It only took a glance for me to know that I didn't like the legate Carson. He was the youngest son of a Tross lord, still too confident about his position. Short and arrogant, he knew how to be smooth with his superiors, while behaving like a would-be potentate with all those who were subservient to him. He didn't like the Vals, that much at least was obvious, but since he still didn't really seem to know what position they occupied, he treated them with a haughty deference that I found intolerable. When he entered our pavilion shortly before departure, it was to announce that the command of the rear guard would be given to a captain of the militia and that, for the time being, there was no room for discussion.

Carson himself would not travel with the supply convoy, and his personal guard would accompany him to join the seneschal directly. Clearly, the task the primate had assigned him seemed thankless to him and he preferred to delegate it. Ofrid quickly figured out the character and decided to lay low: the Vals could always deal with the captain in question once Carson had left.

As the crow flies, Ac-Pass was just over fifty miles east of Garnear. Taking into account the state of the roads, the weather and the topography of the Thorns foothills towards which we were heading, we could hope to reach Vittori's army in about twelve days. Our ranks included about sixty lancers and mercenaries, mostly brownians or highlanders, thirty-nine Val cataphracts and their fifteen yunlings, a handful of auxiliaries from the Five-Cities or Vass, and a detachment of twenty longbowmen from the Wadd cantonal militia. One hundred and fifty soldiers, who escorted more than three hundred civilians, a whole cohort of workers, cooks, grooms and drivers. Added to these were the craftsmen, many of whom were woodworkers, lumberjacks, carpenters and their apprentices, a few blacksmiths and a surgeon from the Alessa academy, sent by Nawd Corju himself, with his infirmary cart and his three assistants. At the rear, there were also a number of individuals who had joined the procession purely for their own ends. A few bonesetters that I wouldn't have trusted to remove a splinter, dubious merchants, and two dozen desperate whores, from the four corners of the world. All these people stretched on a little more than one mile and advanced under the showers with a depressing slowness.

It was the livestock that slowed us down more than anything else. Wadd's offensive strategy was simple: by launching an attack on the heights of Ac-Pass in late autumn, the Corju army could lay siege to the town during winter. The tactic was unconventional, but the cold season snows made Ac-Pass difficult to access, especially on Hill side. Vittori's forces, safe from a counter-offensive for several moons, would have more time to conduct the siege and fortify their own positions. The maneuver relied heavily on quality supplies, so the long convoy we were escorting was to arrive with its stocks intact, ready to face the harsh winter.

Even though a good half of the carts were filled to the brim with fodder, it was up to us to graze the animals on the way as much as we could, three hundred of them, whose daily efforts increased their appetite. Carson had given us permission to use Wadd's pasture as we saw fit, which didn't make us very popular with the local population, especially since, once the animals were fed, the local lords were also supposed to feed our men.

To the horses and oxen was added all the logistics that inevitably accompanied this kind of journey. Breaking camp in the morning and setting up a bivouac at the end of the afternoon took a few more hours out of the increasingly shorter days. Assembling the large tents under which we stayed took time, and then we had to take care of water, wood for the fires, and meals. In theory this was the responsibility of the workers, in practice everyone did their bit, because no one was willing to wait around in the rain. Many people complained about the conditions, but I didn't count myself among the ranks of the malcontents. Thanks to the ember carriers, no man had to struggle every night to light a fire with flint. Meals were served hot and, even if there was not as much variation as in Garnear, it was a nice change from dry sausage and white root. During the rare moments of rest, there were games, stories and even music. Life was so much more convenient in a group that I soon began to wonder how Ulrick and I had managed to stay alone for so long.

The brownian captain in charge of the expedition was a tall, gray-haired, mustachioed guy who commanded the squadron of archers. His name was Danto Morvin. He was a strict but friendly 50-year-old, with broad shoulders and enough knowledge to understand that the experience of the vaïdoerk would be of great help in organizing the convoy: his twenty men were already struggling to keep order in the mercenary line. In consultation with Ofrid, he had agreed that five mounted cataphracts would ride back and forth along the line to maintain cohesion and a semblance of discipline. This obviously displeased the other soldiers and, with the rain, their resentment against us only increased. Towards the end of the second day, a drunken young highlander decided to assault Wimred Hadman. When Wimred Hadman advised him to drink less and to go back in line, things got out of hand. The highlander got really angry until he was hit with a spear. Wimred broke his jaw and both arms. The wounded man was put on the infirmary cart and this served as an example to the others. They hated us from afar, murmuring their hatred as the horsemen passed by, but after that there were no more threats, and no more altercations.

The paving of the road came to a halt after four days of travel, when we reached the border with the Canton of Ac-Pass.

Two dilapidated stone towers stood not far from the demarcation line. The sky was purplish and oppressive, and before my eyes, the landscapes that I had once found heavenly had turned into bleak plains, washed out by autumn showers. The wind was forcing its way from the eastern heights, sweeping the column with waves of cold water, sometimes tearing away the canvas of tents and carts. Morvin called for a halt soon after we set foot on Hill's grounds, and we busied ourselves setting up camp. Straight ahead, as a mocking background, lay the daunting chore of the next week. The stone road was followed by a muddy path, made even more impassable by the terrain.

The trail winded in vicious loops through a succession of rolling foothills, streaked with woods, streams, and broken rocks. Our final destination, the Ac pass, appeared beyond, a great gap through the surrounding mountains, as if once a forgotten titan had split the chain of Thorns in two. From this infernal mouth, a raging wind came down on us, a breath loaded with icy blades that stung our reddened faces.

I accompanied Ulrick on patrol, my eyes squinting in the rain.

The horses climbed a dripping mound, while on the path below, indistinct figures shrieked. The wind rattled the soaked felt, which twisted in the gusts of wind. "Jask says the weather will be fine tomorrow," I shouted without conviction. Ulrick turned his scarred face towards me. Drops tinkled on his nasal helmet. "Maybe," he said in a loud voice. "It'll have to stop sometime." We slowly skirted the head of the column, and crossed the muddy road. A little further on, a wooden bridge was foaming under the assault of the stream, which it now only half covered. Berda folded her ears and snorted, water trickling down her thick muzzle. The grooms were grazing the rest of the herd a little further north on the hillside. Our horses could see that and would have preferred to be with them.

Ulrick tugged on his reins as a group of brownian workers crossed our path, quibbling loudly, leading one of the oxen by the tether. Between the bridge and the hillside, the stream had formed a sort of natural pool, and to my astonishment, they led the animal down the loamy slope to the bubbling stream. The ox waded awkwardly through the water, half-submerged by the current, bellowing and shivering as the rain crackled around its dark flanks. "What are they doing?" I asked the Val, pointing to the beast as the men set up a tarp nearby on the bank of the basin. "It's a Tross specialty," Ulrick answered. One of the workers, an old man who must have caught bits of our conversation, gave me a toothless contortion. "If we catch plumps, we'll give you one to taste," he hissed gently. "They like rain, I heard." Ulrick thanked him for his courtesy. I frowned. "What's a plump?" I muttered in a low voice, while pressing Pike against Berda's steaming flank. "You'll see," the warrior replied with a smile. "We just have to wait."

So we waited, hunched over our mounts while the bivouac was being set up all around. The ox in the water added its plaintive mooing to the hubbub of the camp. Something slammed on my thigh. I was startled and looked down at Ereck who was giggling in the rain. "So, waiting for dinner?" he asked with amusement. "Vesuke," Ulrick said. "Don't spoil the surprise for Fyss, he doesn't know what to expect yet." Ereck came to stand between our two mounts and his hand absentmindedly stroked the dripping sides of the horses. "Morvin had the highlander that Wimred beat up dropped off," he declared, turning his gaze to Ulrick. "He'll never fight again, if you ask me, not with his arms in that condition. It makes the others gossip."

Ulrick nodded. "Let them gossip," he growled darkly. "They'll have forgotten it tomorrow, when they start walking for good. The paved road is all right. They'll have less strength to gossip when we get on the Pass." There was a stinging gust of wind that momentarily silenced us. I sniffed. I had tried to exchange a few words with the Alessa surgeon shortly after the altercation with Wimred, but he had not bothered to talk any further and had made it clear that he would do without my medical opinions as much as my company. His superior attitude and the disdainful looks of his assistants had drawn the line: I was a soldier's apprentice now, not a surgeon's apprentice, and I didn't belong in their world anymore. "Jask says the weather will be fine tomorrow," I said to Ereck. "He's been saying that for three days," Ereck answered.

"I wish we had news of Vittori, or even Carson," Ulrick sighed suddenly, to no one in particular, his gaze fixed on the ox that wavered in the current. "The brownian militiamen think the same," I said cautiously. "I heard them discussing it with Morvin at noon." Ereck clapped me on the thigh again, and I cursed angrily as I tried to kick his helmet off with my boot. "Everyone thinks the same, Fridkayer," he said. "Even the stupidest of spearmen." Ulrick's mouth twisted. "I'm glad you're both amused. But consider this instead: tomorrow we'll be well into Hill's land, and we didn't even have a messenger to tell us if the road was clear." Ereck managed to grab my foot and, despite my protests, snatched a boot from me and nonchalantly threw it over his shoulder. "We'd have seen a messenger if there was a problem," he replied in a kindly voice as I did my best to rub my stinky socks on his nose. "But you're right, it would be better to know." He noticed the workers who were staring at us with an evil eye, because we were conversing in valsi. With a friendly gesture Ereck waved at them, then he turned around and disappeared behind the rainy veil as quickly as he had appeared.

After he left, I reluctantly left my saddle to retrieve the boot. Ulrick was holding Pike's tether and he began to shout my name as I was still hopping around in the mud. I turned around and limped to the bank while trying to slide my uncertain foot into the leg strap.

The men were pulling up the ox that was slipping in the clay. The rain underlined the impressive musculature of the animal, under the thick skin, the flesh rolled, contracting like a living mechanism. Then, as the beast of burden passed the slope, I noticed the black shapes clinging to its shivering flanks. There were a dozen of them, as thick and long as my forearm, wriggling frantically. Suddenly I realized that they were monstrous leeches, and a bewildered and revolted fekk escaped from my lips. "There's a joke I forgot," said Ulrick as I climbed back on the saddle, my eyes fixed on the ox. "It's about a Tross sailor who never learned to swim. The Siltes are full of that crap. That's why we don't swim in there."

I watched the old brownian with morbid fascination as he went around the shivering beast to pull out the large leeches, then impaled them by their heads on a hook with a thick string.

Soon, because of the weight, a second man had to come and assist him. "Doesn't it hurt?" I asked in a small voice. "He doesn't feel a thing," the Val told me. "Before the Sertilians started trading mad-care, we used plumps. Some healers still use them, by the way, but you need them fresh, and they don't live long out of the water." He spat in the mud. "I've been told that plumps can drain a man of his blood without him even realizing it," he finished in a morbid tone. When the Brownians had finished their work, the trembling ox was taken out to pasture, and the old man, covered in dirt and washed-out blood, came over to us. He handed me a string with a particularly fat plump twisted around it. "The best thing to do is to throw it into boiling water," he said mischievously. "Then you cut it into slices." I gulped as I grabbed the wiggly plump, and I think my hesitation made the workers laugh. As it was the end of Ulrick's round, we swung the horses around to return to the relative warmth of the pavilion.

I tasted some plump that night. In front of the other yunlings, Sven challenged me to eat the first portion. I had taken the old man's advice and in my bowl it looked like a big slice of sausage. The taste was better than I expected. The outside was chewy, but inside, the beef blood had coagulated like a blood sausage that was missing only a few pieces of rind. With a pinch of salt it was quite tasty, but the appearance was still repulsive and most of the Vals proved to be much less brave than their reputation would suggest. Sven decided to make a joke out of it, and he wandered around the tent offering as many as he could.

The last one to refuse was the impressive Rared Rotsakk, who ducked out claiming that he had had so much trouble watching us cut up this faithful replica of his manhood that it had spoiled his appetite, which caused everyone to laugh in the tent. We all went to sleep in good spirits, despite the bad weather.

Against all my expectations, Jask's prophecy came true the next day. The wind was still blowing strongly, but the sky had become miraculously clear, with only a few white clouds sailing westward at high speed. We set out on the foothills road in high spirits, even slower than before, but at least we weren't travelling under the rain. The road went up and down, the carters were fighting each other to go first, because at the back the muddy hinges that opened on our passage sometimes revealed stones or old trunks that could cripple the oxen, or break the wheels of the carts. On either side of the road, the hillsides climbed upwards, their sides covered with pine trees and bushes, so that most of the time, the convoy was stuck, without much room to maneuver, and a broken axle could stop the column for hours. From time to time we would come across abandoned farmhouses perched above the road, grey and sinister. They had been systematically emptied of their livestock, and the terraced crops left to the wild animals or the flames.

I got my first real taste of war eight days later, when we passed through Lager, a small, half-burned town with a blackened stronghold that had been consumed by fire. The air smelled of smoke, and in the sloping fields behind the houses I could hear the sound of blow flies. There were dead bodies up there, but no one bothered to go and see. When the first riders arrived, a flock of screaming crows rose from among the charred beams to circle the convoy and cawed until we left. The wind still carried the smell of carrion, and by way of welcome, the charred body of a dismembered girl lay on the doorstep of one of the first houses. She lay in the damp ash, her back covered with oozing holes. There was an unnatural silence as we passed through the devastated town, the disgust of the most virtuous civilians echoing the shameful contempt of the soldiers, who knew very well that they could have done the same, and perhaps worse, had they been given the chance.

Seized by horror, I forced Pike to stop at the Lager crossroads, my eyes pondering the three other paths that led off from there. I wondered how many more villages had been burned, how many more tales of death and terror could be found on each of them. I had expected to fight when I arrived to Ac-Pass, but not against myself. Not against the shame and guilt that I couldn't suppress. I had been made an unwilling accomplice in the devastation that Vittori had left in his path. I knew that war was not just about soldiers. It was also about the lives they shattered along the way. It was very different to see it with my own eyes. Ulrick shook his head, Ofrid did the same, and I condemned them both for what had happened, for their contradictions and their silence. As free men, they could withdraw their support from those responsible. Since they would not do so, I suddenly came to think that this made them equal to the gedesleffe they spent their time decrying. I didn't give voice to my revolt, and contented myself with urging Pike towards the exit of the slaughterhouse, while despising my own mutism.

When a few less scrupulous mercenaries broke ranks to search the houses, Morvin ordered us to hurry. He made the convoy move a little longer than usual, because the surrounding fields had been burned and our herd would not find much to graze on. We left the town to scavengers, moving onto the more open ground beyond, and eventually settled down for the night at the bottom of a wide valley overlooked on the north by a large wooded hill. The mood in the camp had changed drastically. A dog howled mournfully in the damp ruins we had left behind. Even among the Vals, everyone seemed to have turned inward in a kind of strange, mournful contemplation. Sven didn't make any jokes that night.