The iron-studded oak wicket in the southern back gate creaked open on its frost-stiff hinges. It allowed Captain Hest Vale and Sergeant Brant to step out onto the native limestone stone base of Empty Choir.
A freezing northern gale was sweeping across the high plateau. He carried stinging needles of rime that rattled against Hest’s steel gorget. Twenty paces ahead, sheltered behind the dry-stone cairn with his white linen flag snapping in the wind, stood Voss. The forty-five-year-old basin miner didn’t reach for a weapon. He stood with his heavy boots braced in the gravel, his sheepskin coat pulled tight around his neck. He held the yellow oilskin packet steady at the end of his cleft hazel rod.
Beside him, the two hired neutral quarry workers were already hoisting their canvas packs, preparing for their descent toward the timberline.
“Stand where you’re, Captain,” Voss called out, his deep, gravelly voice cutting cleanly through the whistle of the wind. “I’m paid to deliver this dispatch to the commanding officer of the guard post. I’m paid to walk away with a whole skin. If your sergeant raises that crossbow, the packet goes into the crevasse behind me. You can find your own way down the ice.”
