The iron gate of the southern garrison courtyard swung shut without a creak.
Deacon Lucius Vane walked down the inspection ranks, accompanied by Captain Vorn and Governor Titus Vane. Before them stood nine hundred armed men, standing in nine synchronized columns of one hundred.
Three hundred veteran mine guards stood on the left, their broad shoulders clad in boiled leather. Four hundred Guild Tower guards held the center, equipped with light chainmail. Two hundred volunteers from the southern border garrison formed the right wing.
Every single man wore thick felt slippers strapped over his boots.
Their iron crossbows were wrapped in oiled rabbit fur. Their heavy steel broadswords had oiled sheepskin slipped between their scabbard throats to eliminate the metallic scrape of drawing steel.
Even their iron belt buckles were wrapped in gray wool yarn. When nine hundred men shifted their footing simultaneously, the sound was softer than autumn leaves falling on grass.
Captain Vorn looked over the quiet ranks with a proud, grizzled nod.
“Nine hundred men,” Vorn whispered to Lucius. “Three units merged into a unified prefecture garrison. Every gate, wall, and canal intake is covered by three rotating shifts.”
