The third day of winter dawned under a pale, frosty sky that looked like polished steel. Along the six miles of the Grand Memorial Turnpike, between High Redoubt and the gold-trimmed wrought-iron gates of the Brand Estate, the frozen gravel shook with the rhythmic tread of five thousand pairs of boots.
They came from sixty-four villages across the lower march. There were old women wrapped in patchwork quilts, leading grand-children by the hand. There were blacksmiths with leather aprons worn over their Sunday coats. And in the center marched twelve hundred surviving veterans of the Iron Line.
They didn’t carry weapons, clubs, or banners. Many walked with the uneven rhythm of wooden pegs, ash crutches, and willow canes. The only sound across the frozen plain was the steady, collective crunch of gravel and the whistling of the north wind through the bare oak branches.
At the head of the huge column rolled Baggage Wagon Number One. It was drawn by four heavy bay cart horses. Tomas Reed walked beside the lead horse, his right boot cushioned with sheep’s wool, his gait stiff but unbending. Beside him walked Nessa Vale, her surveying sighting scope strapped to her back, and Hester Quill carrying the brass master folio.
