The dust reached the ridge before the thunder did.
It rose from the eastern basin in a pale wall, wide enough to swallow the low hills at its feet. Sunlight passed through its upper edge and turned the moving grit almost gold. Beneath that brightness, the road disappeared.
Korl stopped the lead bed.
“Shelter,” he said.
Their driver pointed to a low building against the ridge’s northern side. Thick walls, a sloping roof, a high air cowl turning above it. A red cloth had been raised on its outer mast, warning travelers off the basin descent.
They had spent five days on the stages beyond Harp Station, moving through increasingly dry country. The old marsh covers now served against dust rather than rain. The freight road still held its shape under the wheels. The air ahead had become the danger.
Iven watched the pale front roll across a distant outcrop.
“How long?”
