The door flew inward with a splintering crash that sheared the remaining iron hinges from the stone jamb, slamming back against the granite wall to reveal Sir Cael Ardent.
The radiant champion of the realm looked like a corpse dragged from a burned lime kiln.
His ornate silver cuirass was blackened with greasy pitch, scarred by deep gouges where flying masonry had struck the steel. The fine ermine trim of his royal cloak was singed to black crisp, and across his cheekbones and forehead, oily sulfur soot was caked thick over pale, sweat-streaked skin. His blond hair was matted with mortar dust, and his breath came in ragged, wheezing gasps that smelled of scorched saltpeter.
He was entirely alone. There were no oath guards behind him. No squires carrying reserve lances or water casks. Through the shattered doorway, thick black smoke rolled across the bridge causeway, lit from within by the orange glare of the burning market quarter. The distant shouts of the Ash Host vanguard echoed over the churning water, chanting their rhythmic war cadence as they advanced along the quays with heavy iron-rimmed pavises.
Cael took two staggering steps into the nave, his armored boots slipping momentarily on the plaster dust covering the flagstones.
