The sight tower atop Water Tank Four stood ninety feet above the rolling wheat fields of the southern district.
Giles Croft stood on the circular timber platform. He leaned against the swivel mount of a fifteen-foot brass metal tube.
The metal tube was four inches in width, machined from seamless drawn brass tubing, with an objective prism housing at either end.
At the center of the tube sat a dual-eyepiece viewing head, fitted with knurled fine-scale drums and a lit up hair-width aiming cross.
Beside Giles stood Maeve Swift-Ear, the vulpine beastkin scout chief.
Her pointed, rust-furred ears twitched beneath her leather scout’s cap, picking up the distant rumble of the southern turnpikes five leagues away.
She had spent eight years relying on her extraordinary natural hearing to warn Haven-Hold of approaching bandit raiders.
Now, she was peering through the dual rubber eyecups of the coincidence rangefinder with one eye closed.
