"This is as far as I can get you," the coachman announced, his voice low and carrying that morning rasp of a man who had been awake since before the sun. The carriage's wheels crunched over loose stone one final time before slowing to a halt. The horses pawed nervously at the ground, steam rising from their nostrils in pale ribbons.
The sun was barely awake. Thin gold crept along the far ridge of the eastern sky, struggling against thick clouds, so the world remained in that strange gray hour between night and morning. The mountain range before them loomed, shadow devouring shadow, jagged spines reaching toward the dim light. At the foot of those mountains, a wide gash cut into the rock, a cavernous mouth, rimmed with uneven stone that jutted like teeth. A cold wind hissed out of that mouth, carrying with it a damp chill and the faintest reek of something old, something rotting far beneath the earth.
