The post stables at the western edge of Harth smelled of damp straw, horse sweat, harness oil, and the dry, powdery dust of chopped clover. Lantern light flickered yellow against the heavy oak ceiling beams, casting long, swaying shadows across the four broad-wheeled farm wagons drawn up in the central aisle. Outside the double stable doors, the midnight rain beat a steady tattoo against the slate roofs of the town, washing down the manure gutters into the river drainage ditch.
Tobin knelt beside the rear axle of the lead wagon, an iron grease-horn in his hand. With a curved wooden paddle carved from apple wood, he scooped thick, yellow beef tallow from the horn, packing it deep into the cast-iron hub-box around the linchpin.
“If an axle screeches in the willows,” Tobin muttered, wiping a greasy smudge from his jaw with the back of his wrist, “the noise will bring three squads of Cael’s outriders down from the ridge within ten minutes. A dry iron hub can be heard half a mile across water when the wind drops.”
Jon Hale stood at the side-board of the second wagon, inspecting the high wooden stakes that formed the hay rack. He had brought two bundles of burlap sacking and an armful of clean rye straw from the Lantern’s barn. He worked systematically, wedging thick pads of straw between the oak side-planks and wrapping the heavy iron trace-chains with greasy burlap, binding the cloth tight with tarred hemp twine. When the four-mule team…
