The sun sank toward the western crags of the Spine range in an explosion of molten copper and bruised purple.
Kezra Venn stood at the northwest corner anchor of the broken road parcel, her ash sounding rod planted in the limestone paving. She looked northward through her brass sighting tube. The long, level shadows of the mountain peaks stretched across the white floor of the Saltglass basin like giant black fingers reaching for the road.
Beside her, Yseld Arken crouched on one knee. Her hooked climbing staff was balanced across her thighs, her dark eyes fixed on the razor-sharp crest of the Blackglass ridge three miles to the north.
“Movement on the high skyline,” Yseld murmured, her voice flat and steady. “Two points east of the notch.”
Kezra adjusted the fine brass focus ring of her sighting tube. That brought the jagged fiery crest into sharp relief.
Against the fiery orange glow of the sunset, six mounted silhouettes appeared on the narrow ridge trail. The horses were lean, high-stepping military mounts, their riders clad in long grey woolen cloaks with the high, stiffened collars of the Cairn Host cavalry screen. Behind the horsemen came a dozen footmen in light iron breastplates. It carried long recurve bows and leather-wrapped quivers on their shoulders.
