The closer he moved to the mill, the worse the destruction. Tongues of masonry and splintered wood clogged the narrow lane, and split shingles lay like scattered playing cards on the cobbles. Broken barrel staves hung slack around a spilled pile of dried beans, and rubble crunched beneath his boots. Buildings around the mill had taken the brunt of the blast, with windows broken, thatch and roofing blown off, and belongings strewing the street.

Two men passed them heading away from the mill, carrying an injured man on a door between them, carefully picking their way along. The wounded man groaned with each shift of his weight. At least he had survived the initial blast. As they passed a low stone wall, one of the men brushed against it, and it gave way, stones tumbling down. The man had to skip out of the way, juggling his hold on the door and nearly spilling the patient.

How many other walls were ready to give way after the shaking they’d taken? Would there be another explosion? What had caused this one?

Several lines had formed, men passing buckets of water from the river up the bank to the mill. Daniel had expected more fire, but they seemed to be making good headway already. Heat and steam rose each time a gout of water cascaded through an open door or window to douse the flames. At first glance it appeared the entire mill hadn’t yet been engulfed. Perhaps they stood a chance of saving the structure.

A dwelling next to the mill had not fared as well. There must have been a candle or lantern burning, or perhaps that was where the fire had started? A blaze gusted from every window and door, and the thatched roof smoldered, ready to ignite. The bucket brigade hurried to quell the flames, not so much to save that building but to prevent the fire from spreading further.

Daniel headed to the right, away from the fire since plenty of men were already there helping. Here on the side away from the flames, the air was cooler, and they were more likely to find survivors. A handful of others were busy pulling aside splintered wood and broken stone, climbing over a glacier tongue of detritus spilling through an opening where once had hung wooden doors large enough to drive a wagon through. Those doors had been blown flat and now lay a good twenty yards from the mill, half leaning against a blacksmith’s shop.

“Here, you, lend me aid.” A burly man in a dirty leather apron—the blacksmith himself?—waved Daniel over to the wreckage-filled doorway. “There’s someone here.”

A hand, the same chalky color as the dust coating everything, lay under a pile of broken wood. Daniel and the big man tossed aside splintered planks.

“He’s most likely dead, but be careful, just in case,” Daniel cautioned.