Moving forty-two people and twelve tons of recovered freight across thirty leagues of alpine winter was not a matter of marching. It was an exercise in clockwork physics, cable rigging, and frictional discipline.
Tomas, Kael, and Sergeant Jarek stood in the cave yard, inspecting the convoy of five freight sledges they had prepared for the journey.
The lead vehicle was Tomas’s great ash sledge, loaded with sixty crates of flour and the master document chests. Behind it were three timber sledges built by the survivors over the years—heavy, flat-decked frames of mountain larch shod with hand-hammered iron straps—and the smaller baggage trailer carrying the personal packs and sick-cots for the disabled veterans.
Kael walked the line of sledges, testing the posture of the runners with his wooden ruler.
“We have sixteen mules,” Kael said, pointing to the draft lines. “Four of mine, and twelve mountain mules the battalion bred up here from their old cavalry stock. The mountain mules are smaller, but their lungs are adapted to eight thousand feet and their hooves are hard as iron.”
Tomas knelt by the front runner of the second sledge. The iron shoe had been hammered out by hand over a charcoal forge, showing fine hammer marks along the sliding face.
