The blood-red sun dipped behind the western smoke pall. Then, a low, rhythmic shaking rattled the dry gravel of the southern ridge. It wasn’t the bone-shaking thump of exploding marsh gas. It was the timed together beat of heavy cavalry horses galloping at full trot.
Through the swirling yellow haze rode eighteen retainer horsemen in Baron Orric Kray’s black-and-yellow livery. They rode heavy, iron-shod mountain geldings, their faces protected by steel half-visors. Their hands carried eight-foot ash lances tipped with pitch-soaked tow, while several held cocked hunting heavy steel crossbows across their saddlebows.
At their head rode Captain Harven, a notorious border mercenary who had enforced the Baron’s illegal quarantines with an iron fist for fifteen years. Seeing the flooded firebreak trench and the hundreds of wagon drivers working the pumps, Harven drew his broadsword.
“Scatter, you ditch-born curs!” Harven’s voice cut through the roar of the pumps. “By order of the High Lord of the March, this sector is under total military clearance! Level the pumps! Breach the dikes! Ride them into the mud!”
The eighteen horsemen lowered their lances and spurred their mounts toward the western pump platform.
Tomas Reed dropped his shovel and took up his six-foot iron-shod staff. But Sile Rook was already moving. The veteran guard planted his thirty-year-old tall oak body-shield into the gravel dike with a ferocious crash, his boots sinking six inches into the clay.
