The voice of Judge Malric Ostrander boomed through the brass megaphone like the trumpet of judgment rolling across the snowfields.
“Soldiers of the Royal Border Legion,” Ostrander proclaimed, his silver hair whipping in the gale as he held high the Seven-Fold Iron Seal of the Holy Synod.
“Halt where you stand in the name of the Living Light and the Emperor’s Peace.”
A sudden, startled hush fell over the four mercenary columns.
Across the two hundred and fifty yards of freezing air, veteran sergeants in iron kettle helmets looked up toward the South Barbican in shock. Their eyes locked upon the radiant silver-stitched vestments and the clear heavy iron medallions of an Imperial High Judge.
“By the Light of Heaven...” whispered Sir Gareth the Cleaver, reining in his massive barded warhorse as his broadsword dropped an inch.
“That’s Inquisitor Ostrander.”
Lord Silas Crane’s face flushed a deep, mottled purple beneath his powdered wig and ermine collar.
