Leather boots pressed firmly into steel stirrups. Backs straight, armor shining, helmet visors up and locked, the men and women of Ehl-Larimar’s most elite military force sat at attention in their saddles, eyes front and lances perfectly perpendicular to the ground. Even their mounts, a unique assortment of the finest steeds the country had to offer, remained motionless and poised in the presence of their commander in chief. A few heads bobbed and shook, an occasional leg lifted or twitched. These deviations Hymneth was willing to forgive—in a horse.
He could feel eyes flicking around to follow him as he and Peregriff came to the end of the first line, pivoted, and started down the second. Formal inspection of the ranks was a duty he could have delegated to the general, or even to one of lesser rank, but it had been some time since he had performed the task, and it was beneficial for the troops to see the individual to whom they had pledged their lives. Beneficial, and sometimes instructive.
Would Peregriff have noticed the way certain soldiers looked at him? Would he, sensitive and alert as he was, have remarked on the combination of fear and respect that dominated their expressions as he passed by? Despite their elevated equine seats, Hymneth the Possessed’s great height allowed him to regard them almost eye-to-eye. None met his own. That was as it should be, he felt. Let them match stares with their officers, and not with him. A little terror was like soap: all-cleansing while leaving an almost imperceptible film in its wake. A remembrance of who stood above them.