The next morning dawned. It was uncommonly bright; however, bracing winds lashed the camp. As Perceval emerged from his tent beside Gawain and Ulrich, Gawain gave a scowl.
“I miss my hair.” He patted the top of his head. His hair was no longer shorn to the scalp, but it was still short. “Kept me warm. I’ll never cut it again.”
“Gawain,” said Ulrich, “the king has summoned us for a dawn meeting. We have far more to worry about than the hair on your head.”
Gawain cast Ulrich a flinty glare and, for a change, did not speak a retort.
King Arthur waved them over. “Let’s hurry, please.”
Perceval and his friends took their places before the fire.
“Our scouts returned not long ago,” said Arthur. “The Picts are circling, and they’ve covered their tracks well, but not well enough. They’ve set up a well-concealed camp not half a league away, on a ridge of the Southern Glen. Our scouts count over two hundred men, which is the largest contingent we will have come upon thus far.”
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“I urge you to not grow cocksure. It does not matter that we outnumber them. This is their terrain, their lands, and the Picts excel at ambush-style warfare.
“I believe they want to lure us into the frozen glen, which would prove disastrous for us, for obvious reasons. Rather than wait for that to happen, we meet them