Smitty came up to stand beside him. “Did you ever shoot one of these things before you joined the host?” Rollant asked.

“On my father’s farm, sure-you know, hunting for the pot,” Smitty answered. “How about you?”

Rollant shook his head. “Never once. Northern nobles don’t want serfs knowing how easy crossbows are to use. They’re afraid we’d find out how easy they are to kill. And do you know what?” He grinned a ferocious grin. “They’re right.”

“Why do you say `we’?” Smitty asked. “You’re not a serf any more. You haven’t been one for a while.”

“That’s true,” Rollant said in some surprise. “But it’s not just something you can forget you ever were, either.” The way he talked proved as much. Having grown up tied to his liege lord’s land had marked him for life-scarred him for life, he often thought.

Sergeant Joram strutted up in front of the men. “Let’s go!” he boomed. “Next stop is Rising Rock.” Rollant cheered at that. So did most of the soldiers with him. They all knew Geoffrey and his forces couldn’t afford to lose the town. They all knew he couldn’t keep it, either, not with the small army he had there. Joram went on, “Any traitors get in our way, we smash ’em into the mud and march over ’em. That’s all I’ve got to say about that.”

More cheers rose. Rollant yelled till his throat hurt. The chance to smash the men who’d mistreated him was all he wanted. He’d dreamt of revenge for years, ever since he fled the north for New Eborac. In a way, he was almost grateful to Geoffrey and the other high lords who were trying to carve their own kingdom from the flesh of Detina. If they hadn’t, he might never have got the chance to hit back.

Thin in the distance, trumpets blared at the head of the column.