Before long, the scene ahead came into view.
When Carnford's vanguard rounded a bend and came face-to-face with that "army" on the open plain, almost every Carnford officer and soldier who witnessed it felt a trace of surprise rise unbidden in their hearts, even... a thread of complex emotion too hard to describe.
How was this an army?
The force before them did indeed have no small number of men, a dark mass crammed along the road, but the flag representing the Broomflower royal house drooped listlessly in the cold wind.
Every soldier was sallow and gaunt, cheeks sunken, eye sockets bluish. The uniforms on them might once have been fairly neat, but now they were ragged and torn, caked in mud and filth. Many did not even have enough clothing to cover themselves, and shivered in the cold wind.
Their steps were unsteady, one foot sinking deep and the next shallow, as if they might collapse at any moment.
Weapons? Some were slung askew over shoulders, some dragged along the ground, and some men simply used their gun barrels as walking sticks.
Their eyes were hollow, numb, utterly lifeless. At the arrival of this well-equipped, orderly "friendly army" from Carnford, they merely lifted their eyelids, then lowered them again at once, continuing to stare at the road beneath their feet as though it would never end.
The air was filled with an indescribable smell, a mingling of sweat-stench, mildew, and despair.
If not for that tattered royal flag, anyone would have believed them to be a group of homeless refugees driven by the flames of war.
Karl reined in his warhorse, his sharp gaze sweeping over the column.
He saw, occasionally revealed beneath the torn uniforms, traces of what might once have been standard-issue gear. He also saw, within