It was two hours past midnight when the horse hooves struck the cobblestones of Tanners’ Row.
It wasn’t the clatter of a coal heavy cart or the tired plodding of a night milk cart. It was the sharp, thunderous, metal gallop of high-blooded cavalry mounts shod in hardened steel. Their hooves struck sparks from the frozen granite.
Tomas Reed was awake instantly. He sat up on his narrow pallet by the writing hall table, his senses razor-sharp, his right hand right away reaching for his boots.
A heavy, authoritative knock rattled the thick oak door—BANG, BANG, BANG—the sound of an iron handle knob striking wood with the total prerogative of the Crown.
Sile Rook, sleeping on a sheepskin cot by the stove, rolled to his feet in a single motion, his hand seizing the shaft of his hooked pruning blade. Nessa Vale emerged from the nook, her land-mapper’s coat already slung over her shoulders, her sound horn in hand.
“Stay behind the door post, Nessa,” Sile whispered, positioning his tall body-shield in the doorway as he threw back the heavy oak cross-bar.
The door swung open into the freezing, star-lit night.
Standing upon the stone threshold were three men. Flanking the entrance stood two towering troopers of the Imperial Guard. He was wrapped in polished steel plate armor, their crimson woolen surcoats stitched with the golden dragon of the realm. Their long axe-spears were held at present-arms.
