Only the larger trees ran heavy with sap in the winter. The oldest ones.
“Better sap in the blood than rocks in the head,” the elder man groused. He snatched up a nearby stone and chucked it Kern’s direction. Hard.
Kern slapped the missile aside. Rising to his knees, he knelt on the felt pad while he fished from a small pile of gear next to his bedding. He had worn his fur-lined boots to sleep, of course. But nothing else. Choosing the thicker of his two kilts, a brown wrap of heavy wool trimmed with a thick roll of sable, he wrapped it about himself and used a wide leather strap to belt it in place. A thinner strap held his small knife, and he fastened this loosely below the larger belt.
Metal greaves, backed by fine mountain goat wool, he strapped over his boots and snugged their caps against his knees. He pulled on the shirt-vest of chain links, and his leather jerkin over that, then pushed a silver armlet up each arm—more spoils from battle. He then shook the dust from his thick cloak and fastened it around his neck, letting it fall back from his shoulders.
His sheathed short sword lay nearby, ready to grab up in the middle of the night if needs be. He would strap it on as well.
What he had left for possessions—not much, truly—he bundled with his blanket. Second kilt. A tattered leather poncho. An extra knife and a good sharpening stone, flint and a raw iron bar good for striking heavy sparks.
And the broken, bloody spear he still carried, of course.
He’d stuck that into the ground at the head of his bedroll the night before. Now he wrenched it free. Looked at it. There was no telling if the stain of dried blood came from a Cimmerian or Vanir. Not that it mattered so much. Every one of them had bled enough since starting this trek. It was Roat’s blood, who had died in the battle for Taur. Ehmish’s blood, where the raider had cut so deep down the side of his ribs. Desa’s and Reave’s and Daol’s.
It was Ashul’s blood. Staining her kirtle and the ground beneath her. Slicking his hands as he helped carry the Taurian woman back to the lodge hall, to sew her into her own cloak, then use poles to lower her into a burning corner of the massive funeral pyre.
Such a waste.
Laying the spear across his blanket and bundle, Kern rolled the entire collection up in the felt pad. A good piece of rope tied at each end of the roll made for a sling. That, plus his sack of foodstuff and a leather flask filled with spring runoff, and he was ready to travel.
The entire camp shuffled about the morning routine. A few early risers stole quick moments for personal needs. Wallach Graybeard discarded his bloody bandages and rewrapped the bleeding stump on his left arm with new batting before belting the leather cap back over it. Daol used a bit of animal fat smeared over his cheeks to stand up his whiskers, shaving them down with the edge of his knife. Nahud’r walked to the edge of the camp and offered private prayers to the lightening sky to the east.
The others set themselves to the bare minimum. Breaking camp. Breaking their fast by gnawing on strips of dried beef or choking down crumbs of stale flat cake. No cooking fire that morning. They would gird up, and run the snow line as hard and as fast as possible, quickly clearing their way to the other side.
Only two men moved slower than most. Aodh, who had volunteered for a middle watch again. Not sleeping. And Valerus, still not used to the hard pace set by the Cimmerians. Even with his horse to carry him most of the day. He stumbled past, chain-mail shirt rustling. Rubbed the sleep from his eye as he walked half a dozen steps past the nearest man to relieve himself behind a large boulder. Returning, he squatted next to Kern for a moment, staring also at the efficient activity going on around them.
“You regret your decision yet?” Kern asked, drawing on his slow grasp of the Aquilonian tongue. Curious.
“Every waking hour.” Valerus yawned. “Which have been too damn many for any civil . . .”
Kern turned his golden eyes onto the other man. “You can say it. A ‘civilized man.’” His laugh was not forced, but neither was it humorous. “Why you southlanders take pride in your weakness is something I do not understand.”
The cavalryman ran fingers back through the ringlet curls of his light brown hair. His green eyes reflected back a reluctant agreement.
“It’s something I’m finding hard to understand as well. That’s part of what made me stay. In the times when the regret comes hardest, like now, I also see how much I’m learning.”
That had been his argument the day before, too, when Strom told Kern at the base of the Black Mountains that he and Niuss were leaving. Turning south, to follow the Snowy River line toward Aquilonia. Two days out of Gaud—one small skirmish near where they crossed a raging stream, but otherwise an uneventful run to the valley’s eastern teeth.