The cold still clung to the stone when gray light finally crept over the eastern ridge. Mord drew a slow breath through his nose, catching the lingering bite of last night's powder at the back of his throat. He ran one scarred hand along the barrel of the center gun, checking it the way a seasoned rider checked a horse before a steep climb.
The iron still held the night's chill. It would not stay cold for long.
His knuckles had turned hard and scarred years before his hair had gone gray, and neither had slowed him since the mine collapsed on his old life.
Behind him, the crew moved through their preparations without waiting for instructions. That was a good sign.
Powder charges were measured. Wads disappeared into waiting barrels. Canister rounds were stacked two deep beside each carriage, thin metal cylinders packed tight with iron shot meant to burst into a storm of death the instant they left the muzzle.
