The sun was well down in the sky when Lieutenant Coltan and his last squad trickled into Straw Hut. The tavern, the headman’s brick house, a well, and a modest shrine to Quam formed a rough rectangle that served as a village commons. The space was about a stone’s throw across in each direction, room enough for Tennea and Lieutenant Coltan to hold a brief review of their troopers. Thirty-four men were on parade, with five in bed too sick or injured to parade and one buried along the banks of Thatcher Creek. To a man their clothes were showing haggard with grime and hard wear. Most of them were visibly thinner and peaked. A dozen were clearly feverish, but gamely in rank and at attention. Their weapons were sharp, their leather accouterments well oiled, their brass shined, their cheeks and c
