The northern slope of Sunder Pass fell away from the summit col at a steady, deceptive grade of eleven degrees, winding through the lateral moraine of the Great Northern Glacier. Here, sheltered from the screaming updrafts of the southern gorge by the huge spine of Mount Sunder, the wind was reduced to a cold, persistent drift that carried the dry, flinty smell of old ice and frozen gravel.
Tomas Reed walked at the left rear of the great ash sledge, his left hand resting on the heavy spruce brake lever. His boots, fitted with their six-point iron crampons, crunched rhythmically into the wind-crusted snowpack. The snow here was not the loose, dangerous powder of Avalanche Gulch. It was dense, blue-tinted firn, compacted by fifteen winters of pressure into a hard, crystal-clear stone floor that rang like paving stone beneath the steel runners.
To control their descent, Kael had configured the sledge for trailing drag. Two heavy, case-hardened iron chains were wrapped around the rear axle, trailing twenty feet behind the vehicle in deep, parallel furrows that threw up twin roostertails of crushed ice. Each link of the square-forged chain dug into the crust, acting as a nonstop clockwork governor that prevented the four-ton weight from overrunning the mules.
