Bram Ash carried the nineteen-year-old courier with the stubborn, desperate strength of an ox that knew the slaughterhouse was behind him.
His right shoulder was no longer just an injury. It was an open kiln. The lead ball embedded beneath his shoulder blade had shifted during the scramble at the coal hopper. It tore through the infected shoulder muscle, pumping hot, yellowish fluid down his ribs until his flannel undershirt was glued to his flank like wet hide. Every time his left boot splashed into the six-inch sewer sludge, the impact sent a white-hot spike through his collar bone that made his vision flicker with gray sparks. His knees were swollen from old court guard patrols along the stone ramps, the joint padding worn to dry bone, each step sending a dull, grinding ache into his pelvis.
He clamped his back teeth together until the enamel groaned.
He didn’t let Len’s head drop. With his sound left arm, he kept the boy’s torso pinned against his chest, cradling Len’s right shoulder. Meanwhile, Tobin Callow hauled the boy’s boots through the muck. Len was fully limp, his chin bumping rhythmically against Bram’s collar, his breath nothing more than a faint, whistling wheeze that smelled of fresh copper blood and the sour bile of shock. The boy’s clothes were soaked with freezing water and sewage slime. That made the dead weight feel like a hundred pounds of wet sod.
