The bronze lance was forty feet long, hollow-cast, and gold-trimmed with three layers of leaf gold that refused to tarnish in the acidic drizzle blowing off the bitter salt flats. It pointed south toward the border trench, frozen in an eternal thrust against enemies who had scattered eighteen winters ago.
Tomas Reed stepped down from the buckboard of the baggage cart, his iron-shod boots sinking two inches into the grey clay of the turnpike. His left forearm throbbed with a dull ache where the glass scar pulled against his wrist brace. He didn’t touch the buckle. Four seasons of river roads and winter marches had taught him that rubbing the scar only drew blood without loosening the stiffened tendons underneath. Instead, he leaned against the cart wheel, gripped the ash spoke with his right palm. Then he worked his left fingers against his knee: thumb to index, middle, ring, and little finger. Five repetitions to crack the morning gristle before touching the baggage straps.
“The near spindle is running hot again,” Olla called from behind the tailboard. The young apprentice held a square of greasy sheepskin in one hand and an iron lynchpin in the other, her knuckles black with axle grease and soot. “The hub grease we bought at the canal lock was cut with animal fat and sand. It’s smoking like a peat fire after six miles.”
