Chapter 458: Lyan’s Gut Feeling (2)
The barracks still smelled of steel and blood—the metallic sting of sword oil mingled with the sour odor of damp wool and a faint, coppery sweetness left by wounds hastily cleaned. Rain pattered on the roof-slats overhead, each drop drumming a dull warning against warped shingles. Outside, campfires guttered in the wind; their smoke leaked through every cracked board and warped shutter, adding charcoal bitterness to the air already hot and heavy with breath and sweat.
Lyan moved down the main aisle with Alicia at his right shoulder. The clang of his boot heels drew sleepy heads up from bedrolls; conversation fell to uneasy murmurs the moment soldiers recognized his face. His cloak was gone—left folded in the war room to dry—so his tunic clung to him without the usual flourish of command. He kept one hand on the buckle of his sword belt, thumb tapping restlessly against the hilt. The glaive on his back tugged at its harness whenever he turned, a silent reminder of how quickly this night could slide back into battle.
(Question the supply clerk,) Griselda’s voice whispered, sharp as a whetted blade glancing off flint. (They passed the order scrolls before the march. Too many hands touched them.)
"I know," Lyan answered under his breath. Alicia shot him a curious glance; he gave a faint shake of his head, signaling the comment had come from inside, not at her.
The central storage alcove sat between rows of weapon racks. Lanternlight revealed a man slumped against a crate stamped with the crest of Prince Erich’s household—three silver stars on a blue field. His quill still rested in one limp hand, ink dried in the groove between thumb and forefinger. Even from ten paces Lyan saw the man’s chest rising and falling with a snore that smelled of cheap ale.
He nudged the clerk’s boot with his own. Just hard enough.
The man jerked awake, pupils dilating as he focused on Lyan’s silhouette. His quill clattered to the ground.
"Name," Lyan said.
"M-Marlen, sir—Quartermaster’s ledger scribe."
"Who handled the scrolls before the cavalry rode out?"
Marlen’s gaze skittered across the floor, chasing after the quill as though it might shelter him. "I... just me, sir. And Squire Derren. He brought them down from the north wing."