Dawn broke over the northern mountains in a cold, slate-grey wash of freezing light.
The proving ground behind the southern melted rock waste heap was quiet save for the crunch of heavy boots on crusted snow and the whistling of the sub-zero wind.
At the far end of the firing lane, one hundred and fifty yards down-range against the frozen shale embankment, stood the test target.
Master Duncan Stone-Splitter and his stonework apprentices had anchored three solid ten-inch green pine baulks face-to-face into deep postholes.
To the front face of the thirty-inch timber barrier, Duncan had spiked a captured quarter-inch iron mercenary breastplate, salvaged from Lord Silas Crane’s vanguard.
“Thirty inches of green pine backed by mountain granite,” Duncan muttered, adjusting his fur cap as he walked back to the firing line.
“A siege ram could hit that timber twice before splitting the outer baulk.”
Giles Croft stood behind the firing bench, adjusting the height screws on the heavy cast-iron proving tripod.
