Jok watched expectantly, dangerously, his eyes hawkish. The young commander had excellent instincts. He'd felt a twinge of expectancy at the boy's cry. It carried with it a gravity equal to a whole group of men. He'd been wary upon hearing it, and he'd tensed up. He knew to respect such forces, for the flow of battle was fickle, and it would all turn in an instant if he took his attention away from it.
He didn't understand the boy, so he treated him with the most caution. He was the sole inconsistency in an otherwise flawless plan, a plan that had continued to deliver.
But nought came from it. Even though Jok had sensed the power in the shout. It was a commander's shout, almost equal to Gorm's own. The shout of a wilful commander. But no troops stirred from it. It was then that Jok was hit by a sudden realization, a fact that made him shiver.
