The dawn of Wednesday arrived with a cold, cutting north wind that swept the last autumn leaves from the gutters of Crown-Reach, carrying the bitter, salty tang of the tidal estuary ten miles downstream. In Printer’s Alley, the smell of fresh ink and chicory coffee was just beginning to drift from Master Caxton’s shop as the apprentice compositors unlocked the shutters to begin printing the weekly parish gazettes.
Then came the sound.
It wasn’t the scattered clatter of city court guards or the loose rumble of heavy cart wagons. It was the timed together, thunderous, earth-shaking tread of two hundred combat infantry marching in locked, iron-shod rhythm. THUMP-THUMP. Every boot struck the granite cobblestones at the exact same instant. It shook through the brick foundations of Printer’s Alley like an approaching artillery train.
Tomas Reed was at the loading bay, checking the lashings on his ash-wood pack frame. He froze, his head snapping toward the mouth of the alley. Beside him, Sile Rook’s entire body went rigid. The veteran’s hooked pruning blade came off the wall hook in a single, blurring sweep. His oak tall body-shield was braced across his knee before the second rank of boots cleared the corner.
