Isak ran over to one of the lead caravans and leapt up on to the driving seat with the carelessness of familiarity. The driver, like Isak himself, was a man apart from the rest of this inbred community. Carel made no comment other than to smile wearily at Isak's arrival. His crinkled face belied his strength and age – Carel was close in years to Isak's father, but where bile had aged one, experience had marked the other.
His black hair, now heavily seamed with white, was long, plaited three times and tied back with copper wire, which declared to the world that he was a mercenary – but the white embroidery on his collar and the white leather threaded through the plaits set him above being a mere sword for hire. Carel – Sergeant Betyn Carelfolden – was a Ghost, a legend within their small group. He had retired from the Palace Guard of Lord Bahl, the Lord of the Parian, a handful of sum-mers after Isak's birth. Membership of that elite regiment guaranteed a position in society that could not be bought. Everyone respected the Ghosts of Tirah.
'Herman not in the best of moods today, then? Here, take the reins, I could do with a break.'
Isak took the reins from Carel's hand and watched as the man stretched, then fumbled for his pipe. The horse, unimpressed, snorted scorn at its new handler.
Carel was the only person in the wagon-train to treat Isak as if he were normal. Being born to parents who had been servants on a Suzerain's estate, coupled with years of hard soldiering, had taught the mercenary to look beyond appearance, something for which Isak was always grateful.