“It’s going to be black dark before we make Littlebridge in this muck, and that bad hole’s still to come. We’re starting to break up in the rear. There’s a place to camp along on the right; it’ll be out of the wind if it stays as it is.”
“Yes, sir. Do you mean that old wanderer campground?”
“That’s it. There’s a spring straight downhill.” The captain wheeled his horse and rode back past the column. Paks noticed that he looked as wet as she felt. She was glad they were stopping soon. The next two hundred paces seemed to take forever. She watched Stammel search the edge of the woods.
“See this path?” he asked. Paks could barely see a dim gap between the trees. “We follow this; it’ll open out on a firm slope. Stay on the path; we don’t want the tribe angry with us.” He led the way, and Paks followed. File by file they slipped into the woods. After a few twists and turns, they came to a large clearing, dim now in the dusk, but easily large enough for all. Paks followed Stammel to the right, and they settled down under a row of cedars to rest. Stammel went back to direct the others. It seemed to take a long time. Paks began to stiffen in the cold, and her belly cramped and growled as if she’d never eaten lunch. She looked back through the trees and saw a flickering light—torches—someone had gotten torches from the pack mules.
The light roused her, and she stood, swinging her arms back and forth. If they were camping, Stammel would want a fire. And the captain had said something about a spring, and they’d need a ditch—she looked around for her file, and called them over. The other file leaders of her unit looked up, listening.
“As soon as we can get a torch,” she began, “we can see to set up. Same assignments as night before last, except I don’t know if we’ll be cooking. I’ll find out. Wood gatherers, try to find something dry—at least not soaked. Everybody up and get working, or we won’t sleep dry.” She was sure they would have a miserable night.
It seemed to take a long time to get organized. Torches sizzled in the rain, giving barely enough light to see, until the main campfire finally caught. The clearing was a slightly irregular oblong, edged all around with thick cedar trees, and sloping just enough to shed water. Off to one side was a smaller clearing where Stammel told them to dig their trench. The tribe, he explained, always used it so. Paks and Malek went with Bosk to find the spring, down slippery wet rocks until they heard a frog splash into open water. By the time they came back, the fire was burning well, and Stammel had them fill several kettles. Steam rolled up from their wet tunics. Bosk took the packet of ground roots and herbs for making sib, and poured it into the kettles.
“It’ll be stronger this way, and bitter, but we need it strong.”
Paks stirred the brew with a wooden spoon, enjoying the fire’s warmth. More and more of them were clustering near the fire to eat their ration of trail bread and salt beef. Bosk assigned someone to stir the other kettles.
“Here, Paks.” Her file-second handed her a share of bread and meat, and squatted beside her. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so wet, and had to sleep out.”
Paks grunted around the hunk of meat in her mouth.
“You should see Kefer’s unit,” he went on. “Mud to the waist, it looks like. I wonder how much more of this there is.”
Paks finished chewing the beef into submission, and washed it down with a swig of water. “I guess it depends on how long it rains. Lucky for us we were in front today. If they change the marching order—”
Keri looked startled. “They wouldn’t. The Duke himself said we were the first.”
“As an honor, yes. But in this—whoever marches last has the worst of it. It slows us all down, and it’s not fair.”
“Maybe it will dry off tomorrow.”
“Maybe.” Paks stirred the brew again, and took a bite of bread. Her right side, near the fire, felt dry and hot; she shifted to the other side of the kettle and decided to take off boots and socks. She could dry her socks on the firepit rocks. She struggled with her boots, and had one off and the other half-off when she saw Stammel approaching. She tried to stand, but he waved her down.
“Don’t get up. How’s the sib coming?” It had begun to smell good. He dipped the spoon in and took a sip. “Another half-hour, I expect. Don’t scorch your boots. I wanted to talk to you about the order of march tomorrow.”
Her head came up. “You’re changing it? I wondered if you would.”
Stammel looked surprised. “I didn’t think you’d expect it, but yes. It’s nothing to do with the honor, you know; it’s the mud. The last unit has the hardest time, and slows us.”
Paks nodded. “I thought so. How will you change it?”
“We’ll change places every two hours—the change will keep any one unit from wearing down, I hope. The mules will go first; with those narrow hooves they have a bad time in soft ground anyway. You’ll be the last unit when we start, then move to second and first in rotation.”
“Why can’t we walk in the fields, when the road’s so bad?”
Stammel shook his head. “No. We don’t trample fields. It’s one of the Duke’s rules, and one of the reasons we can travel without trouble. The farmers don’t fear to see us coming.”
“How far do we need to go?”
“Tomorrow?” Paks nodded. “We’re almost an hour’s dry walk from Littlebridge, and the next good stop beyond that is Fiveway—a nice day’s march in good weather, and I don’t know if we can make it in the rain. Depends.”
Paks turned her socks over; they were almost dry. “Is it usually like this?”
“Sometimes. There’s a lot of rain south of Verella, all the way to the foothills of the Dwarfmounts. Then it’s usually drier, going west and over the pass—not bad at all once we’re in the south itself. By then it’s summer anyway. But this stretch of road—three to six days depending—is always bad if it rains. You’d think the Council in Verella would do something, with all the trade coming this way, but they haven’t since the old king died. They leave it to the local landholders. And they just leave it.”
Paks thought back to the city she’d seen that morning: a very different world from the wet dark clearing. “Sergeant Stammel, why did that man call us carrion crows?”
Stammel grunted. “You heard that, did you? You don’t want to listen to that sort. Well—crows follow a battle, I suppose you wouldn’t know that—they come to feast on the carnage. And some folks call mercenaries that, as if we were bloodseekers.”
Paks thought that over a moment. “But who were they? They had rich clothes. And why did they say that about the Duke? He really is a duke, isn’t he?”
“Them? Town bravos is what they looked like. They’d like to be thought lords’ sons by their dress and jewels. As for our Duke—I haven’t heard anyone dispute his title—any time lately, at least. He’s Duke enough for me, and more worth following than some pedigreed princeling that can’t sit his horse without a tutor, or draw blade without six servants to protect him.” Stammel stopped short, and stirred the fire for a moment. Paks asked nothing more, but turned her socks again. They were dry, and she brushed the dried mud from them. Stammel tasted the sib again and shook his head.
When the sib was finally ready, Stammel dipped a large spoonful of honey into each kettle. After a mugful of that stout drink, Paks felt warm to her toes. Her unit, being least tired, had the first watch. For the first hour or so the drizzling mist lightened, and Paks hoped it might stop entirely. But heavier rain returned, hissing and spitting in the fire. Stammel brought a length of waxed canvas to lay over their store of wood.
When the watch changed, Paks took her dry cloak from the protected pack with a feeling of futility. Everything was wet. She found a space under a cedar where the tree’s thick foliage kept the rain from falling directly on her, but she was sure she would not sleep.
Stammel’s call took her by surprise. She had slept the night through, despite the damp. She unrolled her cloak and crept out. A wet mass of cedar foliage smacked her in the face. Paks shivered. Around her the camp came slowly to life. She stretched the kinks out of her back, then looked distastefully at her sodden boots, and walked barefoot to the firepit.
The last watch had put porridge on the fire as well as sib. Paks checked to see that her file was up and moving, then took her place in line. Her wet cloak dragged at her shoulders. She wondered if they would pack the wet cloaks or wear them. When she could get near the fire, she turned her back to it, hoping to dry the cloak. The hot food warmed her; she wondered if she could march barefoot, and save her boots. But Stammel explained the dangers of this, and she resigned herself to the discomfort.
Soon they were ready to leave; yesterday’s last unit grinned slyly as they filed away through the trees. Only
