Four heavy draft oxen hauled the coal wagon through the sulfurous gray fog.
The road toward the Ash Gate was paved with crushed basalt and slag gravel. Black dust rose in gritty clouds around the iron-rimmed wagon wheels, coating the canvas covers in a dull soot veneer.
Deacon Vane walked at the head of the caravan, cracking a mundane hemp bullwhip over the lead oxen. He wore an oilcloth cap pulled low over his forehead, chewing on a dried clove to mask the smell of brimstone.
Behind him rumbled four high-sided freight wagons loaded with ten tons of coarse bituminous coal.
Tucked beneath the false lead-shielded floor of the second wagon, Kaelen lay propped against a sack of dried turnip greens. A ceramic hand-warmer filled with spirit-charcoal rested in his lap, keeping his fingers pleasantly warm beneath his loose woolen bathrobe.
Through the floorboards, the rhythmic crunch of gravel hummed against his heels.
Twelve miles of bumpy slag road, Kaelen thought, feeling the gentle sway of the wooden cart. My back would be completely ruined if Barnaby hadn’t packed the extra goose-down quilts. Sleeping on bituminous coal without proper lumbar padding is a crime against nature.
Inside his sea of consciousness, the Fallow Slate clicked forward with steady, untroubled precision.
