He chewed slowly, watching the column of Legionnaires disappearing into the distance, heading duskwards along the new Salphor road. Ranks after rank of black-crested soldiers marched in ragged lines, a veritable company of Brothers in black robes to accompany them. "Ah, the bastards are going the wrong way," said Muuril, standing on the wagon by the gate, one hand held against the watery afternoon sun. The weather had turned fair for the last couple of days, drying puddles that dotted the paved the road the men from the Thirteenth had been following. It had been a close run thing for the first two days since their escape from Marradan. They had been only a few miles away from the city when the five hundred blackcrests had marched out. With the Brotherhood's soldiers close behind, Gelthius had stayed on the main road, pushing the abada for a couple of extra hours each evening to open up some distance on the following column. Heading for Thedraan, where he hoped to lay low with his family, the third captain had been torn between avoiding the pursuing force and warning Ullsaard.
