Commander Hans stood atop the western palisade frame, his notched staff tapping steadily against the timber rail.
Down in the lower fields, fifty abyssal hounds surged through the tall irrigation grass, their eyes fixed upon the western storehouse.
The old barn sat directly outside the defensive ditch, holding twenty tons of dried grain and summer hay.
"They smell the dried spelt inside the storehouse," Cassie reported, crouching behind her buckler along the cart road.
"If they breach that building, they can climb onto the low eaves and leap straight over our western parapet!"
"We are not defending the barn, Cassie," Hans answered, his scarred face settling into focused, calculated calm.
"We are turning that storehouse into the biggest mousetrap in the sixth province."
Foreman Brant knelt near the parapet winch, checking the tension on the greased release cables anchored to the barn foundations.
