The Low Sunder toll-gate stood at the narrowest throat of the limestone gorge. There, two massive stone props of gray rock squeezed the road down to a single wagon’s width. Above the frozen timber barrier, an iron fire bowl burned with bituminous coal. It cast a greasy, yellow light across the snowdrifts.
It was three hours past midnight. The gale had settled into a steady, freezing draft that moaned through the limestone cleft like water through a water gate.
Tomas, Nessa, and Kael stood before the barrier. Behind them, hitched in tandem pairs, were four massive gray mountain mules, their breath hanging in dense, white clouds that froze into crystals upon their wool-lined headstalls. The great ash sledge stood loaded with six coils of manila thick ship rope, two iron capstans, boxes of animal fat, bags of oats, and six bundles of seasoned firewood lashed tight under double layers of greased duck canvas.
Guard post Clerk Rusk stood on the raised timber walkway above the gate. He was flanked by two infantry sentries in sheepskin coats carrying loaded crossbows.
“You can’t pass the gate, Thorne!” Rusk shouted down, his voice thin and shrill in the wind. “The Commissioner issued an order of closure at midnight! No civilian freight is allowed onto the Sunder Snow Road until the spring thaw!”
