“Terrible shape, poor bastards,” said Leo. “Hungry, tired, cold, poor. Above all, they’re sick. Sick of fighting, sick of Judge, sick of the whole bloody business.” He turned back to Forest, grinning. “All in all, I’d say they’re ready for the restoration of the monarchy.”

“And they’ll follow you?” asked one of Forest’s aides.

“They’ll follow anyone who feeds them,” said Jurand. “Especially if he points them in the direction of home.”

“We’ve weeded out the worst of the Burners,” said Leo, “and put loyal men in their place. But the truth is they don’t want to fight any more.” He nodded towards Forest’s tattered companies, drawn up on the rise ahead, no two the same size. “By the look of things, your men feel much the same.”

Forest’s turn to twist in his saddle and frown towards his crooked lines. When he turned back, he suddenly looked his age, weary and grey. “Reckon they might only have one more fight left in ’em.”

“Then let’s make it a good one,” said Leo, turning his horse. “Glaward, give the order! We’re marching for Adua!”

Break What They Love

The sun shone bright on the gatehouse roof, but Rikke felt an edge on the wind as Black Calder’s army spread out around the walls of Carleon. Most likely anyone feels a bit of a chill, though, watching thousands of men get ready to kill you.

“So here they are,” she murmured, lowering her eyeglass. “Looks like they’ve had a muddy old time on the way. State o’ these bastards.”

Shivers slowly nodded. “But the number of ’em, too.” He’d made quite an effort for the battle, with his mail gleaming and his war-horn at his belt, his grey hair bound back neat as a bride’s and his shield fresh-painted red with the sign of the Long Eye, the black boss its yawning pupil.

“Aye.” Rikke fumbled for a joke but couldn’t find one in easy reach. Specially with her stomach trying to climb up out of her mouth and make a run for it. More men and more kept spilling over the hills to the north, through the shadows crawling across the land from the fast-moving clouds above, forming slovenly lines in the fields around the city where the last patches of snow clung pale and dirty in the hollows.

No doubt there were a lot of the bastards. As many as Black Calder had brought to the Battle of Red Hill, maybe. A lot more than Rikke had been hoping for. Her own men looked sparse on the walkways atop Carleon’s walls. Nervous and lonely. Carls of Uffrith who’d served her father, far from home and with a leader who looked shakier every day.

Rikke had even less faith in her judgement than they did. She’d seen things, up in the hills, when the witch tattooed the runes around her eye. Splinters and fragments. Enough to take a guess at what was coming. But nowhere near enough to be sure.