The fifth bell of Flood Month struck from the tower of St. Jude, its low bronze resonance carrying over the cold river mist like the blow of an iron maul against damp timber.
Jon Hale stood on the timber firing step of the south breastwork, his boots planted firmly upon the frost-slicked spruce planks. To his left, Captain Dain leaned against the oak merlon, squinting through the dawn gray with a spyglass tucked beneath his arm. To his right, Sir Cael Ardent stood motionless in his polished blued plate, the greatsword sheathed across his shoulders, his hands resting upon the pommel with the cold detachment of a man watching a water wheel turn on a familiar sluice.
Below the town palisade, the lower marsh ford spread out into a wide expanse of gray shallows, black peat mud, and rotting autumn sedge. The river ran sluggish and thick with silt, swirling around the sunken gravel bars where the current slowed before the weir.
“They are late,” Cael murmured, his voice flat as an iron rule. “The drums on the east ridge should have signaled the advance three minutes before the fifth bell struck.”
“Warriors on muddy roads do not march by your pocket watch, Sir Cael,” Dain said gruffly. The watch captain adjusted the boiled-leather gorget at his throat, spitting a dark plug of willow bark over the parapet. “The ruts along the lower turnpike are knee-deep in gray clay after three days of rain. If Ors is moving heavy wagons…
