At Strahov Gate, furthest flung and most vulnerable outpost of the walls, the tower had been raised and strengthened.
The ancient doors were sealed with triple hexes and a wealth of trigger mechanisms, and the louring battlements at the crest of the tower bristled with watchful sentries.
That at least was the idea.
To the tower I flew, hawk-headed, leather-winged, hidden behind my shroud of wisps.
I alighted barefoot, without a sound, on a prominent crest of stone.
I waited for the swift, sharp challenge, the vigorous display of instant readiness.
