The dawn that broke over the lower gorge of Mount Sunder was not a dawn of light. It was a pale, rotten-egg gray seep that leaked into the sky, outlining the serrated granite teeth of the high peaks in razor-sharp relief.
The heat had dropped past the point where snow compacted underfoot. Beneath the iron shoes of the mules, the snow shattered like crushed fine china, producing a dry, rhythmic squeak that sounded like glass being ground in an iron mortar.
The expedition moved in single file. Kael led with his iron-tipped staff, his shoulder hunched against the wind. Behind him strained the four mules, their heads down, their gray coats crusted in a thick armor of hoar-frost that transformed them into ancient, ancient beasts.
Behind the mules came the sledge, its six-hundred-pound frame creaking with every roll of the terrain. The ash timbers groaned, the iron braces strained against their bolts. But the rockered runners rode smoothly over the wind-waves of the snow road, guided by Tomas’s steady pressure on the rear brake levers.
Nessa brought up the rear. Her four-foot survey rod was held horizontally across her chest to maintain her balance against the sudden gusts that blasted through the side gullies.
