Dawn rose thin and pink over the practice yard, where the snow lay packed flat as a threshing floor. Three hundred farmers in dented helmets lined the walls, stamping their feet and blowing steam into their cupped hands.
"You are sure about this, Hans, there's an army on the road?" Hajin asked, tying the last knot in his sleeve cord.
"There's an army that wants us to watch it walk, boy, so we'll watch a better show," Hans said from the wall above him.
Far down the valley, a river of orange sparks crawled toward the gate, slow, patient and close enough to count. Hans stood on the gate wall above it with his bells silent and his one hand flat on the parapet.
Tapping the stone with a knuckle, the old soldier went on, "They won't reach bowshot before midmorning, the Marshal is walking slow on purpose, he wants every man here staring at that ridge."
"So you want me to give them something else to stare at," he said, bouncing on his toes.
