The first cold grey light of dawn touched the quarry terrace on the thirtieth day. Then, the true scale of the disaster revealed itself in unsparing, sharp-angled clarity.
Kezra Venn stood twenty paces back from the edge of the deep gap, her boots planted firmly upon the solid limestone stone floor of the old royal freight road. In the clean morning air, the nine heavy Conestoga wagons parked in the defensive crescent looked like stranded galleons marooned upon an empty reef. Their massive ash and white-oak frames were built to carry eight to ten tons of cargo apiece. Their iron-shod wheels stood five feet high at the rear axle, their canvas tilts grey and stiff with road dust, coal smoke, and old waterproofing oil.
Around the wagons, the human cost of the blockade was everywhere visible. Forty-two people—twenty-four wagon drivers and drivers, six women who managed the camp kitchens and livestock, and six children—were camped in the cramped gravel strip between the wagon crescent and the upright limestone cliff. Twenty-eight heavy draft mules and pack horses were tethered along a taut picket line, their ears twitching nervously as they stamped their iron-shod hooves against the stone.
Beside the second wagon, two wagon drivers were quietly using an iron pinch-bar to pry open a crate of dried salt cod. Meanwhile, a young mother sat on an overturned water cask, nursing an infant wrapped in a sheepskin blanket. Her eyes followed Kezra with a tired, hollow gaze that asked the only question…
