Rotted pine shingles clattered down from the barracks eaves as the cedar wagon rolled onto the western ledge.
The abandoned mining outpost sat upon a barren shelf of red rock, perched directly above the canyon’s lowest terrace. Below the sheer stone drop, five massive slag pits boiled with black, crusty sludge, venting yellow sulfur steam that drifted lazily against the canyon walls.
Barnaby Holt hauled the oxen to a stop and hopped down from the bench, his boots crunching against red gravel.
“Well,” Barnaby muttered, looking up at the crooked timber porch. “The roof hasn’t collapsed yet. That puts it two steps ahead of the pig barn I grew up in.”
Mina skipped down from the wagon bed, a bundle of dried straw brooms tucked under her arm. “I’ll sweep the spiderwebs, Uncle Barnaby! The chimney looks big enough for a cooking fire, and the draft will keep the smoke moving.”
She darted inside, her broom already scraping against the dry dirt floor in an energetic rhythm.
Kaelen climbed out of the wagon with unhurried grace. He carried two coils of hemp rope, a bamboo pole, and his favorite green wool bolster.
He walked past the open front door without glancing inside. Instead, he stopped between two thick sandstone pillars supporting the porch roof. The pillars were weathered and rough, but solid enough to anchor a siege engine.
