The garrison barracks operated in layers at this hour. Formation drills filled the main floor, companies rotating through because the grounds could not hold all of them at once. The place itself had been built for a full military complement before either Beorn or Godric had been born.
At twenty-one hundred soldiers, it was closer to its intended capacity than it had been in decades, though it was not big enough to let every company drill simultaneously.
At the far end of the yard, another rhythm existed beneath the command calls, of the repetitive percussion of blank-fire sequence. The rhythm fit between shouted orders without disrupting them, thin traces of black powder drifting across the air from that direction.
Beorn had the ledger open before he fully stopped near the ground. His quill moved immediately across the margin.
