The wind didn’t build in stages. It struck the Knife Ridge like an iron gate slammed shut by a giant.
Within three breaths, the surrounding daylight narrowed to a grey, screaming murk. Sleet, sharp as chipped flint and mixed with black fiery ash, swept horizontally across the exposed crest, plastering Kezra’s woolen hood against her temples and blinding her left eye with freezing grit. The pack mule gave a frightened, deep-throated bray, tucking its tail between its hocks and planting its four iron shoes into the cracks between the dark rock columns, refusing to advance a single pace into the gale.
“Move the animal!” Yseld’s shout barely pierced the shriek of the storm. “Don’t let him freeze on the crest! If he goes down on his side, we’ll have to butcher him where he lies!”
Kezra lunged forward, grabbing the mule’s nose-band with both gloved hands. The beast’s nostrils were flared and rimed with ice, its eyes rolling white with panic. She leaned her entire weight into the halter. She hauled its head down to break its rigid stance. Meanwhile, Fellis threw his good left shoulder against the animal’s flank. She shouted into its flattened ear.
“Up, you grey bastard!” Fellis roared, his voice torn away by the wind. “Up and step! There’s a wall ahead!”
