He had walked thirty miles to kill a man.

Martill strode firmly across the dale, but his eyes were tired and he had no smile nor gleam for his men. They bore hearts hardened to their work, as did he. He had no desire to kill this man, but honor and duty were harsher masters than his sergeants. Those bastards merely killed recruits on occasion, where honor and duty had slain millions over the ages.

It was difficult to tell that he was the leader of the two thousand – he barely dressed differently. Roughshod black boots, fur cloak, leather jerkin and black steel helm all made by the finest craftsmen who would rather outfit a raider’s army than be put to the sword. However, while the men carried longswords, Martill’s broad arms bore the weight of a two-handed gargantuan axe. This was not a weapon for the field of battle, but to display above a king’s gaudy hearth. The nicks and dings to the blade put pay to thoughts of a showpiece – and usually just before the blade put pay to the victim and the man behind.