Mud clung to every boot. The camp's march lines stretched out in ragged order, ox-carts groaning under spoiled grain and rusted spears. Rain hung thick in the air. A foul stink clung to the road — old blood, wet wool, and the stink of too many unwashed men forced too close for too long.
Garran walked beside Haim, his sword at his hip, cloak heavy with mist.
"Two days in the muck," Haim muttered, spitting into the mud. "And not a clean fireside in sight. Saints curse this land."
"Land was cursed before you pissed your first breath," Orlec grunted, riding past them on his lean mare. His face looked worse for wear, fresh bruises mottling his jaw.
"You get that from a rebel?" Haim asked.
"From a bottle, you fool. Lost a throw at the captain's dice. Turns out you can't call a hedge knight's mother a sow without paying in teeth."
A few men laughed, the sound dry as cracked leather.
The road forked ahead, a half-rotted signpost leaning crooked. Letters half-carved into the wood read Calrow's Ford — 12 miles. The paint bled down like old blood in the rain.
Garran eyed it. "Reckon they'll hold against us?"
Orlec snorted. "They'll shut the gates, piss from the ramparts, and pray to outlaw saints. Same as every cursed holdfast in the March."
"Bleak Company won't be here this time," Garran said.
"Which means more coin for the rest of us," Haim grinned. "And fewer bastards claiming relics."
"Means we bleed for every stone," Orlec growled. "You think Rowe rides a siege line without crows at his back? Fool."
They passed a clump of levies dragging a half-dead pig on a rope. The animal squealed like a dying man.
"Better eating than rat," one soldier called.
"Not by much," another answered.
A crone sat by the roadside, hair tangled, muttering over a pile of charred bones. She traced symbols in the mud.
"Saint's bones, leave her be," Orlec barked when a young soldier made to spit at her. "You mock an old witch in the March, you'll wake with your teeth in your hand."
The boy backed off, face pale.
"They always crawl out of the hills when war comes," Haim muttered, shivering. "I've seen it before."
"War stirs up worse than crones," Orlec said. "Old debts, bad names. Men who should've stayed dead."
Garran knew the truth of that too well.
A rider came up fast from the rear. One of Rowe's liverymen. The man's horse heaved, mud streaked up to its chest.
"Captain Orlec," the rider called.
Orlec wheeled his mare, brow furrowed. "Speak."
"My lord summons his captains at dusk. War council at the old watch hill."
Orlec grunted. "Tell him I'll be there, clean or not."
The rider spurred off.
"Another siege plan," Haim guessed.
"Another mess we'll wade through while Rowe counts his silver," Orlec spat.
They moved on, dusk gathering like a fog. The road narrowed between twisted oaks, old gallows posts leaning crooked in the dark. Nooses still swayed on some, though the bodies were long gone.
Garran's fingers rested on his sword hilt, watching the shadows.
"You feel it?" Haim asked, quieter now.
"Always."
A place like this reeked of old killings. Every stone had seen blood. Garran didn't need old wives to tell him the dead lingered here. He'd known it since boyhood, when the March had burned his house and scattered his blood.
And soon it would burn again.
He pulled his cloak tighter.
"Best be ready," Orlec muttered. "If Calrow's Ford won't yield, we'll take it stone by stone."
"I'll wager on stone," Haim grinned.
"You'll wager on anything."
They pressed on as the light bled from the sky, another cursed holdfast waiting ahead.