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. The others obediently stopped the cart.
"Keep low!" he ordered. They dropped to the ground
and peered into the valley below.
Tombstones and open graves, white tents and a great
many ropes stippled the valley and spread up the opposite
hill. A hundred helmeted, armored warriors stood in line,
ready for inspection. Graym looked shocked.
"These scum robbed the graves," said Darll. "And
they're wearing the corpses!"
"Odd taste in armor, made out of bones. What for, d'you
think, sir?" Graym asked.
"Wolves love bones," Darll said bitterly. "Sheep shy
away from them. No use in shying, though. The wolves
always win." He smiled grimly. "I know. I'm a wolf."
He pointed downhill cautiously. "The two in front with
the swords are drillmasters, showing close-quarter thrusts.
The ones checking the lines are lower-rank officers."
A man dashed up to a soldier, who was twisting this
way and that, cuffed him, and yelled in his face. The
shouting carried all the way to the hilltop.
"That," Darll said dryly, "would be the sergeant."
"Which one is Skorm?" Graym whispered.
"My guess would be the big guy, wearing the sawed-off
skull."
They watched as Skorm paced calmly and evenly,
inspecting the troops. The warlord, stepping over a skeleton,
kicked the skull. It shattered on a tombstone.
Graym peered down at him. "Now there's a man who
knows the value of appearances."
"Don't you ever say anything bad about anybody?"
Graym shrugged. "There's more than enough of that
around, sir, if you want it
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