They kept a brisker pace upon the trod road. Since they had departed from the village, the skies had held their breath, granting them clear weather. Unless a traveler wandered off the main path toward water-sources where the earth turned to soup, the ground beneath their boots remained solid, packed dirt, a blessing that made moving down the way infinitely easier for both horse and man.
What Mariol had said about the road proved true. The royal highway leading toward what was once the proud seat of power for the princes of Oizen was far safer than any track Vilon and Owen had trodden in here.
Along the way, the thick forest began to thin, though the dead men did not. Some were nailed directly to the thick trunks of ancient oaks as was the way of the Yarzats, while others simply swung from high branches, perhaps to save on precious iron nails. They came in all varieties: fat, withered, young, and old; some as bald as river stones, others with long, matted locks.
