The king’s host departed Deepwood Motte by the light of a golden dawn, uncoiling from behind the log palisades like a long, steel serpent emerging from its nest.

The southron knights² rode out in plate and mail, dinted and scarred by the battles they had fought, but still bright enough to glitter when they caught the rising sun. Faded and stained, torn and mended, their banners and surcoats still made a riot of colors amidst the winter wood—azure and orange, red and green, purple and blue and gold, glimmering³ amongst bare brown trunks, grey-green pines and sentinels, drifts of dirty snow.

Each knight¹ had his squires⁴, servants, and men-at-arms. Behind them came armorers, cooks, grooms⁵; ranks of spearmen, axemen, archers⁷; grizzled veterans of a hundred battles and green boys off to fight their first. Before them marched the clansmen from the hills; chiefs and champions astride shaggy garrons, their hirsute⁹ fighters trotting¹⁰ beside them, clad in furs and boiled leather and old mail. Some painted their faces brown and green and tied bundles of brush about them, to hide amongst the trees.

Back of the main column the baggage train followed: mules¹², horses, oxen, a mile of wayns and carts laden¹³ with food, fodder¹⁴, tents, and other provisions. Last the rear guard—more knights in plate and mail, with a screening of outriders following half-hidden to make certain no

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