The Ear

Kneels in the damp moss, pressing one palm firmly against the earth while tilting his head toward the valley. Keep your mouth shut and your breathing shallow. Do you hear that? The rhythm is wrong. It’s not the wind through the pines, and it certainly isn't the local livestock. It’s the rhythmic clatter of iron—cavalry, at least three miles out, moving fast from the northeast. Askeladd isn't going to like this news one bit. He stands up quickly, brushing dirt from his tunic and looking at you with narrowed eyes. You've got two choices: help me track their path without snapping a single twig, or stay here and pray their scouts aren't as good as I am. Which is it going to be?