He’d not given anyone a Glasgow kiss before, but it seemed to come natural. The jar of it hurt his wrist badly, but he was beyond caring. Just let Buccleigh come close enough to get the same, that’s all he wanted.
Buccleigh eyed him with a mixture of amusement and wary respect.
“Oh, a man of talent, aye? A traitor, a wife-stealer, and a bonnie brawler, all in the same wee bundle, is it?”
Black-beard threw up, choking on the blood from his crushed nose, but Roger paid no attention. His vision clear now, he kept his eyes square on Buccleigh. He knew which man of the two was the greater threat.
“A man who’s sure of his wife needn’t worry that someone else might steal her,” he said, anger only slightly tempered with wariness. “I’m sure of my own wife, and have no need of yours, amadain. ”
Buccleigh was sunburned and deeply flushed from fighting, but at this, a darker red crept into his cheeks. Still, he kept his composure, smiling lightly.
“Marrit, are ye? Your wife must be ill-favored, surely, for ye to be sniffing after mine. Or is it only that she’s put ye out of her bed, because ye couldna serve her decently?”
The rasp of the rope on his wrists reminded Roger that he was in no position to bandy words. With an effort, he bit back the retort that sat at the tip of his tongue, and swallowed it. It tasted foul, going down.
“Unless ye mean your wife to be a widow, I think it’s time ye were going, aye?” he said. He jerked his head toward the far side of the log, where the brief silence had been succeeded by the distant sound of voices.
“The battle’s over, your cause is lost. I don’t know if they mean to take prisoners—”
“They’ve taken several.” Buccleigh frowned at him, clearly undecided. There weren’t that many options, Roger thought; Buccleigh must let him go, leave him tied, or kill him. Either of the first two was acceptable. As for the third, surely if Buccleigh meant to kill him, he’d be already dead.
“You’d best go while ye can,” Roger suggested. “Your wife will be worried.”
It was a mistake to have mentioned Morag again. Buccleigh’s face grew darker, but before he could say anything, he was interrupted by the appearance of the woman herself, in company with the man who had helped Buccleigh tie him earlier.
“Will! Oh, Willie! Thank Christ you’re safe! Are ye hurt at all?” She was pale and anxious, and had a small child in her arms, clinging monkeylike to her neck. Despite the burden, she reached out a hand to touch her husband, to assure herself that he was indeed unharmed.
“Dinna fash yourself, Morag,” Buccleigh said gruffly. “I’ve taken no harm.” Still, he patted her hand, and kissed her self-consciously on the forehead.
Ignoring this tender reunion, Buccleigh’s companion prodded Roger interestedly in the side with the toe of his boot.
“What shall we do with this, then, Buck?”
Buccleigh hesitated, his attention drawn momentarily from his wife. Morag, spotting Roger on the ground, uttered a muffled scream and clapped her hand across her mouth.
“What have ye done, Willie?” she cried. “Let him go, for Bride’s sake!”
“I shan’t. He’s a damned traitor.” Buccleigh’s mouth set in a grim line, obviously displeased at his wife’s taking notice of Roger.
“He’s not, he can’t be!” Clutching her son tightly to her, Morag stooped to peer at Roger, an anxious crease between her brows. Seeing the state of his hands, she gasped and turned indignantly to her husband.
“Will! How can ye treat this man so, and after he’s done such service to your own wife and bairn!”
For God’s sake, Morag, back off! Roger thought, seeing Buccleigh’s fist clench suddenly. Buccleigh was plainly a jealous bastard to start with, and being on the losing side of the battle just past was doing his temper no good at all.
“Bugger off, Morag,” said Buccleigh, echoing Roger’s sentiment in less-gallant language. “This is no place for you or the bairn; take him and go.”
Black-beard had recovered slightly by this time, and loomed up alongside Buccleigh. He glared down at Roger, hands pressed tenderly to his swollen nose.
“Slit his throat, I say, and good riddance.” He emphasized this opinion with a kick in the ribs that curled Roger up like a shrimp.
Morag uttered a fierce cry and kicked Black-beard in the shin.
“Let him alone!”
Black-beard, taken off-guard, let out a yelp and hopped backward. Buccleigh’s other companion appeared to find this more than funny, but stifled his hilarity when Buccleigh turned an awful glare on him.
Morag was on her knees, her small belt-knife in her hand, trying one-handed to cut the bonds about Roger’s wrists. Much as he appreciated her intent, Roger wished she wouldn’t try to help him. It was all too apparent that the original green-eyed monster had firm possession of the soul of William Buccleigh MacKenzie, and was glaring out of his eye-sockets in an emerald fury.
Buccleigh seized his wife by the arm and jerked her to her feet. The baby, startled, began to shriek.
“Leave, Morag!” Buccleigh snarled. “Go, and go now!”
“Yes, go!” Black-beard put in, glowering. “We’ve no need of your help, you interfering little bizzom!”
“Don’t you speak to my wife that way!” Turning on his heel, Buccleigh punched Black-beard swiftly in the stomach. The man sat down hard, his mouth opening and closing in comical astonishment. Roger could almost feel a certain sympathy for Black-beard, who appeared to be faring no better between the two MacKenzies than he was himself.
Buccleigh’s other friend, who had been observing the exchange with the fascination of someone watching a close tennis match, seized the opportunity to join the conversation, butting in as Morag tried to soothe her baby’s crying.
“Whatever ye mean to do, Buck, best we do it and be gone.” He nodded toward the creek, uneasy. There were a number of men coming in their direction, judging from the rumble of voices. Not fleeing Regulators; it was a purposeful sound. Militia, coming in search of prisoners? Roger sincerely hoped so.
“Aye.” Buccleigh glanced in the direction of the noises, then turned to his wife. He took her by the shoulders, but gently.
“Go, Morag. I’d have ye safe.”
She heard the note of pleading in his voice, and her face softened. Still, she looked from her husband to Roger, who was now trying mental telepathy, beaming thoughts at her in increasing desperation.
Leave, for God’s sake, woman, before you get me killed!
Morag turned back to her husband, small jaw set in determination.
“I’ll go. But you swear to me, William Buccleigh, that ye willna harm one hair of this man’s head!”
Buccleigh’s eyes bulged slightly, and his hands curled into fists, but Morag stood her ground, small and fierce.
“Swear it!” she said. “For by the name of Bride, I’ll not share the bed of a murderer!”
Clearly torn, Buccleigh glanced from the sullen Black-beard to his other friend, who was shuffling from one foot to the other like a man in urgent need of a privy. The party of militia was getting closer. Then he looked down into his wife’s face.
“All right, Morag,” he said gruffly. He gave her a small push. “Go, now!”
“No.” She reached out and took her husband’s hand, pulling it toward her breast. Little Jemmy had got over his alarm, and was curled into his mother’s shoulder, noisily sucking his thumb. Morag placed his father’s hand on the little boy’s head.
“Swear on your son’s head, Will, that ye’ll not hurt this man nor see him killed.”
Roger mentally applauded the gesture, but was afraid she’d gone too far; Buccleigh stiffened for a moment, and the blood rose in his face again. After a tense moment, though, he nodded, once.
“I swear,” he said quietly, and let his hand fall. Morag’s face eased, and without a word, she turned then and hurried away, the baby held close to her bosom.
Roger let out the breath he’d been holding. God, what a woman! He hoped passionately that she and her baby would be safe—though if her fat-headed husband chose to step in a gopher hole and break his neck...
William Buccleigh was looking down at him, green eyes narrowed in contemplation, ignoring the increasing agitation of his friend.
“Come on, Buck!” The man glanced over his shoulder toward the creek, where loud calls to and fro indicated searchers combing the ground. “There’s no time to be lost. They did say Tryon means to hang prisoners, and I’ve no mind to be one!”
“Does he,” Buccleigh said softly. He held Roger’s eyes with his, and Roger thought for a moment that something familiar stirred in those depths. A chill of unease ran down his spine.
“He’s right,” he said to Buccleigh, with a jerk of the head toward the other man. “Go. I’ll not speak against you—for your wife’s sake.”
Buccleigh pursed his lips slightly, thinking.
“No,” he said at last, “I dinna think ye will. Speak against me, that is.” He stooped and picked up the sodden, dirt-smeared ex-flag of truce from the ground. “Go along with ye, Johnny. See to Morag. I’ll meet ye later.”
“But, Buck...”
“Go! I’m safe enough.” With a faint smile, his eyes still on Roger, Buccleigh put his hand in his pouch and drew out a small bit of dull silver metal. With a small shock, Roger recognized his own militia badge, the crudely lettered “FC” burned black in the pewter disc.
Tossing the badge lightly in his palm, Buccleigh turned to Black-beard, who was taking a suddenly renewed interest in the proceedings.
“I’ve a thought, sir, regarding our mutual friend.” He nodded toward Roger. “If you’re with me?”
Black-beard looked at Roger, back at MacKenzie, and a slow smile began to grow beneath his bulbous, reddened nose. The ripple of unease down Roger’s back blossomed suddenly into a full-blown jolt of fear.
“Help!” he roared. “Help, militia! Help!” He rolled, twisting to avoid them, but Black-beard seized him by the shoulders, pulling him back. Calls came from beyond the trees, and the sound of feet, beginning to run.
“No, sir,” said William Buccleigh, kneeling down in front of him. He seized Roger’s jaw in a grip of iron, strangling his yells and squeezing his cheeks to force open his mouth. “I do not think you’ll speak, indeed.” With a slight smile, he rammed the sodden cloth down Roger’s throat again, and tied the tattered neckcloth fast around it.
He stood up, then, the militia badge held tight in his hand. As the bushes opened, he turned toward them and waved an arm in hearty greeting.
AFTERMATH
It being now half past two O’Clock the Enemy entirely dispersed, and the Army five Miles from Camp, it was thought adviseable to lose no Time, but to return immediately to the Camp at Alamance. Empty Waggons were ordered from Camp which took both the killed and wounded of the Loyalists, and even several of the wounded Rebels, who acknowledged had they gained the day no Quarters would have been given but to such as would have turned Regulators, these were nevertheless, taken good Care of, and had their wounds dressed.
—“A Journal of the Expedition against the Insurgents,”
Wm. Tryon
A MUSKET-BALL had shattered David Wingate’s elbow. Bad luck; had it struck an inch higher, it would have broken the bone, but healed cleanly. I’d opened the joint with a semicircular incision across the outer aspect, and dug out both the flattened ball and several bone chips, but the cartilage was badly damaged, and the biceps tendon had been sheared through completely; I could see the silvery gleam of one end, hiding deep in the dark-red meat of the muscle.
I gnawed my lower lip, considering. If I left matters as they were, the arm would be permanently—and badly—crippled. If I could reattach the severed tendon and bring the bone-ends in the joint capsule into good alignment, he might just possibly regain some use of it.
I glanced round the campsite, which now resembled an ambulance depot, littered with bodies, equipment, and blood-stained bandages. Most of the bodies were moving, thank God, if only to curse or moan. One man had been dead when his friends brought him in; he lay quiet in the shade of a tree, wrapped in his blanket.
Most of the injuries I saw had been slight, though there were two men shot through the body; I could do nothing for them but keep them warm and hope for the best. Brianna was checking them every few minutes for signs of shock and fever, in between rounds of administering honeyed water to those suffering more superficial wounds. Best she kept busy, I thought, and she did keep moving, though her face looked like one of the wild morning glories on the vine that climbed the bush behind me—white and puckered, pinched tight closed against the terrors of the day.
I had had to amputate a leg, soon after the battle ended. It was a man from Mercer’s Company—camped near to us, and lacking a surgeon of their own—struck by a rebounding chunk of a mortar round that had torn off most of his foot and left the flesh of the lower leg hanging in ribbons from the shattered bone. I’d thought she would faint when the heavy limb thumped into the dirt at her feet, and she’d thought so, too, but had by some miracle stayed upright, supporting the patient—who really had fainted, thank the Lord for small mercies—while I cauterized the bleeding vessels and bound the stump with brutal speed.
Jamie was gone; he had brought back his men, hugged me hard and kissed me once, fiercely, then left with the Lindsays to take the prisoners to the Governor—and inquire along the way for any news of Roger.
Relief at Jamie’s return buoyed my heart, but fear for Roger was a small heavy counterweight below my breastbone. I could ignore it while I worked, though. No news was good news for a short time yet, and I welcomed the immediate realities of triage and treatment as a refuge from imagination.
Nothing else looked exigent. Men were still straggling in, but Bree looked up at each one, her heart in her eyes. If any of them needed me, she would call. All right, I decided. There was time; I’d try it. There was little to lose, bar a bit more suffering for Mr. Wingate, and I would ask if he were willing.
He was wax-pale and sweating, but still upright. He nodded his permission and I gave him the whisky bottle again; he applied it to his mouth with his sound hand as though it contained the elixir of life. I called one of the other men to hold his arm steady while I worked, and swiftly incised the skin just above the bend of the elbow in an inverted “T,” exposing the lower head of the biceps and making the site more accessible. I began to probe with my longest forceps, teasing out the tough silver strand of the sheared tendon, pulling it down as far as I could, until I had a sound spot where I could pierce it with a suture, and set about the delicate work of rejoining the severed ends.
I lost touch then with everything around me, all my attention focused on the problem before me. I was dimly conscious of the pit! pit! pit! of drops striking the ground at my feet, but didn’t know whether it was the sweat that ran down my arms and face, the patient’s oozing blood, or both. I could have used the hands of a trained surgical nurse to help, but didn’t have them, so made do with my own. I had a fine surgeon’s needle, though, and thin boiled-silk sutures; the stitches showed small and neat, a stark black zigzag that marked a sturdy hold on the slippery, gleaming tissue. I would normally have used the cat-gut sutures for internal work like this, as those would gradually dissolve and be absorbed by the body. Tendons healed so slowly, though—if at all—that I couldn’t risk that. The silk stitches would simply stay permanently in place, and I prayed would cause no problems of their own.
Then the hard part was done, and time started again. I was able to talk soothingly to David, who had come through it gallantly; he nodded and made a feeble attempt to smile when I told him it was done, though his teeth were clenched and his cheeks wet with tears. He screamed when I washed the wounds with diluted alcohol—they always did; they couldn’t help it, poor things—but then sagged back, trembling, while I stitched the surgical incisions and bandaged the wounds.
That took no great skill, though; I had attention to spare now, and gradually became aware that some of the men behind me were discussing the recent battle, full of praise for Governor Tryon.
“Did you see it, then?” one was asking eagerly. “Did he really do as they said?”
“Hope I may be gutted and fried for breakfast if it ain’t so,” his companion replied sententiously. “Saw him with my own eyes, didn’t I? He rode up within a hundred yards of the swine, and ordered ’em face-to-face to surrender. They wasn’t much answer for a minute, only them kind of lookin’ to and fro amongst themselves to see who might speak, and then somebody shouts out that no, damn it all, they ain’t a-going to surrender nohow. So the Governor, he’s a-scowlin’ fit to fright a thundercloud, and he rears up and lifts his sword high, then brings it down and shouts, ‘Fire on them!’ ”
“And did they do so straight off?”
“No, we didn’t,” put in another voice, more educated, and rather dry in tone. “Do you blame us? A forty-shilling bounty for joining the militia is one thing, but to fire in cold blood on folk you know is something else. I looked across and who should I see on the other side but my wife’s own cousin, grinning back at me! Now, I’m not saying that the rascal is any great favorite with me or the family, but how am I to go home and tell my Sally as I’ve just shot her cousin Millard full of holes?”
“Better than Cousin Millard doin’ the same service by you,” said the first voice, with an audible grin, and the third man laughed.
“True enough,” he said. “But we didn’t wait to see if it might come to that. The Governor, he went red as a turkey-cock when the men there with him hesitated. He stood up in his stirrups with his sword held on high, glared round at us all, and he hollered out, ‘Fire, Goddamn you! Fire on them, or on me!’ ”
The narrator put a good deal of enthusiasm into this re-enactment, and there was a murmur of admiration from his hearers.
“Now there’s a soldier for ye!” said one voice, followed by a general rumble of agreement.
“So we fired,” said the narrator, a faint shrug in his voice. “Didn’t take so long, once it started. Cousin Millard is right fast, it seems, once he’s started running. Bastard got clean away.”
More laughter at this, and I smiled, patting David’s shoulder. He was listening, too, the conversation a welcome distraction.
“No sir,” another agreed. “I reckon Tryon means to make sure of his victory this time. Heard he’s gone to hang the leaders of the Regulation on the field.”
“He what?” I whirled round at this, bandage still in hand.
The small group of men blinked up at me, surprised.
“Yes, ma’am,” said one man, with an awkward tug at the brim of his hat. “A fellow from Lillington’s brigade told me so; he was off to see the fun.”
“Fun,” muttered another of the men, and crossed himself.
“Shame if he hangs the Quaker,” another opined, face shadowed. “Old Husband’s a right terror in print, but he ain’t a ruffian. Nor are James Hunter or Ninian Hamilton.”
“Perhaps he’ll hang Cousin Millard,” another suggested, nudging his neighbor with a grin. “Then you’ll be rid of him and your wife can blame the Governor!”
There was a chorus of laughter at this, but the tone was subdued. I turned back to my work, concentrating fiercely to blot out the picture of what was now happening on the field of war.
War was bad enough, even when it was necessary. Cold-blooded revenge by the victor was one degree beyond. And yet from Tryon’s point of view, that might be necessary, too. As battles went, this one had been both quick, and relatively minor in terms of casualty. I had only twenty or so wounded in my keeping, and had seen only one fatality. There would be more elsewhere, of course, yet from the comments of those nearby, it had been a rout, but not a slaughter, the militiamen being largely unenthusiastic about butchering their fellow citizens, cousins or not.
That meant that most of the men of the Regulation survived unharmed. I supposed that the Governor might feel that a drastic gesture was required, to seal his victory, intimidate the survivors, and stamp once and for all on the long-smoldering wick of that dangerous movement.
There was a stir, and the sound of a horse’s hooves. I looked up—next to me, Bree’s head jerked up, her body tense—to see Jamie returning, riding double with Murdo Lindsay. Both men slid off, and he sent Murdo away with a word to care for Gideon, then came at once to me.
I could see from the anxious look of his face that he had no word of Roger; he glanced at my face and saw the answer to his own question there. His shoulders dropped slightly in discouragement, then straightened, stiffening.
“I will go to search the field,” he said to me, low-voiced. “I have sent word already, through the companies. If he is brought in anywhere, someone will bring us word.”
“I’m going with you.” Brianna was already taking off her grubby apron, wadding it into a ball.
Jamie glanced at her, then nodded.
“Aye, lass, of course. Just a moment, then—I’ll fetch wee Josh to help your mother.”
“I’ll get—get the horses ready.” Her movements were quick and jerky, without her usual athletic grace, and she dropped the water bottle she was holding, fumbling several times before she succeeded in retrieving it. I took it from her before she could drop it again, and squeezed her hand, hard.
The corner of her mouth trembled as she looked at me; I thought she meant it for a smile.
“He’ll be all right,” she said. “We’ll find him.”
“Yes,” I said, and let go her hand. “I know you will.”
I watched her hurry across the clearing, hands clenched in her raised skirts, and felt the counterweight of fear come loose, plunging like a stone into my belly.
EXECUTION OF ORDERS
ROGER WOKE SLOWLY, to throbbing pain and a sense of dreadful urgency. He had no idea where he was, or how he came to be there, but there were voices, lots of voices, some talking just beyond the range of comprehension, some singing like harpies, in shrill discord. For a moment, he felt the voices were inside his head. He could see them, little brown things with leather wings and sharp teeth, banging into each other in paroxysms of interruption that set off small bombs of light behind his eyes.
He could feel the seam along which his head must surely split under the pressure, a burning streak across the top of his skull. He wanted someone to come and unzip it, to let out all the flying voices and their racket, to leave his skull an empty bowl of shining bone.
He had no real sense of opening his eyes, and stared numbly for some minutes, thinking that the scene on which he looked was still part of the confusion inside his skull. Men swarmed before him in a sea of colors, swirling blues and reds and yellows, mixed with blobs of green and brown.
A defect in his vision deprived him of perspective and caused him to see them in fragments—a distant cluster of heads floating like a bobble of hairy balloons, a waving arm that held a crimson banner, seemingly severed from its body. Several pairs of legs that must be close by... was he sitting on the ground? He was. A fly droned past his ear and landed, buzzing, on his upper lip, and he moved by reflex to swat it, only then realizing that he was indeed awake—and still bound.
His hands had gone numb beyond any sense of pain, but the ache now throbbed through the straining muscles of his arms and shoulders. He shook his head to clear it, a terrible mistake. Blinding pain shot through his head, bringing water to his eyes.
He blinked hard and breathed deep, willing himself to grasp some shred of reality, to come to himself. Focus, he thought. Hold on. The singing voices had faded away, leaving only a faint ringing in his ears. The others were still talking, though, and now he knew that the sound was real, he was able to seize on a word here and there, and pin it down, flapping, to examine for meaning.
“Example.”
“Governor.”
“Rope.”
“Piss.”
“Regulators.”
“Stew.”
“Foot.”
“Hang.”
“Hillsborough.”
“Water.”
“Water.” That one made sense. He knew water. He wanted water; wanted it badly. His throat was dry, his mouth felt as though it was stuffed with... it was stuffed with something; he gagged as his tongue moved in an unconscious attempt at swallowing.
“Governor.” The repeated word, spoken just above him, made him look up. He fixed his floating vision on a face. Lean, dark, frowning with a fierce intent.
“You are sure?” the face said, and he wondered dimly, Sure of what? He was sure of nothing, save that he was in a bad way.
“Yessir,” said another voice, and he saw another face swim into view alongside the first. This one seemed familiar, fringed with thick black beard. “I saw him in Hermon Husband’s camp, palavering with Husband. You ask amongst the prisoners, sir—they’ll say so.”
The first head nodded. It turned to the side, and up, addressing someone taller. Roger’s eyes drifted up, seeking, and he jerked upright with a muffled exclamation, as he saw the green eyes looking down on him, dispassionate.
“He’s James MacQuiston,” said the green-eyed man, nodding confirmation. “From Hudgin’s Ferry.”
“You saw him in the battle?” The first man was coming into complete focus, a soldierly-looking fellow in his late thirties, dressed in uniform. Something else was coming into focus—James MacQuiston. He’d heard of MacQuiston... what...?
“He killed a man in my company,” Green-eyes said, his voice rough with anger. “Shot him in cold blood as he lay wounded on the ground.”
The Governor—that was who it must be, Governor... Tryon! That was the name! The Governor was nodding, the frown etched deep on his face.
“Take him, too, then,” he said, and turned away. “Three are enough for now.”
Hands gripped Roger’s arms and jerked him upright, supporting him for a moment, then pulling him so that he stumbled, off-balance, and found himself half-walking, his weight supported by two men dressed in uniform. He pulled against them, wanting to turn and find Green-eyes—damn, what was the man’s name?—but they yanked him round, compelling him to stumble toward a small rise, topped with a huge white oak.
The rise was surrounded by a sea of men, but they fell back, making way for Roger and his escorts. The sense of urgency was back, a feeling like ants beneath the surface of his brain.
MacQuiston, he thought, the name suddenly clear in his memory. James MacQuiston. MacQuiston was a minor leader of the Regulation, a rabble-rouser from Hudgin’s Ferry whose fiery speech of threat and denunciation had been published in the Gazette; Roger had seen it.
Why in hell had Green-eyes—Buccleigh! It was Buccleigh. His sense of relief at remembering the name was succeeded instantly by shock as he realized that Buccleigh had told them he was MacQuiston. Why—
He had not even time to form the question when the last ranks broke before him, and he saw the horses beneath the tree, the looped nooses hanging above the empty saddles from its branches.
THEY HELD THE HORSES by the heads, while the men were put upon them. Leaves brushed his cheek; twigs caught in his hair, and he ducked, turning his head by instinct to save his eyes being put out.
Some way across the clearing, he saw a woman’s figure, half-hidden in the crowd; indistinct but with the unmistakable curve of a child in her arm, a small brown Madonna. The sight brought him upright with a jolt through chest and belly, the memory of Bree with Jemmy in her arms searing through his mind.
He threw himself to the side, back arched, felt himself slide and had no hands to save himself. Other hands caught him, pushed him back, one struck him hard across the face. He shook his head, eyes watering, and through the blur of tears saw the brown Madonna thrust her burden into someone’s hands, pick up her skirts, and run as though the devil chased her.
Something dropped upon his breast with the heavy slither of a serpent. Prickly hemp touched his neck, drew tight about his throat, and he screamed behind the gag.
He struggled without thought for consequence or possibility, impelled by the desperation of the instinct to survive. Heedless of bleeding wrists and wrenching muscle, thighs clenched so hard about the horse’s body that it jerked under him in protest, he strained at his bonds with a strength beyond what he had ever imagined he possessed.
Across the clearing, the child had begun to shriek for his mother. The crowd had fallen silent and the baby’s cries rang loud. The dark soldier sat on his horse, arm lifted, sword upraised. He seemed to speak, but Roger heard nothing for the roar of blood in his ears.
