The deep voice of his lieutenant interrupted Barran’s thoughts as he struggled to put his jumbled fears into words on the parchment before him. He laid the pen down and looked up. “Yes, Rone?” The lieutenant wet his lips. “The scouts, sir. They are reporting increasing numbers of Harleyriders gathering just to the west.” Barran frowned. “Which direction are they traveling?” Rone shook his head. “They aren’t. They’ve made a camp, sir, and it appears they intend to stay.” At that Barran pushed away from his desk, biting back a curse. He strode to the window and stared out into the inner courtyard of the desert garrison. In the heat of the noon sun, the guards drowsed at their posts, and the men off duty lounged in the small pockets of shade. He could hear the low murmur of their voices, the soft rattle of the dice as they cast lots. Barran turned back to Rone. “Exactly how far west?”
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