“You have new stockings,” observes one of the Impis, referring to the fact that Chelmsford’s feet are bleeding from the top now (the grass here is kinky, its edges serrated). They’ve covered fifteen miles today or, by Chelmsford’s count, infinity. The Impis aren’t even breathing hard.
“I hghcan’t!” He stumbles, heaving, and nearly goes down when his bound hands can’t catch him. “Hagh! Piss on me, leave me for dead, I won’t get up!”
Another Impi crouches. “Ready to go home, Red Shoes?”
Chelmsford glares sideways. “I asked for training,” he says, “don’t you want a few chances to beat me?”