The limestone gorge narrowed to twenty paces at the lower toll-barrier of Low Sunder. Here, between the upright gray crags that guarded the mouth of the high pass, the cold mountain draft met the damp, manure-scented air of the valley. It condensed into a thick ground-fog that swirled around the runners of the five sledges.
It was an hour before noon. The clouds overhead had parted into a high, milky glare that lit up the heavy timber gates ahead.
The gates were shut.
The massive drop-gate beams of squared heart-oak, six inches thick and banded with boiler iron, rested firmly in their stone doorstep. On the raised walkway above the archway stood twenty country infantrymen wearing long sheepskin coats over gray military tunics, their heavy hunting crossbows spanned and rested on the timber low roof wall.
Before the gate, mounted on a massive gray northern charger whose iron shoes stamped the packed snow with ringing clatters, sat Senior Quartermaster Malcor Vance.
Vance wore his full ritual uniform beneath his wolf-fur greatcoat. Silver bullion epaulets, a high velvet collar stitched with royal crossed keys. A heavy cavalry saber with a gold-trimmed basket handle slung at his left thigh. Beside him sat two mounted corporals carrying iron-tipped lances fluttering with the red pennants of the Quartermaster General’s staff.
