The drainage trench smelled of stagnant rainwater, clinging to Taren's tunic as he crouched beneath the southern viaduct span.
He kept his back pressed against the curved masonry wall, listening to the rhythmic tread of armored boots passing along the open parapet six paces above his head.
'Three squads patrolling the upper bridge, but the drainage conduit narrows to less than five feet wide before it reaches the signal vault.'
Taren signaled with two fingers to the four Sixth District scouts behind him, motioning for them to hold their positions at the bend of the culvert.
Those four men carried short axes and reinforced shields, their faces smeared with dark river mud to keep the afternoon sun from glinting off their cheekbones.
"Hold this bend," Taren whispered to the scouts, keeping his voice beneath the trickle of water, "leave the bridge sentries alone unless their horns give three short notes."
