Roper frowned as he watched them. One of the legionaries, a particularly tall figure, was walking without a pack while the man next to him carried two, one strapped to his back and one to his front. The tall figure did not appear to be particularly tired: indeed, he was laughing merrily with the figure on his other side. He had simply bequeathed his pack to a neighbour, who appeared to be carrying it willingly enough, though wearing a sombre, strained expression. Drawing level, Roper saw that the legionary without the pack was Vigtyr the Quick, the extremely tall lictor he had seen watching the Sacred Guard at prayer. He observed him thoughtfully as he marched past, wondering if there were any more to this scene than the apparent idleness.
They marched until the sun had passed overhead and sunk again below the horizon. In the afterglow from the west, the men hurried to set up camp before true darkness made their work clumsy. Roper had counted thirty-five mile markers along the road: nearly twelve leagues. Seven to Harstathur.
His reunion with the Pendeen aside, there had been less talk on this march. The men had little energy for anything but the road. And in the evening, Helmec, hands shaking with fatigue, had taken a full ten minutes to strike a fire. Too proud to take a flaming brand from any of those bursting into life around him, he had persisted until at last a spark had caught the fragment of charred linen he used for tinder. Then he waited patiently, drawing several deep breaths and composing himself before adding the smouldering cloth to a bundle of stripped bast and blowing a fire into life. The darkness, nearly complete on a night when the clouds smothered the moon, was insatiable.
They gathered in the fire’s shifting light and boiled another pot of salted mutton. Tekoa brooded hopelessly, scarcely bothering to reply to anyone. Even Pryce was largely silent; spent by the day’s effort. To Roper’s relief, Gray kept talking. With little input from anyone else, he held court with his weary audience.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I got put on grave-digger duty?” Gray began unprompted, looking around the fire. “Stop me if you’ve heard it. This was after Prestaburgh. I’d forgotten to hobble some of the baggage ponies the night before and managed to earn myself a flogging and a stint on burial. We were at it all day: the bodies kept arriving and we kept digging them graves. It was raining a bit and the work was slow. Then one of the peers went to fetch water and it was agreed that we should play a joke on him. I’d cover myself in mud and battered armour and lie down with the other bodies, pretending to be dead, and then when he came back to try and hoist me into the grave, I’d grab him.” Some of the men were grinning. “Seemed like a good idea; I was young and keen so I got ready, lay down in the mud next to one of the other bodies and waited. I was there for a while, waiting for the man to come back. Then the body next to me grabbed my hand and said, ‘Bit damp down here, isn’t it?’”
Laughter rang out across the fire.
“One of the bodies was alive?” asked a guardsman, earnestly.
“The body was the man I’d been waiting for,” said Gray. “Dressed up while I was digging to terrorise me. It was obviously a joke they did quite a lot but my screams seemed to be of particular satisfaction.”
Roper led the column again the next day, pretending he could not feel the stiffness in his legs or the pain in his wounded thigh as the road began to climb. They were drawing near the ancient crossroads of Harstathur, where they planned to camp the night before advancing to battle at Githru. Roper dispatched Helmec and one of the Rangers on horseback to act as heralds and invite the Sutherners to battle, arranging to rendezvous with the pair of them on top of Harstathur.
As they climbed, the trees began to fall away from the road, growing thinner, slighter and finally disappearing. Two hours before sunset, the road at last levelled and they found themselves at the top of a mighty stone outcrop. Harstathur was shaped like an enormous rectangle, though significantly broader at the end opposite the legions than the one they had entered. The crossroads radiated from each corner of the rectangle and, at its longer edges, the plateau sloped steeply away to provide ample defence for the flanks of any army that might occupy the stage. Its nickname, the Altar of Albion, was well bestowed. It indeed resembled a vast sacrificial table. There was no way of knowing how high they stood but they had been climbing for hours and the air was significantly colder than in the shelter of the valleys. It was easy to imagine that whatever unfolded atop it might be particularly conspicuous to the heavens. It felt weighty. Significant. Gazing across it, Roper took a moment to envisage the ancient battle that had stained this place.
The legionaries were grateful to have arrived and began to set up camp. The sun had fallen beneath the edge of the plateau before Helmec and his companion found them. They had evidently been riding hard and Roper brought them straight to his hearth, presenting them with a bowl of hoosh before asking the results of the errand. “The Sutherners are coming,” were the first words out of Helmec’s mouth.
“Did you speak to Lord Northwic?”
“Yes, lord. He and Bellamus both.” Helmec described how he and his companion had ridden into the Suthern encampment bearing a white flag. “They’re petrified of us, lord!” said Helmec with glee. “Petrified! Their warriors were trying to look tough but a glance was all it took to
