"None of them good ones, I am sure…" Harland said, seeing, along with the rest of them, a soldier being dragged behind them by pagans, with chains draped between his wrists.
"Isn't that one of their own?" Vale said, noting the uniform.
It was the black and gold of one of the Farefax regiments that they'd seen before. It was an almost royal selection of colours, but Vol had been told that it was only the uniform of a minor noble. Now that uniform was torn. The kettle helm that the man had worn was rocked to the side of his head, with only the chin strap on it keeping it from falling to the ground. His black and gold surcoat, with the golden tower of his liege lord on it, had been slashed straight down the middle, and blood dripped from a wound to his nose.
