Chapter 40: Six Centuries

The next spear century came to the Blackworks for its helms with straw still clinging to the old leather liners. One man had folded a rag beneath a cap that had belonged to his father. He took it out before Noll measured him. Another laid a split cheek strap upon the bench and asked whether the new one would last longer.

The third year of the lease had begun. Hewyn kept the men moving between the fittings and the practice lane. Most had sworn in the first year and worn those caps through two years of marches, building and drill. The sixty taken the following year were less weathered, though they no longer needed leading through every turn. Jon watched one file advance, halt and cast, then sent its men back to Noll wherever an edge caught the collar.

Cressen came to the bench with a stores order folded in his glove. Noll reached for the bundle he carried, but the guard held it back.

“Six collars to the proof yard,” Cressen read. “Two to stay here for the new pattern. Which two, master?”

Noll pointed to the red-bound pair. Cressen left those and wrapped the other six. Jon remembered Olyver writing “bread” and “board” for him beneath the eaves. Before the second year ended, Cadan and Lucan had heard all twenty-five read unfamiliar orders and letters in several hands. Some were slow; none needed a clerk. Tomas now posted watch changes as well as calling them. On Jon’s ships, reading an instruction had scarcely been remarkable. He watched Cressen close the bundle, pleased by how ordinary it was becoming here.

“Take the receipt back to Abel,” Jon told Cressen.

“Aye, my lord.” Cressen tucked the order away. “He says the last two went into the issue book before Noll had finished them.”

“Then he can enter these when the proof is done.” Noll put the red-bound pair beneath his bench and called the next man forward.

The third call brought more applicants than Hewyn expected. They waited below the practice field, some with spears, others with bundles of clothes, all watching the black steel. Behind the six barrack ranges, clock money had paid for new sleeping bays within the finished bank. Gangs levelled the outer field; Woods had lengthened the exercise room for another set of bars and Ewan’s weights. Clock wagons left so often that carters complained when anyone blocked the loading space. One White Harbor load had carried Wyman’s chess set, Jon’s rules tucked inside.

Perkin and Abel met Jon beneath the armour-shed eaves with the completed year’s accounts. He held his bread and cold chicken clear of the pages.

“Ten thousand two hundred dragons received for the year’s completed clocks,” Perkin said. “Two thousand eight hundred for the timber, metal, wages, fitting and carriage. Seven thousand four hundred clear from the trade.”

Perkin had marked the larger commissions in the margin: Hornwood, Deepwood Motte, Torrhen’s Square, Stone Hedge and Raventree Hall. Beneath them came Riverrun. Hoster Tully had chosen the larger case; his agreement and earnest came through Catelyn, his balance after the keeper’s trial, without the longer credit he had sought. Jon lingered over that entry.

Abel showed where the earnings had gone. The men, works, stores and four new merchant hulls had taken more than half the profit. Two cogs joined Denys first; two broad roundships followed before the year ended. He now had four merchant hulls beside the ten warships, their White Harbor calls frequent enough for Garrick to know which masters would keep a clock chest dry. With the older money carried forward, four thousand six hundred dragons remained: three thousand reserved for wages, grain and the next intake’s first issue, leaving sixteen hundred unpromised.

“What is William making now?”

“The second falcon, for the Gates of the Moon, and Lord Tywin’s smaller clock. Merryweather’s order is almost completed; Redwyne’s case is still with Woods. The other benches are on merchant work. Two Gulltown buyers, the Lannisport cloth house, and another for the White Harbor brothers. They want this one inside their own hall.”

“They have paid their earnest?”

“All of them,” Perkin said. “Their earnest is kept apart from the completed sales. Abel has my return; none of that money is in the sixteen hundred.”

Gawen came from the stable carrying a bridle. He had been to look at another horse dealer’s string.

“Twenty-five geldings I would put the new boys upon, my lord. A hundred and eighty dragons for the lot. He will keep them until Ralf has tried the last four.”

“Buy them if Ralf agrees. Have them sent in small groups.” Jon returned the household account to Abel. “And have the hundred and twenty foot’s wages and first issue ready for the oath.”

Gawen went to find Ralf. Perkin drew two letters from the back of his book. “Osric sent these with the accounts. Neither man lives in Westeros.”

A Pentoshi merchant who had seen a clock in an Oldtown wine house wanted one for his reception room. A Braavosi merchant’s factor had seen the White Harbor clocks. His letter asked the price of two clocks, gave the measurements of both rooms and asked about fitters, shipping and repairs across the narrow sea. Jon read it twice.

“Have William price the making,” Jon said. “Osric can find the cost of the passage. No promise of a delivery season yet.”

“From White Harbor?”

“For the reckoning. Give me a second price from Dragonstone.”

Perkin looked up.

“We mean to move the work there,” Jon said. “Ethan needs William’s requirements before he sets out the rooms. Send copies of these letters with them. He should know who is beginning to ask.”

Arthur read the Braavosi’s letter. “This one has thought about what happens after the clock arrives.”

“That makes him worth answering.” Jon wiped his fingers. “Perkin, let the eastern offers stay letters until we agree the work. Abel has what the men need without waiting for those answers.”

He left Perkin to fold them with William’s commissions and went to meet Martyn on the path.

Four crows picked through the earth beyond the waiting men. The grey-throated hen had joined the others that summer. She still flew off at a sudden movement, but in the evenings she came to Jon’s sill. Twice he had sat with Arthur and looked down from her perch, returning to his own body before the candles burned low.

Jon went down to the practice lane with Martyn. A lad in a good leather jack had just knocked the practice sword from his partner’s hand. He grinned towards the waiting men. When Martyn put them together again and told him to keep behind the shield, he lowered it to try the same stroke.

“Enough,” Jon said. “Give Gerralt the sword.”

Gerralt held out his hand from beside the rack. The grin vanished. The other lad was still rubbing his knuckles.

“You stay,” Jon told the other lad. “Pick it up. Ser Martyn will show you where your hand went wrong.”

For six days Jon came after the morning run, heard the officers’ choices and tried the doubtful men himself. Good listeners often outlasted lads with finer weapons. By the last evening he had chosen a hundred and twenty who had seen enough of the work to know what they were swearing to.

After the oath each centurion received twenty men, bringing every century to eighty. Jon mixed them with seasoned soldiers; no decanus received a whole ten who had never held a shield in line.

The new men marched to the lower ford after drill, in plate or their old leather and mail as issue allowed. Jon went in his armour and had little breath left at the gate, where Arthur waited with his horse for Winterfell.

Over the following weeks Hewyn lengthened the road: first half a day, then from before sunrise, bedding and food on carrying forks and shared loads on pack beasts. An officer brought the newer tens home early. Jon walked the level stretches with the rest and rode the longer rises, falling back to watch the rear. They came home late, dust white on their coats, and were back in the shield lanes next morning.

* * *

For a fortnight Otho’s fabri had been fitting a travelling catapult with Henly and Emrick. They brought it in pieces to the upper ground before the rain. Henly’s six libritors took the engine while Emrick’s six helped Otho bed it on firm ground above the ditch. Stones waited sorted by weight.

Jon knew Henly’s mechanism. The changes were in the short frame lengths that fitted army wagons, gauge-matched iron shoes and bearing blocks removable without dismantling half the engine. The clockworks’ fine boring tools had served those last.

Henly held up the spare bearing. “It fitted on the bench, my lord. I have not tried it in this frame.”

“Then change it now.”

They supported the arm and took out the first block. The spare went into its seat without a chisel touching it. Emrick turned the shaft while Henly tightened the fastening. When the arm moved freely, Jon called the crew forward.

The first stone struck the bare ground beyond the ditch. Hewyn watched from the rail with Martyn and Gerralt. Another followed, then a third. They fell close enough together for the men at the rail to begin laying wagers on the next.

Emrick looked to Jon. “Farther?”

“Keep the same setting. Bring the relief crew.”

The relief crew knew the drill but had not assembled this frame. Jon let them take their time over the winding, then stepped beside the caller.

“Ask each man. Do not let the whole crew answer at once.”

The replies came down the line. At Emrick’s signal the stone struck beyond the first group, well inside the cleared ground. Henly noted the setting and the ground beneath the supports. When he asked to try a heavier stone, Jon agreed, but left the calling to the new crew.

By late afternoon they had a dozen shots recorded with charge and setting. Henly laid the sheet against his drawing; the next frame would begin with measured ranges, not his memory of the Citadel yard.

“Take it down,” Jon told them. “Tomorrow the same men carry it round the hill and raise it again. Keep the pieces together upon their own wagon.”

Emrick gave the order. Henly went to the carter to settle the load while Jon rode down to see how the youngest swordsmen had managed without Gerralt beside them.

* * *

The rolling frame was ready that same moon. Its Blackworks shed had stood unfinished through the end of the second year while Ewan and Woods built the machinery. Bennard cast the short, heavy iron rolls; Jon and Ewan’s stout powered bench turned their faces and necks true. Hand-fitted bronze bearings held them in a forged-iron frame. Ewan had taken more pains over the two screws governing their gap than over any armour he had made.

Now he stood beside the finished machine with Noll. A broad billet of iron waited in the reheating hearth. Jon had drawn its intended length upon a board, and Ewan kept looking at the line.

“The hammer would do it,” he said. “I know what the hammer asks of the iron. I cannot see those taking hold of so much at once.”

“They will take a little with each passage.” Jon set the screws while Ewan watched. “We keep the rolls apart enough to catch it, then bring them closer.”

Otho came in from the new wheelhouse with his book. They had spent the previous afternoon measuring the water through its channel. He pointed to the marked opening on the sluice drawing.

“The hammer and grinding wheel must wait while this runs, my lord. The bellows can keep their water.”

Jon followed the figures with his finger. “Leave their sluice as it stands. Ewan, have your men bring the next billets to heat while we work this one.”

Jon tied back his hair, pulled on his apron and took the long tongs. Otho raised the sluice. As water struck the wheel, the rolls turned towards their gap, filling the shed with a low grinding unlike the hammer.

Ewan helped lift the iron onto the feeding support. Jon brought its end forward until the rolls caught, then opened the tongs and drew them clear. A longer flat emerged onto the receiving bed, shedding black scale.

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Ewan leaned forward. “Gods.”

Ewan fetched the second tongs. They reheated the flat when it cooled, matching the screw turns to keep the upper roll level. He set the next billet himself. By the time the waiting iron was worked, all three flats took the same gauge.

Noll had gone to fetch a billet of their plate steel. “My lord, will you try this while I am here?”

Jon took it to the hearth. “We can draw the blank for an arm defence. You will still raise it to shape and give it its final heat.”

“I know what remains.” Noll looked at the three flats. “I have men spending half their morning getting stock ready for it.”

Ewan stayed at Jon’s shoulder through the steel’s passages, asking how much narrower they could set the rolls and whether wider ones would require another wheel. The blank came out long enough for Noll to lay his arm pattern along it. He held the pattern clear of the hot surface, smiling broadly.

Ewan pulled his apron round and sat upon a stool beside Jon’s drawings. “Show me how you chose their breadth, my lord. Before we make another pair.” He called Bennard back. “Bring the sizes the benches keep asking for. And the cartwright’s list. We shall want those here.”

Jon sat beside him and turned to a clean page. Noll remained standing with his pattern in his hand, waiting to have his own sizes entered first.

* * *

Later that moon rain drove Branoc and his six new barrack signs beneath the hall’s eaves. White letters shone on black, four spearheads and two round shields; the weathered planks lay face down in the mud. The centurions sheltered beside their replacements while the sword centuries trotted home with shields over their heads.

Malcolm was still working First. Its rear rank had been slow on the turn; he made them repeat it, called the others back and tried the whole line. This time it held. He dismissed them and came under the eaves, water running from his beard.

“Hewyn has spoken for you,” Jon said. “You will command First Century.”

Malcolm glanced at the captain.

“You have been doing most of it already,” Hewyn said. “The other five keep me busy enough.”

“Centurion, my lord?”

“Aye. The pay goes with it. Bring me your choice of an optio after supper.”

“I will, my lord.” Malcolm straightened, then seemed to remember the rainwater dripping from his hair onto Jon’s boots and stepped back. “Thank you.”

Jon called Rennick and the other centurions over. They made room for Malcolm among them. Gerralt clapped his shoulder; Brus asked whether this meant First would arrive before Sixth at tomorrow’s march.

“We have been waiting for you all week,” Malcolm said.

Hewyn grinned and held out his hand for the First’s sign. “You can quarrel about that when you are dry.”

Abel joined them under the shelter and unrolled the larger establishment. Ten cohort spaces filled the page. Only the first had been entered.

“The First Legion,” Jon said.

Robb had ridden down after lessons. He came closer to read the empty spaces, Jory waiting at the shelter’s edge. “You mean to fill all that?”

“In time, if I have land and work for them. This is the beginning.”

Jon held the sheet until Robb had read the names, then rolled it at Jory’s reminder about supper.

The signs were hung when the rain eased. Men ducked beneath the familiar names without pausing, more concerned with dry stockings and supper. Malcolm stopped at the First’s door to speak with Mallador, then followed his men inside.

Jon left Hewyn to the centuries and rode up to Winterfell with Robb. At the Great Keep stair they parted. Robb went to change his wet coat; Jon carried the list of unfilled places to his father’s solar.

Eddard had the shutters open despite the rain. A mason had left a loose piece of facing stone upon his desk, with grit scattered over the corner of a letter. Jon moved his own paper clear of it and set down the list.

“First’s new centurion has his command,” he said. “I shall begin choosing for the household next.”

Eddard read down the six centuries. “How many places remain before you reach the six hundred?”

“A hundred and twenty. Twenty in each century, to be taken next year. The household will have its fifty this summer.”

“Then I shall want to see them together before you sail.”

“You shall. I want the household call read in the town and at the nearer holds. Tomas can begin the trials as soon as they come.”

“Send Luwin the words. The same terms as before: no sworn man without his lord’s release.” Eddard folded the list and set it beside the stone. “Will you stay to eat?”

Jon unfastened his damp cloak. “That was my intention.”

His father set a clean sheet over the unfinished letter and rose. They went down together; Robb had changed his coat and kept the place beside him.

Next morning Jon ran with First and joined Malcolm at the lifting stones. Heward was watching a man favour one shoulder. Murch noticed, took away the heavier weight and sent him to Lorren; the man had admitted nothing before the work began. Heward left the decanus to conduct the next row. When they had stretched and loosened their shoulders, Jon fetched his shield for drill.

Robb joined him at the trough after drill, flushed from his ride and carrying his coat. Jon sluiced his neck and wrung out his loosened hair.

“You are nearly as tall as I am,” Robb said.

“Stand straight, then.”

Robb did, at once. Jon laughed and gave him room. His brother still had the broader chest, though Jon felt his own shoulders filling his shirt as he pulled it over his head.

They followed the first file to breakfast, Robb asking to try the heavier stones. Jon stopped him at the door to scrape his boots. Elspeth could see them from the hearth.

During the afternoon’s weapons drill, Jon heard the weighted javelin given its old name again. Some men still preferred it.

“Heavy dart,” someone muttered behind the second rank.

“Pilum,” Jon corrected.

“Aye, my lord.” The man picked up another shaft.

The pilum’s long iron shank drove its hardened point through hide and wood. Old shields sagged beneath lodged shafts along the target rail. A man who survived the cast might still have to drop his shield, opening him to the spears. Jon had argued over pila in books and museum reconstructions for pleasure. Here he watched each strike; a mistake in his memory had to be found before a man trusted his life to it.

The new weapons flew differently from their padded practice shafts. Hewyn kept the men behind a rope while Jon watched where each batch fell. He altered the balance of the shafts that consistently landed short and sent a split socket back to the forge. By the end of the week the first ranks were putting their casts into the shields, and few men still needed reminding of the name.

* * *

Martyn had trained both sword-and-shield centuries since their first oaths beneath the ruined tower. While the armourers worked, he kept making the lanes less forgiving. The first of them took its new plates through the same turns it already knew in leather and mail.

The gate narrowed to four shields. The stair turned unevenly; an alley bent twice before opening onto a platform that shifted upon buried timbers. High sword strokes struck the ash rods Martyn fixed overhead. Wide cuts hit a neighbour’s shield. Men learned to stab around rims, punch with the boss, and replace the front pair without showing their backs.

Their armour changed the drill. A shifting coat rubbed one man raw beneath the arm; others loosened their collars gratefully when Martyn called a rest. Lorren went along the bench with water while the men retied their points. Martyn showed them how to lift a senseless comrade out of his harness, and had each pair practise before returning to the lane.

“A naked man is faster,” one swordsman said while Lorren dressed the raw skin under his arm.

“Try the march naked, then,” Lorren said. “See what the midges leave of you.”

The Blackworks altered the armholes and sent Mairi new measures. By the second month the century could run five miles in armour, fight ten minutes in the lane, withdraw and pitch shelter before taking it off. Men still cursed the weight, but knew where to find oil rag, spare thong, rivets and repair wire.

Fourth and the second shield century received their steel through the following months. Between fittings Jon rode to the clock rooms, where William’s work might take him through three rooms.

One wet afternoon William was directing two men through the covered passage with a case. He had laid an old sail over its open movement while the joiners finished the door.

“The Rock’s smaller one. I want it on the proof frame before the lamps are lit.”

Jon held the workroom door for them. The second falcon stood wrapped to the neck, its wings upon a shelf. Three plain cases and trays of unfinished wheels filled the window benches. At the far end a fitter worked beside a White Harbor clock’s chipped oak door.

“Have you room for that repair?” Jon asked.

“If I keep the new work off this bench. They put a nail through the back to hang a lamp.” William showed him the bent piece the nail had caught. “I have sent the keeper a drawing of where to put it next time.”

A laugh came from the doorway. Perkin was bringing in a cloth factor from Lannisport. The man had come north with a shipment of wool and meant to inspect his master’s clock before returning to White Harbor. He shook the rain from his cap, bowed to Jon and went straight to the case Perkin showed him.

“He asked for darker oak.”

William lifted the little sample which had travelled with the order. The factor held it against the door, then took both nearer the window. Beneath the wet grey light they matched. He rubbed the case with the side of his thumb, trying the smoothness of the finish.

“It looked darker by his hearth.”

“So will this,” William said, and sent an apprentice for a lamp.

By lamplight the oak warmed to brown. The factor asked to hear it strike; William showed him the winding first. Jon watched the cord settle evenly on the barrel. When the bell sounded, a man at the next bench kept filing through every stroke.

The factor paid the remaining hundred and thirty dragons from his travelling chest. Perkin wrote the receipt while William named the next morning for collection, once he had tried the spare parts in the movement.

Perkin sent that receipt and two other balances to Abel that evening. Jon found Abel checking a grain wagon at the tower. The rye was dry, the load complete and the quarter’s wages still reserved. Jon authorised payment and went in to supper.

Fourth’s issue was seven helms short. Those men kept their old caps and marched in their usual places until Noll could fit the last bowls after drill.

Men accustomed to the plates checked their comrades’ straps. The others listened when they showed where their own had rubbed.

Hewyn wiped the old tallies from the board beside the drill ground. The six white numerals stood above clean spaces. Martyn watched Jon lay cords across the new practice lanes.

Two crooked lanes opened into a square barely broad enough for ten shields abreast. Jon walked one approach, moved a stake where the turn favoured the left-hand side, and tried the other.

“Ten against ten,” Jon told the centurions. “A different ten each time; every century meets the other five. Whoever holds the square at the last horn earns the stroke. If neither holds it, neither earns one.”

The winning century would have its chosen supper and an afternoon free, divided by Hewyn so the gates kept their guards.

Malcolm glanced towards Gerralt. Fifth’s centurion had already begun choosing men.

Martyn sent them apart before either could study the other’s order. First waited in the western lane, shields braced at the turn. Fifth’s men came from the east, their wooden blades held low.

At the horn, First rushed the square. Its leading pair reached the middle while the men behind were still turning. Fifth came through together. A shield caught First’s foremost man sideways; his neighbour stepped back to cover him, and the narrow opening filled with black shields.

“Bring them through!” Malcolm called.

The rear pair pushed forward, but there was no room left. Martyn blew the last horn with Fifth across the square and First crowded against its own corner.

Gerralt took the chalk. One white stroke appeared beside V.

Malcolm took his leading pair back to the corner, first without shields, then with them. Jon watched their second passage before going to Third’s helms. Behind him Fifth’s men discussed which pies Elspeth made best.

After Fifth’s first victory, Gerralt kept two of his younger men at the rail while the others went to the water. Colin put their shields beside one another and showed where First’s leading pair had separated at the turn. He had learned to make the lesson with his feet as well as his mouth. When one of the lads crowded him, he stopped and brought him through the corner again.

Gerralt watched without helping until Colin began explaining a third time.

“Let him try it.”

Colin stepped back. The other lad made the turn badly, tried again and found the space.

Jon came from the armour bench with Arthur. Colin, who had once lunged at every opening, now waited while his partner learned to keep up.

“You have given him men to teach,” Jon said.

“Two for now,” Gerralt answered. “More when he stops telling them everything at once.”

“Do you mean him for a ten?”

“I do, my lord. Not yet. He must learn to hear a complaint without taking it for an argument.” Gerralt raised his voice. “Colin. Fresh pair.”

Colin fetched his shield. Across the field Heward halted the household’s next pairs; after Rylas finished, Arthur brought the serjeant to Gerralt’s lane.

“Try him against someone he does not teach.”

Gerralt sent Colin in. His grin had gone by the time Rylas settled his shield.

The household serjeant gave him no broad stroke to turn. Short thrusts pressed Colin towards the hurdle; Rylas caught his shield rim and touched above the knee. Colin backed clear before the return reached his chest. On the next passage he waited, freed his shield and caught Rylas’s forearm as the serjeant changed his grip.

Rylas glanced at the place, then raised his sword again. Colin lost the last exchange. He came out breathing hard, with a red mark below one knee and no claim that the hurdle had hindered him.

“Again tomorrow?” he asked.

“After Gerralt has finished with you,” Rylas said.

Gerralt took Colin’s wooden sword and tried a nick with his thumb. “He has two lads to bring along before he goes hunting better opponents.” He kept him to hear Rylas explain the final opening while Jon watched beside Arthur.

“He is quick enough for the household,” he said.

“With a sword,” Arthur answered. “Gawen would want to see more of him on a horse.”

“Have him ride with the spare mounts twice a week. Gerralt can release him after the morning drill.”

Gerralt came over when Jon beckoned. The centurion of the Fifth Sword-and-Shield Century listened to the order, then looked back at Colin.

“He has a place to earn here too, my lord.”

Jon understood his reluctance. Gerralt had helped make Colin one of his best swordsmen and had begun trusting him to teach the younger lads. He meant to keep him in his own ranks, not lose him to the household just as that work was bearing fruit.

“I know,” Jon said. “His century comes first while he serves in it. I want to know what else he can do.”

Gerralt inclined his head. At the rail Colin was settling a borrowed shield on the younger man’s arm, showing him where the strap had twisted. His centurion watched until it lay flat.

Matches continued between ordinary drills. Second beat Fourth and lost to Sixth. Third held Fifth to a draw, then lost the rematch. Men stopped before the board on their way to breakfast and counted with a fingertip.

During Second’s bout against Third, a bearded recruit struck again after Martyn’s halt. His opponent had lowered his shield and stepped outside the cord. The wooden blade caught him above the eye. Martyn seized the recruit’s wrist; Hewyn pulled him clear before he could swing again.

Jon stopped the next pair at the lane. “Ten strokes for striking after the halt. At morning muster.”

Lorren took the injured man inside while two veterans held the recruit and Jon dismissed the other tens. Before supper Jon found the cut stitched. The eye was unharmed, but the man’s head ached; Lorren kept him overnight.

At morning muster Hewyn counted ten strokes at the oak block. Jon ordered the recruit released to Lorren and kept on light duties until his back healed.

The games resumed that afternoon. The injured spearman watched with his head bandaged; Lorren kept him from weapons for a sennight. He returned with the swelling gone and the cut closing cleanly.

When each century had met the other five, First and Fifth alone had four wins. Jon ordered a last bout between them. Malcolm sent a ten that had watched its comrades lose from the rail. This time the front pair waited at the bend. Their shields entered the square together; when Fifth drove against them, the men behind took the weight without crowding the turn.

The last horn found First holding the ground.

Malcolm handed the chalk to the decanus who had led the winning ten. The man added a fifth stroke beside the numeral I on the tally board, recording another victory for the First Spear Century. First now had five wins to Fifth’s four. The waiting spearmen roared; they had won the moon’s contests and the supper that went with them.

Gerralt, centurion of the Fifth Sword-and-Shield Century, studied the two tallies before turning to Hewyn.

“When do we wipe those clean and start counting again?”

Elspeth came out to hear what First wanted for supper. Eighty men began answering at once.

Roast pork came down their tables that night, with apples baked beneath it. Jon gave Malcolm the afternoons Hewyn had agreed for their leave, two tens at a time. Across the yard, Fifth’s men called that they would see them hungry next moon. First answered by holding up the bones.