On the muddy road, cries and curses mingled.
The people of the Riverlands who had been swept up in the march were driven along like livestock. Their clothes were caked with mud and blood, and their eyes were vacant and numb. The women were bound together with rough hemp ropes, stumbling along behind the column. They were shoved by the Ironborn and fell from time to time, only to struggle back to their feet under the crack of the whip.
"You old fool!" A burly Ironborn brought his axe down hard on an old man's back.
The old man groaned. Blood sprayed from his back as he pitched forward into the muddy water. He never moved again.
The Ironborn burst into coarse, cruel laughter that echoed above the ravaged land. These captives weren't the people they planned to take home and put to work as slaves. They had rounded them up simply to make their column look bigger.
In the end, they would be killed once they had served their purpose, and replaced with another batch.
Wicken marched in the middle of the column, watching it all with cold eyes. He didn't join in his companions' fun. His gloomy gaze kept sweeping warily across their surroundings; he forced himself to remain uneasy at all times.
Just then, a scout assigned to the rear came racing up, kicking clods of mud high into the air.
The scout stopped, bent over, and braced his hands on his knees. Panting, he called, "First Mate Wicken!"
"There's a man on horseback behind us! He's been following us the whole time! He's very close!"
The moment he finished speaking, the Ironborn in the column burst into even louder laughter. Some slapped their round shields to make a racket.
"Ha! Another fool come to die?"
"Who