TWENTY-EIGHT
That blocky stone structure rising out of Loch Findlugan where Council Island should be was an abomination. The gods of the old faith would have struck it down with lightning, thunder and whatever else they had in their arsenal. He wished the new ones would do it instead, but he didn't think saints dealt in lightning. Pity. He'd happily hail it as a miracle if they did.
At least his army were getting better at setting up camp, though he had to admit the failing light hurried them along better than he could. No one wanted to be caught out in the rain without their tent up. Not when they'd marched in it all day.
Perhaps they were too tired to start any fights tonight, was all. Or awed by the place where they stood – for Loch Findlugan was the home of Council Island, a holy
