Without a word, the two men moved toward the source of the commotion. The morning grass was heavy with dew, leaving dark, damp tracks on their boots and shins as they cut through it.
The noise was not a solitary shout but a rhythmic, echoing clamor that grew louder as they neared the newly erected barracks. These wooden stalls had been thrown up in haste to process the deluge of volunteers who had flooded the city since the victory a month prior.
Merelao's name had been making good track; his personal valor as he led the charge against a superior force on the field had become the centerpiece of a burgeoning legend, drawing wandering knights and landless sellswords from every corner of the South.
They came in a motley array of steel, some in mail, other with only a simple boiled leather atop their clothes, all eager to swear fealty before the march to Yarzat began.
As they approached the throng of recruits, the shouting sharpened into the distinct, ugly snarl of a confrontation.
