On the afternoon of Day One Hundred and Thirty-Three, Kezra Venn, Yseld Arken. Paxa Sel dropped through the upper subalpine larch forest to the wind-sheltered granite spur below Windpit that served as Relay Station Two.
The spur was a broad, natural rock shelf thrust out from the mountain flank like the prow of a stone barge, four thousand feet above the Alderfast valley. To the north-east, it held a clear line of sight up to the watching ridge of Relay Station One. To the south-west, it commanded a direct sight view down to the dark timberline crags above Stonewake Citadel.
Kezra stepped off the dropping switchback onto the shelf. Then, the rich, comforting scent of burning charcoal and boiling salt-cod met her nostrils.
Six veteran high-country carriers from Joric Thane’s Saltglass caravan company were already encamped on the spur. Their six sturdy mountain mules, fitted with pack-frames of steam-bent ash and rawhide lashings, stood tethered in a leeward rock hollow, peacefully munching dry clover hay from canvas nosebags. The men had pitched a low, storm-proof shelter of oiled sailcloth between three granite boulders, banked with turf to keep out the draft.
At the head of the camp stood Bren. A broad-shouldered, weathered Saltglass drover in a greasy sheepskin vest, whose left thumb had been scarred by an iron cinch buckle during the great Reach exchange in the bitter salt desert on Day Forty-Two.
