The dented iron shield struck the work bench with the familiar, heavy clang of old campaigning iron.
Through his copper speaking tube, Noll heard Sella Rusk unbuckle her harness straps and blow a long breath of mountain air across the timber boards. The ex-ranger smelled of spruce resin, saddle soap, and wet horse blankets—the scent of a woman who had spent four days riding the ridgelines between Mere and the high border passes.
“Master Vey,” Sella’s voice came through the pipe, dry, brisk, and entirely devoid of deference. “I have the annual hazard sheet for the upper wards. Miss Dene has the mortar tubs ready, and Captain Dorn has brought the Crown seal.”
Beside the sawhorses, Captain Arda Dorn’s spurred riding boots clicked sharply against the flagstones. The captain of the First Border Regiment was wearing a plain woolen service tunic, stripped of the gold shoulder cords and the black March Ledger aiguillettes that had marked Vane’s siege staff. Her left arm was in a neat linen sling—an old souvenir from the artillery recoil on the ninth day—but her right hand held a flat cedar clipboard bound with brass corners.
Behind them came Soldier Joss, carrying an iron grease pot and a bundle of clean tow-cloth. At his belt, the camp bread knife he had used to slice the noon cannon lanyard rode in an unpolished leather sheath, its horn handle worn smooth by months of hospital and carpentry work.
