In the Shadow of the Storm -Chapter 1-15

Chapter 8

Chapter 8 - Althalos

Althalos did not initially spot the figure seated in one corner. Believing himself unobserved, the elf took a moment to look around the room in an attempt to glean any information about this ‘Lord Agravain’ whom he was about to meet. Along one wall was a shelf with a few books on it. There was a very conspicuous gap, and he guessed the books which usually occupied this space currently lay on the bed of his room.
Next to this was a weapon rack, holding a few swords and a beautifully crafted crossbow. To his right, another door was set into the wall, right next to the one he had entered through, and Althalos supposed it led through to a bed chamber. It was only after he had taken all this in that his eyes wandered to the desk, which was well ordered, and beyond, into the shadows beneath the large window which was the room’s sole source of light. Even despite the shadow, Althalos thought he should have spotted him, but then he realised the reason he had not. The man was sat perfectly immobile, with his eyes fixed on Althalos. Short, brown hair covered his head and a good portion of his face. In between were set a pair of blue-green eyes. He seemed of average build, and altogether unremarkable.

When he noticed that the elf had seen him, he rose slowly to his feet, and walked around his desk. As he did so, he extended a hand.
“Althalos, it is an honour to finally meet you.” The words were softly spoken, but they sounded loud in the space, breaking the silence as they did.
Althalos warily gripped the offered hand, shaking it. The custom was still peculiar to him, given it was a human one. He understood the idea behind it; the idea was to show that you were unarmed, and so posed no threat. In The Empire, there had been no need for such a ritual due to the fact that there had been no instance of an elf killing another elf in their recorded history.
“Likewise.” He injected just enough dry irony into the comment that the man opposite raised his dark eyebrows.
“Oh really? I would have thought not. Doubtless you only heard my name for the first time a few days ago.” The light-hearted response was completely unexpected by Althalos, and so he was least prepared to deal with it. In the Lancer Corps, the mere event of him speaking had been met with sneers and general contempt, and yet here was a Laternae man treating him as an equal.

Dumbfounded, all Althalos could manage was a wordless nod.
Agravain laughed, and the sound was rich and booming, in complete contrast to the prior softly spoken words.
“Believe me, I have questions for you, but I am sure you also have things to ask me, so ask away.”
Still unsure of his position, Althalos began cautiously.
“Why did you kill Modred? Who are you? Why am I being kept here? And where is here?” The questions came out in a rush, although Althalos tried to keep his accusing tone in check.

Agravain clearly still heard it though, and frowned. He paused before answering, considering each of the questions carefully.
“’Here’ is the Central Fortress of the Royal Crossbowmen, in the Inner City, and I am Lord Agravain, the Defender of the Inner City, Commander of the His Majesty’s Royal Guards, and of the Royal Crossbowmen.”
Althalos was pleased that his guesses had been correct about both of those questions.
“As to why you are here...that is more complicated. I assume your kind is still interested in uniting the various human states in the face of ‘The Darkness’?” Agravain waited for Althalos to nod before continuing.
“Well, there are certain factions within the Republic who believe your tale, and would be interested in forming an alliance with your people. The reason we abducted you was so that we could remove you from the Lancer Corps, and return you to the East with a message.” Althalos was stunned. He had thought of the Laternae as united behind the king, simply because he had forgotten just how divisive humans were as a race.
“I take it then that the Lancer Corps are not among these ‘factions?’”
“That would be correct. In terms of the military, the Royal Crossbowmen are for you, and the Lancer Corps against. Past that, I am afraid I cannot divulge.”

Althalos was not sure about that, but then remembered his other question.
“Why did you kill Modred?” He was ashamed he had forgotten the question, even if only for a moment.
“The Lancer?” For the first time, Agravain seemed taken by surprise. He looked questioningly at Althalos.
“He was a friend.” The words came out before he could stop them. He supposed it had been true. The two had grown to become friends since they had met two weeks ago, without either of them realising it. The admission somehow made the young man’s death more real, rawer, and Althalos suddenly felt great sorrow. His shoulders slumped, and his head dropped to his chest.
“Then I am sorry. The orders I gave were to capture the two of you. We would have dumped him somewhere in the city and only taken you. I honestly do not know what went wrong.” In truth, there did not seem to be much of an apology in Agravain’s tone, but the words seemed credible enough. It would have been troublesome for him to have killed a Lancer in the street if Modred had been part of a powerful faction as had been implied.
Althalos made no indication that he had accepted the apology, so Agravain continued.
“If you have no serious objections, I would like you to leave immediately. The only reason I haven’t met you before is that I had to deal with the fallout from your capture first.”

“You mean Modred’s murder?” Althalos interrupted angrily. He felt that the whole event had only been skated over, almost completely disregarded. Agravain remained calm, and nodded without speaking. There was a slightly awkward pause, before the Crossbowman continued.
“There are horses in the stable, and two of my men will accompany you for safety. The roads are becoming increasingly dangerous. Rogue tribesmen from the Waste are roaming the countryside, and there are disturbing reports coming out of Saphrax, of a resistance movement.”
There was another pause, and then Althalos nodded in agreement.
“Very well, but I will not be subordinate to them.” Althalos had no wish to trade one servitude with the Lancers for another with the Crossbowmen.
Agravain’s brow furrowed at the odd request, but nodded.
“Of course not. They are subordinate to you, there only to protect you, what with your...injury.” Agravain grimaced as he gestured to Althalos’ twisted and crippled wrist hanging at his side.

Althalos’ face twisted, and suddenly he was embarrassed about his obvious deficiency. This was swiftly followed by anger at his embarrassment. Agravain did not say anything during the obvious internal struggle, but waited for Althalos to speak.
“May I leave now?” The words escaped amidst the elf’s inner turmoil, and it was clear Agravain was relieved when he sighed.
“Very well.”
With that, Althalos turned back to the door he had entered through, and pulled it open. The old man and his two escorts were gone. In their place were two other men, both in their late twenties by the look of it. They both had the same look about them, and Althalos guessed they might be brothers. Each of them had the same long, straight nose, and the hair sprouting in every direction from their scalps was nearly identical.
***
Katja

The dust cloud thrown up by hundreds of horses was blinding, and resisting the urge to itch her eyes was maddening. She had to concentrate on guiding her horse according to Ingvarr’s roared orders. Part of a group of fifteen, there was still some confusion, with horses bumping into each other, but it was a massive improvement from the first few daysm where they had been struggling to retain coherence. It had been a few weeks before Katja had realised the true purpose of the drill training.

It was not, as she had initially thought, to get them riding in blocks but rather just to get them riding together. She had fully applied herself, grateful not only for the opportunity to be involved but also the command role which had been conferred upon her.
The drills involved a lot of wheeling, riding hard in one direction and then peeling off. As she spurred her horse forward, her group following, another mass of horses veered in front of her. On the verge of pulling up to hurl insults at them, they were saved from her tongue when they carried on their course, leaving her path clear.

Glancing around, she saw Ingvarr standing in his usual place, with perhaps the hint of a smile. For some reason this made her happy, although it was not even clear whether he was smiling at her.
Later on the same day, the troops filed into lines next to the long row of archery butts. Selecting a quiver of arrows from the table, she took a place at the end of the line, before sending ten arrows in quick succession into the centre ring of her target. Ignoring the ragged cheers and whoops from the women around her, she backed away, allowing the next archer her turn. It had appeared fairly early on that she was a more than proficient shot, which had earned her grudging respect among even some of the male soldiers - those who could get over simply staring at her at least.
**
Ingvarr

“Good, good!” As arrows thumped into targets all down the line, Ingvarr was hard pressed to contain his praise. To begin with, recruitment had been slow, with only a few trickling in each day, but soon the trickle became a flood and in what seemed like no time at all, there were more than a hundred men and women joining in with his training drills.

At first, he had simply had them riding around as units, completely unarmed, just to get the idea of moving as a group across to them. With this proving successful, Ingvarr had, barely a week later, moved on to actually forming lines and more disciplined blocks. For this, he had stood in the centre of the field roaring orders and manoeuvres for the various units to complete. As it became clear that this would not be achieved as successfully as the prior exercises, he expanded his training regimen.
Each morning was devoted to conducting manoeuvres, with Ingvarr standing fearlessly in the centre of the swirling dust clouds kicked up by the passage of scores of horses. Every afternoon was then spent either training in hand-to-hand combat or, as today, at the lines of archery butts. The recruits certainly enjoyed the afternoons more than the mornings, and it was especially evident at the butts, pride lighting their faces as arrow after arrow struck the smallest ring on the targets.

While Ingvarr appreciated their existing skill, he knew that the hardest training was yet to begin. The most difficult part would be teaching them to ride, fight and shoot as a unit. The morning drills were improving with every repetition, but progress was still painfully slow. And still, Fyodor had not returned with the last of the councilmen. He had been gone closing on two weeks, although various members of the council had been appearing a few at a time out of the waste. Ingimirr had met with several of them, and had warned Ingvarr against being too overt with his recruitment and training. While this did not exactly fill him with hope, Ingvarr remained unable to understand such violent opposition to his proposals.
***
Althalos

The two men inclined their heads in unison, and then held out hands in a similar fashion to Agravain. Althalos took each in turn without a word. Once the greeting was finished, he finally spoke.
“You are to be my escort?”
One of them nodded.
“Sergeant Tobrecan, at your service. This is my baby brother: Corporal Sceotend”
Althalos raised an eyebrow, and the first one nodded.
“He’s four hours younger than me. Doesn’t think much of the term though, even if I am the better twin.”Tobrecan grinned, exposing nearly as many gaps as there were teeth.

The other, ‘younger’ twin seemed to take the joke in good humour, theatrically rolling his eyes as though it was the thousandth time he had heard it.
Despite himself, and the anger he still felt at Modred’s unfair death, Althalos immediately liked the pair. For some reason he felt slightly guilty at the thought, but then told himself he was being stupid: these men were unlikely to have taken part in the ambush, and neither of them had killed Modred. Agravain himself had said that the death had been an accident, so it was unfair to blame the entire faction for his death. Besides, these men were treating him as more of an equal than any Lancer but Modred ever had.
The trio moved away from Agravain’s rooms, the two men flanking the elf, and continuing their banter the whole way to the stable block on the ground floor of the building.
“That one’s yours.”
Tobrecan indicated a flea-bitten coloured horse immediately to the right as they entered the stables. Althalos thanked him, and entered the stable. The horse already carried its saddle, complete with saddlebags, so Althalos busied himself checking the tightness of the cinch strap. His two escorts had moved on, readying their own horses.

When it was clear they had not yet finished, Althalos decided to have a quick look through the saddlebags. He found a few bits and pieces in one: some food, a leather waterskin and small coil of wire, which Althalos imagined would be fairly useful for trapping. There was also a fair amount of coin, presumably to pay for food and the like.
In the other, he found a spare set of underclothes neatly folded, and a hooded cloak, which he immediately donned. By this time, the others had finished readying their mounts, and had led them out into the central, stone-paved avenue of the massive stables.
Althalos followed suit and swung up with only a little difficulty. Once he had, he took a little time to examine the horses they would be travelling with. The horse waiting near Sceotend was a dark bay mare, and Tobrecan’s was a pie-bald gelding. Both horses seemed anxious to be gone, and Althalos wondered looking around how long they had been kept cooped up in here.

The two Crossbowmen were making final checks on all their equipment. They would be forsaking the traditional mail of their kind in favour of discretion. Instead, they would both be wearing toughened leather jerkins and rough-spun trousers. Both still carried their crossbows, slung across their backs, with a bag of quarrels at their hips. Slung on each of their saddles was a non-descript sword. The two men swung up into their saddles almost in unison, and Althalos stifled a chuckle.
Both of the men looked round at the unfortunate sound which resulted. Realising it was too late to recover, Althalos let himself smile.
“Is there nothing you two don’t do together?”
There was silence for an instant, and Althalos began to fear he had misjudged the Crossbowmen.
His fears were allayed however, when Tobrecan let out a great booming laugh, loud enough to disquiet the horses. Sceotend joined in, and Althalos relaxed.
“I didn’t think you elves had a sense of humour. Guess I was wrong – this might be a fun trip after all.” Tobrecan grinned at him, and Althalos returned the smile.

As they exited the gloom of the stables and emerged into the birght sunlight, Althalos realised how long it had been since he had been outside. He was suddenly far more appreciative of the cool, fresh air, when it was compared to the warm stale air of his cell.
The light of the summer sun hit him in the eyes like a physical force, and Althalos was temporarily blinded as his eyes attempted to adjust to the sudden change.
The trio set out into the pristine, paved streets of the inner city, and Althalos was quick to pull his hood up. He thought it best to conceal his elven heritage: there was no sense in alerting the Lancers to his survival.
The sides of the hood restricted his peripheral vision and dulled his hearing, but he was still aware of the two Crossbowmen riding on either side of him. The two were silent as they travelled through the eerily quiet Inner City, and this gave Althalos the opportunity to appreciate his surroundings.

Whereas in the Outer City, it was all cramped, purely functional buildings, here it was magnificent. Elegant curves abounded, in the architecture of the buildings, and even in the structure from which they had just emerged.
While the Central Fortress showed distinct similarities with the Lancer Barracks he had stayed in briefly, the walls had been embellished with artistic curves and even paint in some areas. Althalos got the impression that the Fortress, despite its name, had not served any military function recently, if ever, and he wondered if Modred might have been right about the prowess of the Crossbowmen.
He kept his opinions to himself however, as he saw no sense in offending the travelling companions who would be with him for the better part of a year.
It was not long until they reached the wall dividing the Inner City from the Outer. The two men and an elf left through a small side gate, and were suddenly in the bustle of the streets of the Outer City.

The noises, smells and sights that had been so interesting a week before simply washed over the elf  as he rode through the throng, guiding his horse in a weaving path so as to avoid the people going about their daily tasks.
It seemed like no time at all before they had descended the hill to the outer gates. At this time of day, they stood open, with a troop of guards standing watch over the entrance, scanning the crowd for any possible miscreants. One of them fixed his gaze on the three horsemen, and turned his head to speak to the others. Five guardsmen spread out to block Althalos’ and his companions’ path. Tobrecan spurred his horse forwards, and the men opposite tensed. They need not have worried however, for the solidly-built man dismounted smoothly, walking right up to the leader.
A brief whispered conversation followed, and a small purse changed hands, before the guards relaxed and then returned to their former position off to the side of the road.

Tobrecan swung back up into his saddle, and motioned for them to continue. They passed under the massive arch of the southern gate without further incident, and were soon riding along the raised high road south towards Thurii.
All around them, fields radiated out from the city walls. Ostensibly, they provided at least some of the food required to sustain such a hub of human activity as Laternas. Althalos, with military instincts honed by two millennia of warfare suddenly felt very vulnerable, and he realised that they served another, much grimmer function. Looking around, he saw that the land was flat and open for about five miles away from the city. Any attacking army would have no cover but the shallow irrigation ditches. This was not just farmland, it was a killing ground.

The elf shivered despite the warmth of the sun, and he wondered just how much his own people were responsible for this exaggerated emphasis on warfare. The entire martial tradition of these humans seemed to be based upon an inherent hatred for his kind.
Althalos was jolted out of his dark thoughts when Sceotend rode up beside him, and slapped him on the back.
“So, where are we headed once we reach Raamses then? Lord Agravain said we were going east, but nothing more.” Sceotend seemed slightly less confident than his ‘older’ brother. It showed in his manner: there was no broad, cocky grin splitting the rugged, black-stubbled face, but rather a somewhat uncertain half-smile. It seemed that despite the jokes and the banter earlier, the brothers were still unsure of him. Althalos smiled in an attempt to put him at ease, but he was not sure it had quite the desired effect, for Sceotend did not look any more relaxed.
“I think we should make for Troezen. It’s a little further by sea, but it means we have a straight road to the capital, Astypalaea. We could go to Scione, but that would mean passing through Thasos as well, and I am reluctant to encounter too many of my own kind before I have a chance to talk to the Nobles.”

Sceotend nodded as if he understood, even though it was clear that he did not. The thoughtful expression on his face was almost comical, and Althalos tried and once again failed to stifle a laugh. The young man looked mortified, and made to ride off, but Althalos stopped him.
“I was only joking. You needn’t always take me so seriously, I’m not going to bite.” He smiled once more, and was gratified when Sceotend returned it.
“It’s only...well, I’ve only heard stories of you. I never thought to actually be talking to you. The stories...the histories...I thought you would be...”
“Different.” Tobrecan had taken an interest in the conversation and had ridden up unnoticed on Althalos’ other side.
“You must understand Althalos, each and every child of Laternas is taught as soon as they can comprehend that they need to be good, or the Oppressors will come for them. We are taught to hate you kind from our first breath. Sometimes that stereotype takes over a little too much.” Tobrecan shook his head sadly. “I for one am proud to call you a comrade. You have more honour than the rest of the Lancer Corps combined.” The man hawked and spat to the side, showing his disdain for them.
Swallowing a defensive comment, Althalos nodded in thanks.

“What are your stories? You tell me yours, and I will tell you the truth of mine.” Althalos smiled once again, but his face had begun to ache, and he realised he had perhaps been trying too hard. He let the stupid grin slip off his face, maybe a little too quickly, for Tobrecan and Sceotend on either side burst into loud, raucous laughter.
“Very well, Althalos.” Tobrecan managed to speak only after a full thirty seconds of laughter, and he still had to wipe tears of mirth from his eyes. “Our mother was a barkeep in one of the rougher areas of the Outer City, and she chose the wrong route home one night. A group of men attacked her for the coin in her pocket, and one raped her. We’re the result. We have never known our father, although we dearly would like to.”
Sceotend chuckled grimly. “So we can cut his balls off.” Althalos looked to Tobrecan to see if this was a joke, but the sergeant only nodded.
“As soon as we turned fourteen, we moved out of the city with our mother. We went to Rhegium, and got taken into the service of the local lord, Lord Isen, as archers. Turned out we were pretty good shots, so the local commander for the Royal Crossbowmen recruited us, and we got moved back to this hole.” This with a jab back over his shoulder at the city behind.
“That’s about all there is to tell, so now it’s your turn. What happened two years ago when you first appeared?”
“Well most of it is like you have no doubt heard. I did not know the kind of hostile reception I would receive – none of my kind have been this far west in recent memory. I will admit, I may have displayed a certain amount of arrogance, but I was merely trying to appear assertive. I visited several lords, and they all suggested angrily that I might come before the king. When I did, the Lancers present were not impressed, and they seized me and pressed me into service. I did not however, threaten at all, as I have certainly been accused of in the past.”
Althalos was surprised to see that both Tobrecan and Sceotend had hung on his every word, and they both nodded at the conclusion, accepting it as true. Althalos was surprised: he was used to being questioned at every turn.

Soon after that, they lapsed into silence, with Althalos smiling to himself in the shadows of his hood. They passed a good number of people on the road, which was perhaps unsurprising, but still unwelcome. Agravain had said that this was the best way to travel south, and Althalos agreed, but it was because of this fact the road was also busy. It provided the main trade route between Laternas and Thurii – and by extension Saphrax.
***
Kendryek

After a few days of mourning in the privacy of his own room, Kendryek realised he was supposed to be starting the training of the new recruits the next day. He had trained men before, but over the past few days he had begun to privately question the moral quality of the Corps Command. Although he had not asked, Kendryek had become increasingly sure that Modred’s death in itself was unimportant to the Lord Princips, and he only saw it as a political weapon to use against the Royal Crossbowmen.

When he had first joined the Lancers, each officer’s death had been mourned, and there had been a proper funeral or memorial service for those who had known him. The Lord Princips at the time had made sure to attend as many of them as possible, a trait which had made him beloved of the men he commanded. The current Lord Prnicips however, had not allowed Modred’s body to be released, claiming that it was evidence to use against the Crossbowmen. The announcement had been met with grumbling among the ranks of his Troop; the men who had known him well. Kendryek had heard all sorts of reasons from the men about why Modred’s body was remaining hidden, ranging from political conspiracies that the Lord Princips had had him killed for fear of his potential to the more outlandish that he had been killed by the elf, who had then escaped and was now roaming the streets, hunting any Lancers he saw.
Whatever the real reasons behind Modred’s death, Kendryek was unable to move past the fact that he was gone, let alone the fact that he had been seemingly assassinated, rather than dying in battle. It seemed perverse to him that the young man survive the trials of the front only to die for apparently no reason in the city that was supposedly safe.

Kendryek slept badly that night, and rose in a foul mood the next morning. He dressed quickly, wanting the day to be over already. Trudging down to the stable block, he selected a thick-set courser, one of his four mounts. Kendryek had trained Lancers before –three separate Troops in fact- and knew that the days were long and hot. While the temperature would certainly be harder on the recruits, he did not want to ruin his finer destrier.
The ride through the city was claustrophobia-inducing. Not only were the streets already busy, the air was thick and heavy, and his tired, old lungs struggled to suck in the soup-thick air.

When he reached the outer gates, Kendryek noticed that four nervous and obviously inexperienced soldiers were already waiting. He could tell almost immediately that they were knights, from the way they held themselves, and inwardly groaned as he realised that they must be his appointed Strike Commanders. Even if they were slightly young, Kendryek was forced to admit they were spirited, all dressed up in full armour.
As the courser slowed at the gate, the four of them finally looked at him, and Kendryek realised he was without any of his distinctive equipment.
Due to the heat of the day, Kendryek had decided to forgo his mail, which would have marked him out, at least in this part of the country. Chainmail was fairly hard to get hold of inside the city, and this meant that the vast majority of people wearing it in and around the city would be Lancers.
He had also decided to leave his crested helm in his quarters, meaning that he was dressed in simple britches and a light, padded jacket, and these made him look much like many of the other men wandering the streets.

The only reason the men had glanced at him was probably the quality of his mount. When he got close enough, Kendryek reached into a pouch at his hip and withdrew a scrap of parchment, thrusting it at the nearest youth.
“I am to be your Colonel through training, and until another is raised.”
The man scanned the parchment quickly before nodding and handing it on. He held out a hand.
“Sir Desmond, at your service, my Lord.”
Kendryek took it, and the others followed suit, introducing themselves one by one. Sir Feran, Sir Garrett and Sir Melechan stepped forward one by one.
When it was done, Kendryek began to settle more into the command role he was so used to. He was still somewhat grumpy, having slept badly, but vindictively decided to keep it pent up for the recruits. His philosophy when it came to training was simple: he made his recruits hat him. Kendryek had found it to be very effective.

It meant that when he praised them, they would appreciate it all the more, and if they hated him, they would all have something in common.
To begin with, Lancer training was split into two sections: military theory in the mornings, and physical exercise in the afternoons.
The first day would be different however, as usual. The morning passed at a crawl, which did nothing to improve his sour mood. He was introduced to each of the Lancer commanders; a full compliment at this stage – some fifty men. As well as this, he was introduced to the independent administrative branch of the Troop.

The main figures within this branch were included in his command staff. There was a personal bodyguard: a scarred, grizzled knight who, despite his obvious experience was under thirty years of age. As well as this, and one step subordinate to Kendryek were the senior Strike Commander, Sir Desmond, and the Quartermaster-Captain. The two held equal military rank, and it showed the importance placed on organisation within the Corps.
Due to their comparatively small numbers, and the long frontiers, the Corps relied heavily on mobility, so the various units and supplies needed to be coordinated very precisely for an efficient control of the boundaries. Below these two were the other Strike Commanders, and the three Quartermasters, and together they made up the senior command of the Troop.

The afternoon was slightly more interesting, as it was Kendryek’s first opportunity to size up the recruits. In groups they ran laps of the rough field and lifted weights. It would be at least a week before any of them held a weapon – raw recruits would generally not be in any condition to wield weapons safely.

By and large, the groups seemed fairly balanced, although Kendryek knew their numbers would reduce over the coming months of hard training, as men failed to keep up. The number of men who would be deemed worthy of being Lancers by the end would be roundabout 5,000: a full Troop.
Although the men were new, and many of them had likely never exerted themselves for the sake of it, Kendryek prowled up and down, barking at those who looked to be slacking even slightly. They soon learned to work under his hawk-like, almost predatory gaze. He allowed his temper to show through, snapping at the minor officers and causing them to scurry around, encouraging their men and whipping a frenzy of activity wherever he looked. Men ran faster, lifted more, worked harder. Due to the time of year there were regular water breaks and the recruits welcomed these respites, crowding in tight to the walls and the comparatively blissful shade they offered.

Before long, they were ordered back to their feet however, and back into formation to continue their back-breaking exercises. The various drills only ceased when the sun was well into its descent. The recruits marched in ranks made ragged by exhaustion to their campsite, where they would live until their training was complete. Kendryek’s mood had not lightened despite the promise shown by some of the trainees, and so he took a sadistic pleasure informing them that a camp needed to be properly erected before they could sleep. A camp complete with boundary palisade and ditch. There was much grumbling at this, but they went about it nonetheless, their discipline evident even after just a single day.

Stretching tired and aching muscles, they heaved mounds of earth into a rough rampart, atop which a palisade was erected. Night had fallen by the time the perimeter was complete, and the majority of the men flopped down in precisely arranged tents, while the unlucky souls selected for watch duty began their tired and fairly pointless rounds of the walls.
***