Sunrise. Back in Nuln, this had usually heralded bedtime as far as Pieter was concerned. Old habits died hard, and even nowadays he was far from an early riser – Lothar's soldierly habit to get everyone ready to hit the road by mid-morning had always grated on his nerves.

He won't wake us up at dawn again, he reminded himself. Why could he not feel more sorrow than that? Was his mind still reeling from Lothar's nightmarish death, as if in denial? Or had the horror of Hohlesbruck, so soon after the Delberz events, made him already cold and jaded?

The initiate blew in his stiff fingers in a vain attempt to warm them. Freezing his balls off had proved entirely futile; if, Ranald forbid, he had to stand watch another night, he would keep that brazier burning. He listlessly kept watching the bridge and the forest, but often glanced at the village in the hope of seeing someone relieve them. The pistolier, to his credit, was not too whiny about doing a boring duty in difficult conditions.

"Gods, I could eat a horse," Pieter breathed.