The snow had turned to mud three days past, leaving the road to Hillholt a long smear of gray-brown filth between brittle fields. A cold, wet wind came crawling in from the eastern fens, carrying with it the stink of old frost, dung heaps, and damp woodsmoke. Garran tugged his cloak tighter around his shoulders as he trudged down the track, one hand resting on the old belt knife at his side, though he doubted it would do much good against the kind of trouble these roads could offer.
The summons had come at dawn, a boy on a mule with a token hung round his neck and a name he could barely pronounce. Garran, bastard of Hillholt, to answer the levy. By order of Ard Tyric Varnholt, rightful master of Hillholt and sworn vassal to Lord Corren of Stonemere. The words had sounded grand enough from the boy's trembling lips, though Garran doubted even half the villages it passed through would send the men they owed.
And yet here he was, bound for the holdfast on frost-bitten roads while crows circled the bare-limbed trees above.
The kingdom was bleeding again.
Some petty lord along the Darran Fords had claimed a patch of land too close to another's millstream, and now banners were rising like storm clouds across the eastern marches. Garran knew what that meant. Oaths sworn, levies raised, men sent to die for rivers and old insults. It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last. The high lords in Calreth's royal court would look the other way until one of their own bled out in the dirt.
And men like Garran would be the ones doing the bleeding.
Ahead, Hillholt Keep rose from a low, stony hill, a squat timber palisade with a watchtower listing slightly to one side. Smoke clung to its rafters like a shroud. Garran could already hear the ring of hammers on iron, the lowing of oxen, and the bark of a sergeant's orders as the levy assembled. He spat into the mud and kept walking.
He passed a cluster of farmers dragging sacks of barley toward the granary, their faces drawn and hollow. No smiles. No greetings. The harvest had been thin, the snows had come early, and now the Ard was calling away what able men they had left to swing spears on his behalf.
By the Mother's mercy, the fields will be bare come spring, Garran thought grimly.
At the gate, Ser Branric, the old castellan, stood with a scroll in one hand, barking names as men approached.
"Weylin Dorr! Reder Hollis! Oswin Fletch!" The castellan's voice cracked the air like a whip.
Garran stepped up when his name was called. Branric's bloodshot eyes fixed on him, brow furrowing.
"Garran of… Hillholt," he said, as if the words themselves tasted sour. "The bastard."
Garran didn't flinch. "Aye, Ser."
"You'll take your mark and stand with the levy. Spear and shield from the quartermaster. No horse for you. You'll march on foot like the rest."
Garran nodded, resisting the urge to snap back. Bastards were always last in line and first to bleed. That was the way of things.
The castellan marked his name with a smear of ink. "See you hold the line, boy, or I'll have your guts for garters."
"I'll stand as long as your gold pays for bread," Garran said quietly.
Branric's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing more. There were too many names left to call and too few willing hands.
Garran took his leave and crossed the yard, where the levy milled in loose knots. Peasants in patchwork cloaks and homespun tunics, some armed with rusted spears or woodcutting axes. A few carried short hunting bows better for rabbits than men. None looked eager. None looked ready.
At the weapon racks, Ser Noryn, a gray-bearded soldier who'd served the old lord, shoved a cracked shield and a pitted spear into Garran's hands.
"You break it, you die," Noryn grunted. "And don't ask for another."
The spear was old oak, its iron head chipped and stained, the haft splintered near the base. Garran ran a thumb along the grain, noting the weak spots.
It would do.
From the walls, the Ard's banner fluttered against the dull winter sky. A black hawk on a pale gray field, ragged at the edges.
The levymen gathered as the final names were called. Weylin, a broad-shouldered farmer with a shock of red hair, caught Garran's eye and gave a tight nod. Reder, lean and sharp-faced, muttered something under his breath about crows and coffins. Oswin, youngest of them, barely seventeen, clutched his spear like it might save him from what was coming.
Garran took his place among them. The line formed. The gates opened. And the levy of Hillholt marched east, into the waiting war.