“Of course, we’ll take you right there. Is there something the matter?”
Dujahn planted his hands on his hips. “Nothing I can discuss with you. Take me.” He nodded to the ring of fires. Sentry soldiers were the same the world over, Dujahn thought. They were intimidating behind a picket line with twenty other soldiers pressing about them stupidly, but as soon as they realized you weren’t impressed with their authority, they turned into sniveling weasels. The sentry captain ordered the rest of the watch to gather back at the pickets. Extending his arm, the captain pointed the way through the lines and started off at a brisk walk. The buzzing from the insects was drowned by the clank of pots and the hiss of campfires. Smears of mud and drying ruts made the ground uneven. Mashed bootprints were everywhere, marring the stone-cut road of the old Shae highway. The Shoreland Regiment hunkered across the only road through the Shadows Wood and stretched deep into the forest on each side. Dujahn shook his head, surprised that King don Rion hadn’t heard about it yet – or sent one of his Dukes down with an army. His defense ministers deserved to have their eyes stabbed out. The Bandits wouldn’t dare mobilize so close to the Inland! It’s all a bunch of nonsense and frightened merchants trying to keep the roads clear for trade. He knew what they would be arguing. But they were wrong. So very wrong.
“As I said, we’re expecting the Commander any day,” the sentry huffed, dodging pit fires and mule carts. “Mage warned us to prepare to march, so we’ve broken camp and pulled onto the main road to cut off any riders to or from the north. We’re building scaling ladders and bringing in grapnels and knotted ropes…”
“You should post more sentries in the darkness farther south,” Dujahn suggested. “The Kiran Thall spotted me too late because I was riding without a torch. I would hate for the governor of Landmoor to find out you’re blocking the Iron Point Road.”
“That’s true, I guess,” the sentry captain mumbled. “I’ll take it up with Hallstoy. Say, are you working for Commander Phollen or Folkes, or was it General Dairron?”
“Who I work for is none of your business.”
The captain gave him a wounded look and walked the rest of the way in silence. The bulk of the force was still on each side of the Shadows Wood, but the command staff had moved into the center where the road was flat and wide and the perimeter guard around it was defensible. But vulnerable, too. Dujahn shook his head and muttered an oath. Without a strong leader, a regiment could easily fall apart all by itself. He couldn’t understand why Commander Phollen would try to organize a siege without being there to direct it. And here he was, Dujahn thought cynically, to help Miestri rattle the regiment and make it even more ungainly. That wouldn’t be too difficult…
“There’s Hallstoy’s tent,” the captain announced, pointing towards the command pavilion. It was ringed with Kiran Thall and officers, each dispatched with the evening orders. The smell of roasting boar and black-feathered jackdaw lingered in the stale air. It was muggy and fetid – Dujahn hated the Shoreland swamps. He was introduced to the chief officer on duty and then escorted into the pavilion where he could hear the Bandit colonel swearing.
“I don’t care that he’s a banned merchant! Take his cart, lock him in irons, and tell him to join the Bandit Rebellion. If he doesn’t, let him wear the chains for a few days! Get out. How are the supply lines? Are we ready for the march? Good. It’s banned time. Now what do you want, Bonner? Fetch me more ale.”
Dujahn stepped past the tent curtain. It was stifling inside, and he tugged at his collar so he could breathe the air instead of swallow it. Hallstoy was just as tall as Commander Folkes, and he was built like a bear. A white scar went from his bottom lip down the side of his chin, and he had three more criss-crossing along his scalp where the hair had never grown back. Sweat glistened on his face, but he still wore the heavy chain tunic and black and gold-lined armor of the Rebellion. He argued with a colonel about where the Kiran Thall should tether their horses and muttered an obscenity. “And what do you want, Komsin?” he asked the duty officer, giving Dujahn a look of contempt. “Caught another merchant on the road? Did you hear what I told Captain Shokle? Arrest them all. They’re fools, Sons of Fire, all of them! This is a war!”
“This is Dujahn,” the duty officer announced, getting the colonel’s attention. “He’s Gray Legion.”
Hallstoy’s eyes narrowed and he grabbed a towering goblet of ale half a cask deep. Taking a long drink, he wiped his stubbled chin and squinted at the new arrival with more than a casual interest. “So you’re Dujahn,” Hallstoy breathed, obviously having recognized his name. That was flattering. “What does Folkes want?”