Within the pale blue dome cast by the retreat beacon, the air was slightly cooler, but the oppressive density of the foreign realm pressed against every breastplate like lead.
The thirty royal spearmen worked with frantic urgency, shoveling coarse red gravel over the baseplates of the beacon stakes while the teamsters checked their harnesses.
Several younger soldiers rested their shields against their knees, breathing heavily while wiping gritty sweat from their brows with trembling fingers.
"Check the third keg!" an older teamster shouted, rapping his knuckles against the dry wooden staves.
"The timber is already shrinking in this dry heat... we are going to lose gallons before sunset!" the driver cursed, wiping gritty sweat from his forehead.
"Ration every canteen to half a cup per soldier," a quartermaster ordered sharply, gesturing toward the casks.
