Nearly five days after Cassian fell—119 hours after the Slate reached Hour 531—the blood-sealed sheepskin order lay flat upon the rosewood low table. Scouts had watched the mountain roads while the garrison prepared; just over three days remained before Vulture’s planned attack.
Barnaby Holt had pulled the roll from the hollow pommel of Cassian’s broken iron sword. The sheepskin was thick, stained with dried mountain grease and dark flecks of dried blood.
Patriarch Vulture’s jagged signature sat at the bottom like a talon scratch.
Governor Titus Vane paced across the ninth-floor penthouse. His embroidered silk slippers squeaked against the polished cedar planks with rapid agitation. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back.
“Three thousand bandits,” Titus muttered, his voice shaking like a dry reed in the autumn wind. “Twelve Jade Meridian elders. Sixty heavy siege catapults and forty iron kettles of boiling mountain pitch.”
He stopped before the open balcony, wiping cold sweat from his neck.
“When Patriarch Vulture descends from that cliff, he will turn Red-River into an ash heap,” Titus added. “The merchant guilds are already packing their silver chests at the southern wharf.”
Titus unrolled the back of the sheepskin order, pointing at a crude charcoal map.
