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On the high ground, directly in our path, waited an ominous horde of warriors. Maybe three hundred of them. They wore no colors, just rough skins and high boots, swords and shields gleaming in the noonday sun. They were long-haired and filthy, and regarded us with no particular alarm. They looked ready for a fight. Panic shot through our troops, and through me as well. The ferocious-looking horde just stood there, watching us assemble out of the trees. As though battle were an ordinary thing for them. Horns blew. Horses whinnied. A few carts toppled over. At any moment, I expected them to charge. I ordered our column to a halt. The rabble ahead of us looked restless. Shit, had I led us into a trap? Odo and Daniel ran up to me. I had never seen Odo this scared. They growl like Saxons, Odo muttered. These ugly bastards are meaner than shit. I heard they live in caves and when food is scarce, they eat their young. They are not Saxon. Daniel shook his head. They are from Languedoc. From the south. Mountain men. But they are known to eat their young even when the harvest is good. His depiction gave me chills. Are they from Stephen? I asked. Could be. He shrugged. We watched them watching us, showing no concern about our larger ranks. Mercenaries. He has used them before.