The slotted firing window of the drying shed loft smelled of dry pine resin, dust, and the sharp sulfur reek of burning coal drifting up from the yard below.
Kezra rested the brass barrel of her sighting tube on the weathered wooden doorstep. Through the six-inch slit, she kept her good right eye lined up with the objective lens. She swept the occupied west kiln yard from corner to corner.
Beside her, Maud Venn knelt on an old wool sack, her breathing slow and measured. Meanwhile, Yseld Arken crouched on Kezra’s left flank, her scarred hands resting on the iron metal ring of her hooked climbing staff. Fellis and Paxa remained five paces back in the shadows of the drying racks. That kept their boots clear of the creaking floorboards.
“Look at the sentry on the left stool,” Yseld whispered. She leaned close to Kezra’s right ear so the words didn’t drift toward the slit. “The older man with the yellow braid on his cuff. Watch his shoulders.”
Kezra brought the lens to bear on the older soldier. He sat hunched over the iron coal fire bowl, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands extended toward the red glow. Every thirty seconds, he lifted his head. He turned his chin five degrees to the east to glance toward the lane gate. Then dropped his chin back toward his chest. His heavy steel crossbow rested on two notched wooden pegs driven into the side of his stool—within arm’s reach, but…
