as are lacking the civil hygiene of panic well hidden. If perfume you seek, why, set nose to your own arse and breathe deep.’

‘Prazek!’ exclaimed Dathenar. ‘You bend low to crass regard.’