The clatter of discarded iron echoed across the Riverbend flats like an unending cascade of metal slate.
Fifteen thousand royal foot soldiers had formed into four long, disciplined columns along the base of the railway embankment.
Swords, iron-banded spears, crossbows, and spiked bucklers were piled ten feet high in mountains of abandoned weaponry.
Above them on the ballast shoulder, The Iron Bastion idled with a soft, steady plume of white steam, its heavy Bessemer steel flanks reflecting the pale morning light.
Giles Croft dropped the locomotive narrow high walkway ladder. His ten-foot folded wooden ruler tucked under his arm and a large sound brass megaphone held in his right hand.
He wore his gray tweed vest, soot-stained canvas trousers, and sturdy mountain work boots. Beside him walked Captain Kenneth Drake, his broadsword sheathed. He was flanked by Toby Karr carrying three heavy wooden chests of inked documents and brass tokens.
Giles stepped out onto the muddy roadbed, stopping twenty paces before the front rank of shivering royal spearmen.
He raised the polished brass megaphone to his mouth.
