While the seventy-four refusing soldiers pitched their canvas bivouacs at the outer roadside camp beyond the northwest anchor, Kezra Venn walked the upper castle wall of Stonewake Citadel with Paxa Sel to review the finalized military manifest.
The winter wind gusting off the western gorge was bitter and relentless. He carried the sharp scent of wet limestone, crushed pine needles, and high alpine snow. Below them in the great inner bailey, the leftover three hundred and eighteen soldiers were working with disciplined haste. Teams of pikemen were lashing artillery frames to heavy stone bollards. Quartermasters were nailing timber cleats over the heavy iron-rimmed wheels of supply wagons. And young privates were laughing around the central well-head, loudly anticipating the warm taprooms, rich valley ale, and fat bonuses of the North Relay market crossroads. Their decision to travel was fully voluntary. No sergeant had threatened them. No officer had held back their pay. And three weeks of dried rations, oats, and salted beef were securely tethered in the deep vaults to feed them when they arrived.
Yet their belief about where the castle was going was a complete falsehood.
Kezra rested her hands on the cold limestone merlon. She looked out over the mountain basin toward the high snow peaks where Empty Choir waited in freezing solitude eighteen miles to the north.
