The small, dry stone nook behind the fourth retention pylon was sheltered from the drafts of the main vaulted chamber, warmed by an open charcoal fire bowl that radiated odorless, steady heat.
Arthur Vance sat on an overturned wooden grease tub, his sleeves rolled above his elbows, his knees covered by a clean, coarse wool blanket. Arranged on a low cedar plank to his left was his complete careful beast-doctor upkeep roll. Polished bone-folders, horn combs, bottles of warmed arnica-aether balm, natural sweet-almond oil, and a pair of heavy-gauge brass nail clippers.
Spread across the floor in a half-circle around his boots were his four companions.
“Grimm,” Arthur said quietly. “Roll over.”
The massive black hound didn’t need a second invitation.
Grimm collapsed onto his right side with a heavy, floor-shuddering whump. It extended all four limbs into the air like an upturned beetle. It exposed his broad, scar-crossed chest and pale belly for immediate tactical service.
Arthur scooped a generous dollop of warm, golden arnica balm from the jar, warming it between his palms before pressing his hands into the thick, stringy muscle-sheath planes behind Grimm’s left rear ankle joint.
The moment Arthur’s thumbs began their deep, transverse friction across the old razor-sharp scar, Grimm’s eyes rolled back until only the whites were visible.
