“Our lord has ordered our departure for Githru! On your feet, you sacred bastards! We rest not a moment longer; not one more! Put out your fire; pack your cloak and your food! Bring your helmet and put on your armour; we are marching to battle!” The one guardsman who did not move was Gosta, who remained seated by his fire and stared insolently up at Pryce, stirring a bubbling pot of oats. Pryce took one look at the expression on his face and swung his boot into Gosta’s pot of food to send it soaring. Kicking the heavy iron pot must have hurt terribly but Pryce did not show it and next he
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