Horseshoes struck the muddy dirt road after a light summer rain, making wet, squelching sounds.
Jacques, wearing a slightly oversized green military greatcoat, swung down from his horse. His cowhide riding boots sank into the mud with a squelch.
Unbothered, he walked to the roadside, crouched, and picked up a clod freshly turned up by an iron plow. He squeezed, and the earth crumbled between his fingers.
He looked at the rich black soil in his palm and brought it closer to breathe in its fresh scent. Then Jacques looked up at a farmer nearby, who was urging a workhorse through the field, and exclaimed with heartfelt admiration:
"What fertile land!"
"It is! It is!"
Behind him, a group of soldiers in everyday military uniforms, with weapons at their sides, agreed in unison. Bard, a veteran missing his left arm, was so excited that he crouched and scooped up a handful of earth, almost lifting it to his mouth for a bite.
"Plant potatoes here, and they're bound to grow big and round..."
The soldiers burst out laughing, chiming in from every side.
"Bard, old friend, potatoes would be a waste! Plant barley!"
"Wheat! Wheat makes the best flour!"
"I reckon rice would do well, too!"
Bard stubbornly shook his head and tightened his grip on the soil.
"No! Potatoes it is. Prince Chris brought us potatoes. They fill your belly and grow easily. Potatoes are the best!"
Jacques said nothing. He simply watched.
Bard had good reason to insist on planting nothing but potatoes: the land beneath his feet would soon belong to him.
Prince Chris had laid down the rules. Every man who served and fought would receive "military farmland."
Bard was a veteran of the Hegrande Legion who had lost an arm on the battlefield. Though he