The camp sat two hundred yards back from the forest. That distance kept the fire pits from casting light down onto the valley floor below.
Cedd had surveyed it himself on the first night, fixing the cord against a root with his left hand while counting the distance with his right. The right hand still managed work like that. The gate skirmish months ago had taken most of its grip strength, and the tendons had never fully recovered, but years of practice had taught him how to work around the injury. By now the adjustments came without thought, folded into every movement.
He walked the camp in the last of the afternoon light. Walking it told him more than standing still ever could.
Sceotan rifles rested in paired stacks against tent poles throughout the camp. Every muzzle cover was tied down. Every frizzen lowered.
Cedd checked three separate stacks as he passed. All properly cared for.
