Atriad walked into his brother from behind before realizing the other had come to a stop. His brother, who stood a head taller and much broader, barely noticed.
“Jorus, what’d you stop for?” Atriad asked, unable to see beyond his brother. Jorus took Atriad, a small, gangly boy by the shoulder and held him.
“Look,” Jorus said.
Atriad saw what his brother was watching: a procession of about a dozen men making their way down the side of the mountain. Six wore armor and carried a mix of long guns and swords, though their weapons were sheathed or at ease. They weren’t expecting trouble from the looks of them. The other six wore the robes of priests. Two were old and four looked barely into manhood.
“Who are they?” Atriad asked.
Jorus slapped him casually in the head. “Dummy, they’re priests and guards of Mennuatu.”
“Oh, yeah,” Atriad said. “I knew that. Just wanted to see if you did.”
“Liar,” his brother said without malice. “You don’t know your ass from a hole in the ground.”