The sound of the old pikeman’s boots crunching through the gravel was the pebble that started the slide.
Down the long slope of the outer roadway, the tension that had gripped the seventy-four soldiers of the refusal camp seemed to dissolve into the morning air like grease on a hot skillet. Men who had stood with their hands clamped white around spear hafts slowly let their shoulders drop. A sergeant from the Fourth Cohort turned to his squad, spat into the ditch. Then he told his men to go strike the bivouac tents before the valley wind carried the canvas down into the gorge.
At the mouth of the upkeep lane, the four pinned raiders who had followed Sergeant Vane into the ambush were still pressed flat against the wet limestone stone base, their eyes darting nervously toward Adra Pike’s leveled pikes.
“Up,” Adra commanded. She stepped through the narrow gap between the ore cart and the wall with her pruning hook held steady. “Get on your feet and keep your hands where my bowmen can see them. One sudden move toward a boot top. You’ll find out how deep an ash pike can bite.”
The three soldiers scrambled up from the gravel, their leather jerkins soaked with foul water from the overturned cask, their faces pale and sweating in the cold air. Beside them, Yseld Arken released her grip on Sergeant Vane’s shoulder, using the iron butt of her staff to prod him up onto his knees. Vane groaned…
