The white chalk road south of Crown-Reach had been laid down two hundred years ago by the legionary engineers of the old empire. It ran across the high, open downs like an unrolled linen measuring tape, following the spine of the limestone ridge to keep above the autumn marshes and the heavy, black bottom-land where wagon wheels sank to the hubs in wet weather.
Tomas Reed set his rhythm before they reached the second stone mile-post.
A young carrier, eager to make time and show his muscle to the tavern girls, invariably started with long, lunging strides, leaning his chest into the breast-strap and hammering his heels into the gravel. By the fourth league, his shins would be burning like hot pokers, his lower back would be locked into a rigid cramp. He would be sitting on a milestone with his tongue hanging out, cursing his pack.
Tomas walked differently. His stride was short, measured, and unrushed—barely thirty inches from heel to toe. He kept his knees slightly bent. He allowed the broad thigh muscles of his thighs to absorb the shock of each downward step instead of transferring the impact directly into the joint padding of his lower spine. His head was held level. His chin was tucked slightly in, his gaze resting on the road ten paces ahead of his boots to read the surface for loose flint nodules, grease spots, or deep cart-ruts before his soles touched them.
