The crisis began at three o’clock in the morning, not with the familiar shriek of incoming mortar fire, but with the wild, irregular clanging of the outpost alarm gong.
Arthur Vance was out of his narrow bunk before the third stroke had finished echoing against the stone walls of Dugout Seven. Beside him, Grimm rose in a single, fluid motion, his hackles bristling along his spine. A deep warning shaking was humming in his chest. Above them, Pip shook his feathers with a sharp snap, his golden eyes blazing in the dark.
Arthur stepped out into the main comms trench. Then, cold rain was falling in sheets through the gray gloom.
The scene in the central stone retaining wall was one of utter pandemonium.
A dozen commoner infantrymen were kneeling in the mud beside the main spreading water tank, clutching their abdomens, writhing in agony, and vomiting wildly into the drainage ditch. Further down the support line, four massive Iron-Horn Draft Oxen were thrashing wildly in their stalls, their eyes rolled back in terror, kicking against the timber railings with enough force to splinter three-inch oak planks. White, frothy foam flecked with bright yellow bile dripped from their muzzles.
“Arthur!” Sergeant Corvo stumbled through the muddy darkness, his lantern swinging wildly in his right hand. His uniform tunic was unbuttoned, his face pale and slick with cold sweat. “The central water tank... It’s poisoned! The night watch brewed their morning chicory an hour ago. The wagon drivers filled the draft…
