The summit col of Sunder Pass was a tiered arena of wind-carved stone. He sat exactly nine thousand feet above the level of the sea.
Here, the jagged arête of the Ridge of Teeth flattened into a broad, saddle-shaped col of gray granite three hundred paces wide. On this high divide, the wind didn’t scream as it had through the gorges. It blew with a vast, solemn, oceanic roar that felt older than the mountains themselves.
Tomas Reed stepped onto the summit flat stone slabs, his haul-strap slackening as the sledge rolled onto the level ground.
Behind him, Kael brought the four mules to a halt, setting the iron wheel-chocks beneath the rear runners. The beasts stood with their heads lowered, their flanks heaving in slow, exhausted all at once, their coats crusted in a solid armor of white frost that made them look like statues carved from salt.
Nessa Vale walked to the northern edge of the col. She set her four-foot boxwood survey rod into a crack in the granite, unhooked her dual-cone brass hearing horn. Then she raised it toward the northern expanse.
Tomas walked to her side.
For the first time since leaving Low Sunder, the northern horizon opened before them.
