The rain slackened by midday, leaving the camp slick with churned mud and sour smoke. Garran crouched beside the dice ring, watching bone cubes tumble across a flat stone. Men cursed, laughed, and wagered what few coppers remained from their siege pay.
"You throwing in, Crow-mark?" Haim asked, flicking a die between his fingers.
Garran shook his head. "Silver's spoken for."
"Always a careful one."
"Careful men live longer."
Haim snorted, rolling the dice. They landed two fours. The gathered soldiers groaned, tossing curses his way.
"Luck's turning," Haim grinned, scooping up the pot.
A shout rose near the command tents. Another dispute over spoils. A man's voice carried, harsh and raw.
"That ring's mine by claim!"
"Your claim's worth piss, you didn't bleed for it!"
The argument snapped sharp. Garran rose in time to see one of Rowe's guards drive a spear butt into a mercenary's gut, knocking him into the mud. Another lesson, like yesterday's.
"Rowe won't have peace in this camp for long," Orlec muttered nearby, his limp pronounced as he joined them. The old knight's cloak hung tattered, but his eye gleamed with grim amusement.
"Any lord would've strung a dozen by now," Garran said.
"Coin keeps his hand slow. A broke army turns ugly. He needs men walking and blades sharp."
Garran gestured toward the distant hills. "What of the Bleak Company?"
"Gone west before sunup. Left before even Rowe's hounds stirred."
"They'll be back?"
"They always come back. War's like a festering wound in these lands. Bleak men follow the stink."
Orlec dropped onto a log with a groan. "Word is Rowe rides in two days. North, toward Calrow's Ford. Another rebel holdfast dares stand."
Haim spat. "Another siege?"
"Or a slaughter. Depends on the mood."
A messenger in Rowe's livery approached. The boy barely old enough to shave, nervous and stiff.
"Crow-mark," he said, careful not to meet Garran's eye. "Lord Rowe summons."
Haim winced. "Again? What did you do now?"
"Nothing worth this much attention," Garran muttered.
Orlec chuckled. "Better you than me. Go on, boy. Keep your head down, mouth shut, and hands clear of coin purses."
Garran followed the boy toward the command tent. The path took him past new graves — shallow pits hastily covered with stones, some marked with broken spear hafts.
At the tent's entrance, two crimson-cloaked guards stepped aside. Garran entered, pausing just inside the threshold as was proper.
Lord Rowe stood by a table laden with maps and sealed letters. Halden, the reeve, at his side.
Rowe didn't look up at once. When he did, his words carried the weight of rank.
"Crow-mark."
"My lord," Garran answered, bowing his head.
"You fought well at Stonegrave. And your sword struck Harren, a man of standing. This is noted."
"I serve as ordered."
Rowe's gaze sharpened. "Men with blood on their hands are valuable in these times. And men with secrets more so."
A pause. Garran kept his face stone still.
"You carry old steel," Rowe said. "A blade of noble make."
"It was my father's," Garran answered, choosing his words like treading a thin bridge.
"No house name?"
"No claim."
Rowe studied him a moment longer, then gave a slight nod. "Very well. I have need of such men."
He gestured to Halden. The reeve unrolled a parchment.
"You'll ride with Captain Orlec's line to Calrow's Ford. Take what men you trust. Orders by nightfall. We march at first light."
"As my lord commands."
Rowe's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. "See that you don't die before then. Dead men pay no debts."
Dismissed with a flick of his hand. Garran bowed and withdrew.
Outside, Haim waited.
"Well?"
"We march."
"Saints' piss," Haim sighed. "This land won't stay quiet a month."
"No war does."
They made their way back to the fires. Garran's hand rested on the sword hilt at his side.
Names were dead things in this land.But debts lived forever.