The arrow struck the stone door hard enough to throw dust across Iven’s boots.
It was longer than his arm and thick as a wrist. The iron head remained buried in the outer face. Through the doorway’s narrow angle, he saw the bow frame that had launched it: a wheeled siege piece on the opposite orchard terrace, already being wound for another shot.
Behind him, three ditch keepers were trying to lower the sluice.
“Leave it,” he said.
The oldest looked up with both hands on the wheel.
“It’ll run the next field out.”
“Then open the side return before you leave.”
The woman beside the keeper pointed to a small lever against the floor. He had been looking for the great control wheel, the important-looking part of the room. She knew the useful smaller one. Iven crossed to her, helped raise it against its ordinary resistance and heard water change direction beneath the floor.
