The ground beneath Swen's chest and elbows still had the night's frost an hour after sunrise. The cold had sunk deep enough that the weak autumn sun had not yet touched it.
He lay at the forward center of the company's formation among scrub and broken foothill stone, letting his coat take the earth's chill while his elbows worked against the rock until his weight spread evenly. Too much pressure in one place led to numbness. Numbness led to mistakes.
The oasis remained visible from here. That had been the requirement when he chose the position.
The spring water broke from a seam in the low ridge ahead, gathered in a natural basin, then ran south into the dry scrubland. The growth around it carried the only real color left in the season. Denser brush, darker texture. Enough difference to stand out from two hundred yards away.
