"Gerald," Nathan said. "Get up."
Gerald was on his feet before his eyes were fully open, hand on his sword. "What is it?"
"Look."
Gerald went to the door and looked. He didn't say anything. He just went pale.
There were about sixty of them. Men and women, old and young, standing in the field with their tools in their hands. None of them moved. None of them blinked. All sixty faces were turned toward the barn.
Then they started walking.
They didn't run. They walked, all at the same speed, across the furrows they had just dug. A man near the front stepped into a ditch, fell to his knees, got up, and kept walking with mud on his legs. He didn't look down.
"They're farmers," Gerald said. "Nathan, they're just farmers."
"I know."
"I'm not cutting down farmers."
"Nobody is cutting down anybody," Nathan said. "Faen. How long would it take you to cover that door in ice?"
"Thick enough to stop sixty people?" Faen was already standing. "Too long."
