The pre-dawn chill of Day 118 was bitter and dry. It settled like iron dust over the frozen terraces of Alderfast. High above the basin rim, the black jagged teeth of the Spine cut into a sky of deep indigo, while down among the stone cottages, yellow lantern flames bobbed like fireflies through the rising mist.
Beside the heavy oak doors of the northern tool shed, four travelers stood with their winter rucksacks buckled tight across wool and shearling.
Kezra Venn checked the brass buckles of her external pack frame. She felt the solid, balanced weight of her kit. Twenty pounds of dried parsnips and salt mutton, four coils of animal fat-soaked measuring cord, twelve forged iron shaft pitons, her brass-framed compass resting warm beneath her woolen collar. Her bonded survey notebook buttoned flat inside the waterproof breast pocket of her coat.
Beside her, Yseld Arken adjusted the lashing on her hooked climbing staff, her breath pluming white in the lantern light. Paxa Sel stood testing the balance of her medical panniers. Packed with clean linen rolls, splinting laths, salt vials, and a copper spirit-burner for melting snow into drinking water. And at the rear of the small file, miner Voss stood leaning on a heavy iron sounding bar, forty pounds of hardened steel wedges and cold chisels clanking softly in the canvas sack strapped to his broad back.
