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Harkell made his way between the campfires, acutely aware that many of Jarand’s soldiers would see him as a traitor. With a conscious effort, he held his head high and met the gaze of anyone he saw watching him. Some of them waited until he met their eyes and then looked deliberately away. Others waited until he had passed, then spat on the ground. Others still watched him thoughtfully, reserving their judgement. No one gave him a smile or word of welcome.
After what seemed an eternity, Harkell reached the tent he had been assigned and slipped past two stony-faced guards into the softly lit interior. He wondered vaguely who had posted the guards. A lantern hanging in the centre of the tent threw enough light to show him two stretchers, a sleeping mat, two chairs set up on either side
