The double-stroke tolling of the central bell fell across the terrace like physical hammer blows. It shook through the solid mountain stone and set the loose wooden roof shingles on the low roof wall dancing against the mortar.
“Callow, take the head of the litter,” Len ordered, his voice cutting through the din with total clarity. “Urel, take the foot. Ivara and I control the descent line from the pier. Don’t try to carry them down the wall. Slide the ash runners directly over the stone coping. Let the wood take the friction.”
Tobin Callow dropped his iron crowbar, stepped to the front of the litter. Then he gripped the cross-brace with both hands. His knuckles were bloody where he had grazed them on the laundry chute. But the strength of a twenty-four-year-old infantry conscript was in his shoulders. He lifted the ash poles, his back locking into a rigid arch, while Urel took the rear handles. The smell of cold mutton lard and antiseptic wash rose thick from the mattress blankets as the frame lifted, mingled with the bitter reek of sulfur smoke drifting off the ridge.
Together, they hauled the litter up onto the three-foot-wide stone railing.
Mara lay perfectly still, her eyes closed, her fingers clamped into the wool folds of her blanket so hard that the knuckles showed white through the grease. She didn’t look down into the black deep pit of the cutting. She looked straight up into the pitch-black sky, her lips moving in…
