On the horizon, Sartore could just see the line of men appearing from behind the cover of trees. He could see more heads overlayed between the front soldiers’ shoulders further back. Sartore lay with his belly to the earth, poking his head out from the side of the house he, Maisero, and one of Anastasia’s men had chosen to hide behind. His nose was packed full with the smell of dirt.

“Stop that,” Maisero said, grabbing Sartore by the collar and pulling him back up into a seated position against the wall of the house. “They’ll catch you that way.”

“Do you know how many there are?” Sartore replied, partly out of breath, and frozen; his eyes had found a resting place in Maisero’s, and could not move; nor, Sartore thought, could he.

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“Did you spot them?” Maisero asked. He made as if to rise, but stopped himself, then gave Sartore another scowl. Sartore didn’t reply.

“How many of them were there?”

“I don’t know, they’d just come out of the trees. I saw a lot in front, and more behind them, and then more behind that.”

“The scout who found them said their whole camp started heading towards us,” the other man said. “She said she saw the Sacredate among them.”

A second later, the valley was poured full of hoofbeats and men.