The exterior bulkhead doors did not yield to a polite hand; they exploded inward under the concussive force of an armored boot.
The dry pine timbers split along the grain with a violent crack that echoed down the masonry stairwell like an anvil dropped from a hayloft. The rusted iron hasp tore clean out of the cedar jamb, showering the damp stone steps below in gray splinters, chipped whitewash, and dry winter moss.
Cold mountain air rushed into the cellar, smelling of river mud, lathered horseflesh, and the sulfurous taint of fresh charcoal.
Jon Hale remained seated upon the meal chest in the center of the aisle, his elbows resting upon his leather-aproned knees, his fingers loosely interlaced. He did not rise. He did not reach for the notched skinning knife that lay in plain view upon the trestle table six feet away. He simply watched the opening at the top of the stairs, his breath steady, his ten white finger-rings catching the pale tallow light from the wall sconce.
A silhouette blocked the gray morning rectangle.
Sir Cael Ardent stepped onto the top riser, his heavy iron greaves ringing against the limestone with sharp, metallic clicks. He was alone. The imperial vanguard banner, the mounted outriders, the High Assize carriages, and the town council’s ceremonial greeting party had all been left two leagues behind on the northern corduroy road. He had ridden his warhorse through the lower reed beds at an extended gallop, bypassing the north redoubt entirely to…
