“Merry met, Ard Rí,” Oak said, using the old tongue’s term for a High King. “And to you too, Bjarni Ironrede. Join us; there’s plenty for all. And Mother sent along some of her BBQ sauce.”

“That’s an offer I’ll accept gladly,” Rudi said. “Aunt Judy’s herb-lore is of the best, for healing and cooking both. And merry met to you as well, Fred, Virginia. How are your men shaping? More in?”

“Two hundred thirty altogether, sir,” Fred said. “And they’re shaping very well indeed. A lot of squads decided to come over together and they’re glad to be in the field instead of in a camp.”

Rudi sat on one of the rocks that had been rolled around the fire. Absently, he noticed Edain detailing units of the Archers to eat by turns while the others stood watch; Bjarni’s guard-chief was doing something similar.

I’ll just be learning to live with that unsleeping vigilance, for I think it’s my fate, he thought.

Darkness was falling now, as the long summer twilight faded; the coals underlit the faces around him, giving them an odd bony look with the lanterns in the tents throwing contrasting shadows. The meat had gone on the fire, mostly on wooden skewers, sending up fragrant smoke and making the coals flare where drops of fat landed. There was a bubbling pot of beans stewed with onions and dried tomatoes and chunks of bacon, another of greens, and one of the helpers was frying sliced potatoes in a pan.

“This is more like a hunting trip than a war, so far,” Oak said as plates were handed around. Grudgingly, as he took a loaf of rough maslin bread from a basket and tore off a piece: “The PPA has done all they promised in the way of supplies. We’re even getting these from the city bakeries by the wagonload every day. And they’ve assigned us enough wells, though only just.”

Rudi understood the scowl. Oak’s sister Aoife and his foster brother Sanjay had all died in the wars against the Association. But his foster father had been killed by the CUT in the battle at Pendleton last year. Chuck had been First Armsman after Sam Aylward resigned the position, but Oak hadn’t inherited it because of anything but proved ability. He’d been his father’s right hand for years anyway, as Chuck had been Sam Aylward’s before him. The Clan had an informal approach to such matters.

“It’ll be dog biscuit and jerky soon enough,” Rudi said.

He pulled the eating tool out of the little sheath on his dirk scabbard, with a spoon on one end and a fork on the other.

“You’re ready?” he went on, catching the chunk of bread Oak tossed him out of the air and sticking the fork-end in it.