Once Aymark's injuries had healed, he immediately headed for Internment Camps Three to help the local troops wipe out the orcs who had escaped.
The morning light was faint, and the sea breeze carried a chill inland. The Southshore army's Seventh and Sixth Columns emerged from the Dun Garok Mountains and entered the plains one after another, a layer of white frost hanging from the soldiers' helmets and eyebrows.
"Aymark?" Goverilad, the column commander, set down his warhammer and embraced Aymark warmly.
Nearly three years had passed since the campaign to wipe out the Warsong Clan's forces. Both men had been serving at their respective internment camps and had barely seen each other during that time.
As they exchanged greetings, a soldier brought breakfast.
Two flatbreads, pickled vegetables, and two bowls of rice gruel.
"On a field campaign, the food naturally can't compare to what we get at the camps. You'll have to make do."
Aymark had traveled all night and was ravenous. Only after taking several large bites of flatbread and gulping down some hot gruel did he reluctantly lower his food and say, "Oh, come on. Every camp has been short of funding these past few years. At Internment Camps Seven, I only got one meal made with flour a day. I could only have white rice once a week."
Goverilad disliked complaining about his superiors. As a paladin from the Order of the Silver Hand, he rarely let his subordinates hear a word of complaint.
Aymark's arrival had been an enormous help to the front. Reinforcements and supplies were secondary; what mattered most was the confidence he gave the troops.
Almost half a month had passed since the surprise attack on Internment Camps Seven. Troops had been moved around frequently, but only two columns of the army