That evening, the militia filed out of the city in ordered ranks. Rogned, Voran, and Yarpolk were wearing their finest and cleanest kaftans on top of their best mail. Both Voran and Yarpolk had stitched a new coat of arms onto their right shoulders—a rendering of a castle growing out of clouds. Rogned couldn’t help smiling. It seemed that everyone had finally agreed on a symbol for their little army. He was a little surprised that Voran’s castle had won out over Yarpolk’s sun with two crossed spears.
Their horses had been freshly shod, and all three were dancing in place, as though trying out the comfortable feel of the new shoes. As each company of the militia passed Rogned, the militiamen piled their swords into a mound that grew wider and taller as the evening went on.
It was full nig
