Crossbows clattered against the timber floorboards of the watchtower as the archers scrambled backward from the parapet.
Within thirty seconds, the narrow iron gate at the base of the tower creaked open.
A plump, grey-haired man in a grease-stained leather apron stumbled onto the drawbridge, clutching a ring of brass keys to his chest. His knees knocked together so violently that the keys jingled like wind chimes.
Behind him, two terrified guards dragged a reinforced iron-bound coffer across the red gravel.
Kaelen Vance did not stand.
He had dragged a lumpy burlap sack of lump charcoal off Deacon Vane’s wagon and placed it squarely in the center of the drawbridge. He sat cross-legged on the sack, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his grey bathrobe, watching the guards approach with half-closed eyes.
Sera Thorne stood three paces to his left, her storm-pike held upright. Her black leather ledger was already open in her palm.
“Who... who is in charge here?” the grey-haired man stammered, stopping ten paces away. “I am Quartermaster Gorm. Captain Varga sent me to... to resolve this misunderstanding.”
