The air in the aftermath of the avalanche was dead and choking, thick with a suspended fog of tiny ice dust that hung in the canyon like white smoke. Every breath tasted of cold flint and crushed limestone powder. It caught in the throat with an arid, drying burn.
The sledge was buried to the top of its cargo rails in loose, aerated powder snow that possessed the consistency of dry flour.
Kael was on his knees beside the lead mules. His bare hands wildly cleared the packed snow from the animals’ nostrils and eyes. The beasts were wheezing. Harsh, whistling gasps as they fought to draw air through the frozen crust that had formed over their muzzles during the blast wave.
“Get the ash shovels!” Kael croaked, his voice choked with dust. “Clear the traces before the powder sets! When this stuff settles under its own weight, it turns into solid white chalk-stone within an hour!”
Tomas pulled himself down from the granite bollard. His legs were shaking with muscular tiredness. The knuckles of his right hand were skinned and bleeding where the thick ship rope had whipped through his grip during the first impact. He didn’t look at the wound. The sub-zero cold had already clotted the blood into black ice crusts against his skin.
