At sunset on Day 146, the high alpine peaks of the Spine glowed with the deep, fiery rose of dying sunlight. Their snowfields reflected the last warm rays over the quiet floor of Alderfast Basin.
On the high rock shoulder above the former castle bench, Fellis Dain stood beside the limestone stone base. He held his brass spyglass to his good right eye. Meanwhile, his braced left forearm rested against his ribs. Five miles away to the north, perched atop the razor-sharp granite pinnacle of the Windpit watch ridge, the small mirror-relay station that Joric Thane had established three weeks ago was flashing a steady, rhythmic set of white-gold light across the twilight sky.
“Flash received,” Fellis called down to the camp table where Kezra Venn, Davren, and Adra Pike were checking the final departure rolls. “It’s the long four-count. Third company confirmation.”
Davren Venn picked up his split-triangle tally sheet, his charcoal pencil poised above the ruled margins. “Read it, Fellis. What does Voss report?”
Fellis squinted through the lens, reading the timed mirror flashes with the practiced fluency of a Kilnstep ropewright:
“Square... Circle... Double bar,” Fellis translated aloud. “Krail is relieved. The five company captains have signed under Captain Hest Vale. All three hundred and eighteen soldiers have accepted the northern retreat. The grain vaults are cleared. Rations are lashed onto ninety hand-sleds. The lead company passed the first stone shelter at mile four at sunset, moving in good order down the customs road. Zero casualties. Zero…
