The hearth in the central cabin of Redoubt North burned with dry mountain juniper, throwing a warm, pine-scented fragrance into the room that masked the rotten-egg steam of the hot spring.
Tomas sat across from Sergeant Jarek Thorne and Marra Vane, his open ledger resting on the table between two iron cups of hot mint tea. Nessa sat beside him, her land-mapper’s notebook balanced on her knee, her pencil moving with rapid, rhythmic care as she sketched the stone-built layout of the cave.
“How did forty-two people survive fifteen winters on this ledge?” Tomas asked, his voice quiet.
Sergeant Jarek leaned back against the rough larch wall, his hands wrapped around his tin cup. “The first winter took forty men,” he said. His voice dropped into a low, measured flat voice. “We had the flour Vane sent up on the hand-sledges, and we had the hot spring. In forty degrees of frost, water is life. The spring never froze. It kept the cave at forty degrees above zero even when the blizzard was tearing the rocks off the summit.”
He took a sip of his tea, his eyes distant.
“By the second spring,” Jarek continued, “we realized no relief was coming. Vane had ordered us to hold the pass until relieved. But the snow melted from the lower gorge and the guard post couriers didn’t appear. Then, three of our scouts walked down to the valley line. They didn’t even reach Low Sunder. They found the toll-gate manned by Ministry…
