By the end of the day, the sun dipped behind the far hills, casting a long golden veil over the valley, while shadows stretched from tent poles and spears like silent sentinels. The camp had taken shape quickly—efficiently—clearly the fruit of the discipline of Alpheo's army. Though the full wall was not yet raised, the foundation had been set in a firm perimeter, and ditches had been dug deep enough to snap an ankle or impale the fool who tried leaping across in the dark.
The planned palisade had already been driven into place: sharp stakes jutting from the ground like a crude crown around the white army's claim to the land. It wasn't the fortress Alpheo would have liked, not yet, but it would do.
What the defenses lacked in height, he compensated with vigilance. He had doubled the perimeter guards, posting the most alert, sharp-eyed men in shifts that would rotate at the stroke of every hour. No blind spots, no quiet corners.
