The night's frost clung to the tent ropes, turning canvas stiff and brittle. Garran woke before the dawn bell, the cold biting at his face where his cloak slipped loose. Around him, the siege camp muttered to itself. Fires guttered, and men groaned awake in the muck.
"Up, crow-bait," Haim's voice called through the dim. "Sun won't wait for dead men."
Garran grunted, rubbing his face with numb fingers. He stood, shaking out his cloak, and stepped outside to where the gray mist clung low over the ground. Haim was waiting, wrapped in a patchwork of stolen cloaks, a battered sword at his side.
"You look like a sack of piss," Garran muttered.
"And you smell like one," Haim grinned. "Orlec's gathering the riders. Lord Rowe wants a sweep along the west trench. Old fool thinks the rebels'll slip out that way."
"Better them than the Bleak Company."
"Luck's luck," Haim said, shrugging. "Crows'll get their fill one way or another."
Across the camp, men shivered into life. Dice games abandoned in the night resumed where they'd left off. A pair of levy boys fought over a dented helmet, each too proud to give way. Camp followers hawked stale bread and bad wine, their voices shrill in the half-light.
"Been word from the trenches?" Garran asked.
"Aye. Another breach opened. Some fool tried to cross and caught a bolt in the throat. They say it took him a whole hour to bleed out."
Garran spat into the mud. "Good omen."
"You're worse than Orlec."
"That old bastard's still breathing."
"Barely."
They made their way to the gathering point near the half-burned palisade. Ser Orlec Marnis sat atop a stocky gray mare, his cloak stained and his left gauntlet missing. A small knot of riders waited beside him — rough men in mismatched mail and piecemeal helms.
"Garran," Orlec called. "Late again."
"Early by my reckoning."
The old knight snorted. "By yours, maybe. Mount up."
A half-starved marsh pony waited nearby. Garran swung into the saddle, the leather cold and cracked. The beast gave a snort of protest.
"Look at this lot," Haim said, pulling himself onto a mangy destrier. "Half of them can't sit a saddle, and the other half'll piss themselves when the bolts start flying."
"That's war," Garran muttered.
Orlec raised a hand. "Listen close. Lord Rowe wants a sweep. No heroics. We ride the line, cut down any fool who thinks to climb out. Anything that moves, you put a blade in it."
"Aye, Ser," came a chorus of gruff voices.
"Who holds the purse if we take heads?" one mercenary asked.
"Rowe's man, Reeve Halden. He's camped by the gallows oak. You get proof, you get paid."
A murmur of satisfaction rolled through the riders. Coin meant dice. Coin meant drink. Coin meant whores. In the siege camp, coin was life.
"Move," Orlec growled.
The riders urged their beasts forward. Garran's pony plodded through the mud, hooves squelching in the mire. Frost clung to the dead grass, and the scent of burned meat clung to the wind.
They passed a makeshift gallows, a boy no older than twelve swinging limp from the rope. A crude sign hung around his neck, the letters crooked: Thief.
"Poor bastard," Haim muttered. "A scrap of bread buys a rope these days."
"Better than a curse," Garran said.
They rode in silence for a time, the walls of Stonegrave looming ahead. Broken siege towers leaned like drunkards against the earthworks. A scattering of crows picked at a corpse near the trench line.
"Hold," Orlec called, raising a hand.
The company reined in. Garran scanned the mist, his hand tightening on the sword hilt.
"See it?" Orlec asked.
A shadow moved near the rubble. A man, hunched low, dragging something behind him.
"Rebel?" Haim whispered.
"No," Orlec said. "A forager."
Garran's grip eased. The figure was a gaunt old man in rags, dragging a bundle of sticks.
"Let him go," Garran muttered.
"Orders are orders."
Before Garran could protest, another rider loosed a bolt. The old man dropped, the bundle scattering. No one spoke.
Haim spat into the dirt. "Waste of a quarrel."
"Waste of a life," Garran said.
"Same thing."
They pressed on. Another hour of cold, damp silence, broken by the creak of saddles and the caw of crows.
When they returned to camp, the fires burned higher. A cluster of men huddled around a dice ring. The smell of cooked rat and weak wine filled the air.
"You coming?" Haim asked, dismounting.
"Not yet."
"I'll take your coin, Stone."
"You'll try."
Garran made for the palisade wall. Orlec waited, stripping a bloodstained gauntlet.
"You've a sharp eye," the old knight said. "And too much pity."
"I know what it costs."
"You'll learn what it's worth."
Orlec tossed a pouch toward him. The weight was light, the jingle of coppers soft.
"Your cut," Orlec said. "One head's worth. Take it to the bone dice feast tonight. Win or lose, you'll drink like a man."
Garran caught the pouch, feeling the cold sting in his fingers.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me," Orlec said. "I'm a bastard, not a saint."
He limped off, leaving Garran in the fading light, the scent of death and sour wine thick on the air.
Somewhere, a crow cawed twice.
Bad omen.
Good.
He always liked the bad ones.