CHAPTER 7: THE DESCENT INTO DARKNESS
The moment the squad stepped out from the shelter of the cavern, the full fury of the mountain hit them like a physical blow. The wind over Deadman’s Slope did not merely blow; it roared through the sharp granite crags, driving ice particles sideways in blinding sheets that stung bare skin like shattered glass.
Below them lay the northern face of Iron Ridge—a harrowing, icy chute that descended into a sea of churning, sunless fog. To their left stood an unforgiving wall of slick, dark slate; to their right, a mere three feet from the narrow trail, was a sheer five-hundred-foot precipice dropping straight into the jagged jaws of Cobalt Gorge.
Captain Vance stood at the lip of the drop, his face frozen in a mask of rigid concentration as he inspected the rigging. "Check the restraint lines! Double-knot every coil around the rear anchor bar! I want wooden chocks in hand for every man on the lower trail!"
Lowering a three-ton piece of heavy artillery down a treacherous incline was an entirely different nightmare than dragging it up. On the ascent, gravity was a relentless adversary they had to conquer through sheer muscle. On the descent, gravity became a hungry predator waiting for a single misstep to claim its prey. Old Bertha was no longer just a weapon; she was a three-ton iron pendulum suspended above an abyss, eager to break free and hurtle downward.
Silas took his position at the absolute front of the rear brake line—the most dangerous post on the descent. The thickest hemp towline was wrapped twice around his chest and shoulders, biting deep into his flesh through his sweat-soaked shirt. His boots, worn thin at the soles, were jammed tightly against a narrow lip of granite projecting from the icy path.
Directly behind him stood Julian. The young soldier’s face was ghostly white, his knuckles bloodless as he gripped the trailing rope behind Silas, his boots digging into the frozen slush.
"Listen to me, Julian," Silas called out over the howling gale, his voice low and steady despite the chaos around them. "Do not look down into the gorge. Do not look at the wheels. Keep your eyes on my back. When I lean, you lean. When I dig in, you brace with everything you have."
Julian nodded frantically, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps of white steam. "I’m with you, Silas. I won't let go."
"Lower her!" Vance screamed from the upper shelf, raising his arm. "Inch by inch! Do not let the carriage build momentum!"
On the upper ridge, fifteen exhausted men braced themselves against heavy oak anchor posts wedged into the rock crevices. Slowly, agonizingly, they fed the thick hemp rope through their calloused, bleeding hands.
SCREEECH.
With a horrific sound of metal grinding against frozen slate, Old Bertha’s heavy steel-rimmed wheels rolled over the lip of Deadman's Slope. The full, crushing kinetic weight of the weapon was instantly transferred to the brake lines.
Silas felt the sudden, violent surge in his ribs. The breath was punched out of his lungs as the thick rope snapped bone-taut, pulling his upper body forward over the drop. The sheer force dragged his boots an inch through the slick slush before he could lock his knees.
"HOLD!" Silas bellowed, his neck veins bulging as he slammed his heels back into the rock crevice.
Behind him, Julian let out a strangled cry as the rope jerked, but the boy held his footing, digging his toes into the ice and leaning his small frame backward against the mountain.
Four men equipped with heavy oak trail-spades walked alongside the rolling carriage, frantically jamming wooden wedges beneath the iron rims every time the gun moved two feet. Every step was a dance with death. The ice beneath their boots was treacherous—a thin layer of frozen rain over smooth black slate. A single slip meant falling beneath the churning steel wheels or sliding sideways into the dark void of the gorge.
"Steady... steady!" Miller shouted from the trail-spade, sweat pouring down his grease-stained face despite the sub-zero wind. "She’s biting! Keep the tension tight on the left line!"
For forty agonizing minutes, the squad moved like ghosts through the freezing dark, fighting for every inch of rock. Their muscles screamed in protest; tears of exhaustion froze onto their cheeks. But under Silas’s unyielding lead on the front line, the iron giant moved down the mountain in painful, disciplined increments.
By 0500, the sky began to turn from pitch black to a bruised, ghostly gray. Through a tear in the swirling fog below, Silas could catch his first glimpse of their destination: a narrow, flat shelf of rock jutting out over the mouth of Cobalt Gorge—the prime firing position.
They were less than two hundred yards away from safety.
"We're making it, Silas!" Julian gasped, a faint glint of hope returning to his hollow eyes as he wiped frost from his nose. "We're almost down!"
"Keep your guard up, Lad," Silas warned softly, his eyes scanning the treacherous path ahead. "The mountain is at its deadliest right before the bottom."
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Ahead of them lay the narrowest, most dangerous bend on Deadman's Slope—a sharp, ninety-degree turn around a rocky crag known as the Devil’s Anvil. Here, the path narrowed to a mere five feet in width, slick with melting ice, overhanging the deepest part of the abyss.
And as Old Bertha’s front wheels touched the approach to the Devil's Anvil, the wind suddenly died down, leaving a heavy, suffocating silence in its wake—a silence broken only by the ominous, stress-fracture creak of frozen wood from the upper anchor posts.
