The sunlight had fully reached the central parade ground of Stonewake Citadel, washing the grey limestone walls in pale, blinding glare. Across the vast courtyard. There, the Cairn Host had drilled for three long winters, the silence was broken only by the steady fluttering of company pennons and the rhythmic creak of leather harness.
Inside the thousand-pace boundary, three hundred and eighteen men stood in perfect, motionless assembly.
On the raised stone balcony of the central keep, twenty feet above the paved bailey, Marshal Solvan Krail stood with his hands resting upon the carved stone railing. His heavy cavalry saber hung at his side, its steel sword sheath polished bright. Meanwhile, the scarlet wolf-fur lining of his mantle caught the morning breeze. Around his right wrist, the copper-and-linen travel bracelet gleamed like a freshly minted coin in the sunlight.
Flanking the marshal were his two senior aides, his staff logistics officer, and the headquarters herald holding the silk standard of the Host. A black iron hammer crossed over a white mountain peak. They stood beside three heavy baggage wagons whose iron-banded chests were lashed down with double turns of tarred hemp. Their wheels chocked with was heavy oak wedges.
Every man on that balcony believed that within minutes, the dark stone keep beneath their boots would settle smoothly onto the high terrace overlooking the King’s Highway. They envisioned the wealthy merchant caravans of the southern lowlands paying toll at their gates, the rich agricultural tithes of the valley fills replenishing…
