The high plateau of the Red Mesa at noon was a breathtaking expanse of wind-swept red sandstone, ancient stone-hard cedar trees, and crystal-clear mountain air.
Arranged in a massive, linked circle forty yards across were the twenty-two amphibious wagons of the refugee convoy, heavy by the four captured Promethean gun-trucks and Keith Mercer’s Class-IV heavy command carrier.
At the center of the circle, an open-air council ring had been cleared of loose shale.
A central hearth fire of dry cedar logs burned brightly. Its aromatic white smoke rose in a straight, fragrant column toward the cloudless blue sky.
Around the fire stood the elders and tamer chieftains of the fourteen frontier clans that made up the refugee column. Behind them stood over twelve hundred men, women, and children. Cleanly dressed in scrubbed wool and brushed leather, their chests free of pain, their eyes filled with solemn, unbending resolve.
Arthur Vance stood before the fire, his heavy canvas duster unbuttoned, his four companions gathered at his side.
Grimm sat proudly at Arthur’s left heel. His black coat shone like polished coal in the midday sun. Pip was perched on Arthur’s right shoulder guard. His ruby-and-gold plumage reflected the desert light like a living crown of solar fire. Titus lay anchored in the center of the ring. His massive was dark rock shell streaming warmth. Meanwhile, Vesper lay gracefully sprawled across the tortoise’s rear armor scales, her silver paws crossed, her tail scythe swaying in a lazy, contented arc.
