Night deepened over Dead-Brine Crater, turning the chalky alkali flats into an endless sea of frosted bone.
The howling wind dropped to a low, mournful whistle through the limestone crevices. Bitter frost gathered on the iron wheel rims of the three wagons.
After having Mina press a warm ginger poultice against Old Barnaby’s spasming shoulder so the old man could finally rest, Kaelen tied his hemp hammock between two petrified salt posts near the rear cart.
He climbed inside, pulled a heavy fleece blanket over his chest, and settled his head against a soft grain sack. Two miles north, the campfires of Colonel Vorak’s three thousand halted cavalry still flickered in quiet rows.
As long as they think I buried five hundred tons of high-grade earth-mines, nobody moves an inch, Kaelen thought, closing his eyes. Fear is truly the greatest labor-saving device in the world.
Inside his dantian, the invisible clock of his cheat tallied each quiet breath.
The night gave way to another blinding, salt-dusted dawn, followed by the slow passage of an arid afternoon.
Kaelen barely stirred. He ate dried persimmons, drank lukewarm jasmine tea from a bamboo flask, and let the hours stack.
