Vilon was hauling hard on New Chestnut's girth-strap when Owen trotted into the yard.
It was barely dawn. The sky was a bruised expanse of soiled plum, split down the middle by the first pale, bloody fingers of the rising sun. The morning air bit through linen with a damp chill.
"Ser!" Owen called out, beaming with a grin wide enough to span a river. He was leading Thunder by the hemp halter, the massive plow-mare snorting plumes of white steam into the frost.
The lad was already clanking in full harness. Lord Edric had proved uncharacteristically thoughtful of their vagabond station; before turning them loose, he had ordered his armorer to hammer out two solid breastplates tailored so neatly a man could slip into them alone like an oversized iron shirt.
The blacksmith had grunted when took their measure, that it was an older, obsolete fashion, completely useless for the mass-levies of the modern cohorts.
