The Southern Cross-hall smelled of wet soot, hot iron, and the sharp, bitter-salt tang of crushed pale limestone.
Through the tall archway of the Western Entry hall, ninety heavy shock-infantry of the Iron-Girdle Legion marched in tight, linked ranks. They carried box-shaped mantlets of hammered pig-iron, each three inches thick and backed with cured ox-hide, and their shin guards clattered with heavy rhythm against the limestone floor. Behind them rumbled an air-powered giant crossbow mounted upon eight solid bronze rollers, its cocking winch creaking under the strain of four heavy steel springs.
In the center of the cross-hall sat the huge effigy of the Silent Scribe.
The statue was carved from a single mass of black sea-hard speckled rock, forty arm-lengths from the seat of its cross-legged base to the smooth crown of its head. Its right arm was held outward from the body, level and motionless, five arm-lengths above the flags. The palm of that hand was broad enough for six grown men to stand abreast, its stone fingers slightly curled as though holding an invisible brush above the aisle.
“Form the wedge!” shouted Commander Bao, an iron-masked officer whose plate armor was etched with the golden centipede crest of the Iron-Girdle Legion. His heavy poleaxe thumped against the rim of his shield. “Advance past the seated idol! Anchor the giant crossbow at the mouth of the cloister arch! The scouts report that the rebel rabble is holed up in the lower writing hall!”
