The thunder from the southern raised stone road was not the dull, rolling boom of summer storms. It was the sharp, bone-shaking crack of military high-explosive ordnance, followed five seconds later by the rising hiss of white phosphorus munitions exploding in soaked marshland.
Even through the heavy concrete baffles of the storm-surge basin, the blast waves traveled through the peat mud, causing the tin mugs on Toby’s desk to dance and chatter against the wood.
Arthur Vance stood atop the eastern low roof wall of the drainage lock, the Zeiss-Vanguard monocle clicked down to heat-infrared mode. Through the lens, the southern horizon was a jagged wall of white-hot phosphorus flares and burning oil smoke that stained the overcast cloud deck a bruised, sickly violet.
Beside him, Kira Jansen held her 12-gauge flare rifle clamped beneath her arm, adjusting her spotting scope with grease-blackened fingers.
“That’s Battery Alpha of the 14th Inquisitorial Heavy Mechanized Legion,” Kira said. Her jaw was tight, a muscle ticking beneath her cheek scar. “One-hundred-and-fifty-tiny self-propelled howitzers mounted on armored amphibious chassis. Mercer isn’t searching for targets, Arthur. He’s walking a rolling barrage across every stilt-village within ten miles of the raised stone road. He’s sterilizing the map.”
