Two days before, they’d run into another group with the remnants of another garrison, mostly younger soldiers, only one officer who was beneath Gregson in rank. He had been almost painfully relieved when Gregson had reluctantly taken control of the remains of his unit and the forty civilians and three wagons they’d been protecting.
He might have turned them away to fend for themselves, but they’d had food. He wasn’t certain how long it would last, not with nearly three hundred refugees, but at least most of the men in the group knew how to hunt and trap. Although even that had been restricted. The closer they came to Temeritt-it could only be a few days away now-the more activity they’d seen from the Horde. They were closing in on the city, their scattered groups coming together and squeezing all of the refugees between them. He’d become increasingly convinced that they were going to have to fight their way through to Temeritt, if they arrived in time to make the city at all.
His gaze passed over the rest of the men, and a couple of women, gathered to watch the match. He scratched at the bandage on his left arm, the bite marks beneath itching, then caught himself with a grimace.
“Pair up as many men as we can spare with the civilians. Use whatever you can find for weapons. Don’t give any of the able-bodied men a choice. Tell them if they want to see Temeritt alive, they’re likely going to have to fight.”
Terson nodded and Gregson moved off toward their encampment. There were still a few hours of sunlight left, but he hadn’t dared move on beyond the small field, the waist-high grasses now trampled down into a rough mat beneath his feet. The scouts he’d sent out ahead of them had reported the roads safe only up to this point; they hadn’t heard from them since. Gregson tried not to let that fact bother him. The scouts had been late before and it meant nothing. The one time he’d pushed on regardless, they’d nearly run into a party of Alvritshai.
The five wagons were drawn up in a rough circle, a few of the women, Ara included, butchering some of the small game the hunters had brought in. He’d reluctantly agreed to allow a fire, hoping the breeze that whispered through the surrounding trees would be enough to disperse the smoke. As he entered the small circle, a group of children emerged from the closest section of forest, arms laden with branches. They screamed in delight as the two women who’d accompanied them herded them toward the fire, one tripping and falling, bursting instantly into tears. Their laughter cut strangely through the somberness that passed between the adults in the group.
“Children are the most resilient of us all,” Ara said, jerking her knife through the rabbit’s carcass as she separated the skin from the meat. Once free, she gutted it and impaled the body on a spit, passing it to one of the other women as she tossed the skin to one side and reached for another rabbit.
“I’m not used to dealing with… children.” He’d been about to say civilians. He still didn’t understand why they were all here, why they continued to follow his orders. There was barely enough food or supplies for them all, most of the adults going without in order to feed the children. The rabbits Ara butchered had been a windfall. He was only a lieutenant, and out of the group of three hundred there were only thirty Legionnaires. Why did the others remain? Why didn’t they break away to fend for themselves, or to find someone who could take care of them better than he could?
Ara eyed him critically, up and down, eyebrow quirked. “You seem to be doing just fine. We haven’t lost a man… or woman… yet. Not since Cobble Kill.”
The men and women cut down there by the Alvritshai arrows or the catlike creatures’ claws flashed through his mind and he grimaced. He could still feel the claw marks on his legs, no longer bandaged, but still healing.
Before he could respond, one of the Legionnaires guarding the edge of the camp shouted. Nearly everyone jumped, fear skating through their eyes and faces as they tensed.
To the southeast, another Legionnaire emerged from the edge of the trees. He waved his free hand in desperation, the other holding up one of the scouts and helping him along. The young man was covered in blood, his legs barely supporting him.
Gregson was moving before he consciously thought about it, surprised to find Ara at his side, others heading toward the two men as they stumbled into the field. The Legionnaire who’d shouted a warning and another man reached them first, taking the wounded scout and lifting him off the ground, practically sprinting toward the carts.
“Over here,” Ara shouted, and grabbed Gregson’s arm to halt him before he moved beyond the wagons. She cleared a small section of grass, yelling, “Give us room, give us room,” gruffly, shoving those who lingered too long aside. Then she caught an older woman’s arm. “Get whatever rags you can find, and a bucket of fresh water.”
The Legionnaire and the other man-a blacksmith, Gregson recalled, from the new group-set the scout down on the grass and Ara began checking him for wounds. Gregson crouched down beside them as the older woman arrived with an armload of rags, their meager medical box, and a bucket of water.
“Can you hear me?” Gregson asked, lightly slapping the scout’s cheek.
Ara shot him a glare, soaking a rag and running it across the scout’s face. Blood ran away in rivulets, the skin beneath shockingly pale, almost gray. Something clutched at Gregson’s heart, but he forced it back. Three claw marks ran from the younger man’s ear into his scalp, bleeding as fast as Ara could wipe it away. Ara huffed in exasperation and left the wounds, moving toward the rest of his body. Most of the blood that covered his chest and side could have come from the head wound, but not all of it.
Gregson reached down and caught the scout’s jaw, turning his head toward him as he leaned far enough forward he could stare down into the glazed eyes. “I need you to focus.” He saw a flicker of awareness and patted his cheek again until the awareness caught and held. “What happened? What did you see?”
The scout coughed, a froth of blood spattering his lips. Gregson heard Ara rip the man’s shirt open and swear, but he didn’t turn to look. She shouted for more water, more rags, and some godsdamned thread, her voice shaking.
“What did you see?” Gregson repeated.
The scout finally appeared to recognize him, smiling even as he choked on blood. “War party,” he wheezed. “Found me. Chased me. Had to get through. Need to tell you-”
He contorted with a seizure. Ara spat curses and ordered a Legionnaire to hold him steady; Gregson leaned his arm onto the scout’s chest.
“Tell us what?” he demanded, even as the youth thrashed. He tightened his grip on his jaw, felt the muscles bunched beneath his fingers. “Focus, boy, focus. What did you need to tell us?”
The scout’s gaze locked with Gregson’s and he muttered, “GreatLord Kobel… Legion… line day distant… watch birds… not birds…”
Then the intensity in his eyes faded and his body went limp. A trickle of blood trailed down one side of his face, staining the grass beneath him.
The activity beside him ceased abruptly and someone grabbed Gregson’s hand. He turned to find Ara, hands bloody up to her forearms, staring at him intently. “He’s dead.”
Gregson drew in a breath and released his grip. He glanced down toward the scout’s face and thought about not losing a man since Cobble Kill, then swallowed the tightness in his own chest and rose. He suddenly realized he hadn’t even known the young man’s name, that he barely knew any of the newer members of his group.
That would have to change, he vowed. He wanted no more nameless men dying during his command, under his watch.
A crowd had gathered, mostly women and children, but a few men among them, including Terson.
“Terson, you have the camp. You five, come with me.” He’d selected three of the civilians-Carlson, Brent, and Orlson from Cobble Kill-and two Legionnaires, Leont and Darrall, all of them sturdy men with weapons already in hand. They must have come from the practice field.
As he moved away from the scout’s body toward the edge of the forest, the silent crowd parting before him, Terson stepped up to his side. “Where are you going, sir?”
“To verify what he saw.”
“What did he say?”
Gregson looked back to find the five men he’d selected a few paces behind them, the three civilians looking uncertain. All of them were listening, though, and Carlson, the carpenter, gave him a nod of encouragement.
“He said the front line was a day distant. We’re near the Northward Ridge. I want to know if we can see it from there.”
“Shouldn’t we wait until the other scouts return?”
He met Terson’s gaze squarely. “What makes you think they will?” he said softly.
Terson’s eyes narrowed.
“We’re obviously closer to the Horde’s line than we thought. I want to know how close, and if we have a
