The night was thick as ink. Bitter winds ravaged the Wasteland, sweeping up hard, dry grains of snow that struck armor with a fine, steady rustle.
This was Crown Avenue, leading straight west to Brintanh. Its surface was laid with gravel and rammed earth, but the wheels of supply wagons had long since churned it into ruts and potholes.
At that moment, the culprit-a vast and peculiar procession-was advancing inland along the avenue.
The horns were silent, the banners furled, and even the torches had been reduced to a faint glow.
Veylin rode his warhorse, pulling his collar tight. Over a riding outfit that seemed rather thin for this climate, he wore a fur cloak.
Beside him, Diana and Caroline rode abreast. Alongside the horses, the four Druids-Luowu, Aila, Thorne, and Cecil-had firmly refused mounts and chosen to walk. The six had grown familiar with one another during the voyage and were now exchanging occasional remarks in low voices. Their familiarity broke the oppressive silence and brought a measure of harmony to a procession whose groups had previously kept distinctly apart.
Farther back stretched an enormous, winding supply train.
Under the dim light of the sky, hundreds of wagons maintained an orderly formation as they advanced east in a vast procession. The creatures pulling them were indistinct silhouettes in the darkness, their true forms difficult to make out.
At the center of the procession, five moving "mountains of flesh" blotted out the starlight-five Slag Snails. Huge sheets of white canvas covered their bodies and the specially built heavy-duty cargo racks secured to their shells. Those racks carried supplies that would otherwise have required dozens of wagons. Every contraction of their broad, fleshy feet seared scorch marks several meters wide into the frozen ground. With a sizzling hiss, white vapor smelling