Natasha and Feng Mountain refused to back down. She loudly shouted directions, while he constantly cheered Tyson on.
The two sleds jockeyed for position, one pulling ahead only to be overtaken by the other, their metal runners screeching against the snow.
This was no longer just a sled race; it was a battle for pride.
The smell of gunpowder grew thicker in the air. No one knew which way the scales of victory would tip in the next moment.
The snow track snaked forward in the twilight.
The tavern was close at hand. The dim yellow halos of the streetlights blurred into hazy orbs in the snowy mist.
Mountain knelt on the River Beach, listening as the screech of metal drew closer behind him. He glanced back hurriedly and saw the Peter the Great was now only half a meter from the tail of his sled.
Tyson suddenly slowed his pace, his broad back swaying slightly.
As if sensing the danger, he deliberately positioned his body across the middle of the snow track.
