The icy waters of the Red River churned white around three hundred wading men.
Drugged on caustic marrow-fire, Cassian Vance’s berserkers dragged their weapons through the waist-deep current. They scrambled up the southern gravel bank like drowned rats, coughing muddy spray into the evening mist.
Two miles to the south, the nine-story Guild Tower stood proud against the evening sky.
In the outer plaza before the tower, total silence reigned.
Deacon Lucius Vane walked down the empty cobbles, gesturing with his hands. He wore thick felt slippers. Two dozen clerks followed behind him, rolling out heavy straw mats over newly dug trenches.
Three hours earlier, Lucius had evacuated every vegetable stall, tea cart, and fabric merchant three streets back. He had distributed dried persimmons and grain chits to keep the shopkeepers content. The merchants had rolled their handcarts south without uttering a single complaint.
“Keep the mats straight,” Lucius whispered to a young clerk. “Grease the bottom boards. We want them to slide smoothly into the lime pits.”
The clerk nodded without making a sound, spreading sheep fat across the cedar planking.
