"On," she said, and the column rolled.
The driver with the torn sleeve flexed and winced. The surgeon tied off the bandage and tapped his knuckles. "Don't lift with that arm for two days," she said. "Or it'll heal ugly."
"Ugly matches the rest of me," he grinned, then sobered at her look. "Two days," he repeated.
They passed under birch—white bark, black scars. The air felt thinner there, like a breath held too long. A second messenger rose from a ditch where he'd been waiting under a cloak the color of bad water. He moved like his legs remembered standing finally.
"We held at midday," he said. His voice had the steady rasp of someone who'd been shouting orders through his teeth. "Night will bring pokes and cuts. Marshal asks for engineers to stiffen the banks. Archers by dawn of the fourth day. Our pikes are tired, but they'll stand if the ground doesn't betray them."
