Dawn found the western ridge still smouldering, a long scar of pyres that burned all night without creeping closer. Hans stood on the gate wall, one hand on the parapet, counting smoke columns like other men counted prayers.
"Eleven fires, sir, last night there were twelve," Jonas reported from the next merlon, chewing a heel of bread with the confidence of a boy who never lost anything important.
"He let one die on purpose, he wants us counting," Hans said, not looking round, his hand tapping the parapet in the old rhythm of the hound bell.
"If he's coming to kill us, sir, why does he sit on a hill and cook his dinner?" the boy asked, waving the crust at the ridge as if the Marshal might answer.
"A man who burns his own soldiers for warmth doesn't cook for the cold, boy, he cooks for the audience."
"Walk back from him when he finally comes, boy, retreat is a weapon," Hans added, "and the only one he never learned to fear."
