The canvas litter groaned under Len’s weight as the four quarry riggers lifted the poles from the stone floor.
A tearing burst shot through his left flank, so sharp and sickening that the cavernous roof of the Star tower spun in a great, greasy blur of soot and orange lantern light. Len choked on his own breath, his throat clamping shut, his right hand clawing into the canvas seam to keep from screaming. His sixth and seventh ribs felt like broken slate edges grinding against each other inside his chest with every heartbeat.
“Keep the head up,” Brant Sallow barked. He walked beside the stretcher with his hand pressed firmly against the cedar splints on Len’s arm. “Steady on the spiral. Don’t let the rear drop, or the bone will shear the artery.”
Bram Ash walked at the head of the litter. His right arm was bound securely inside his wool sling, his left hand gripping the wooden carrying bar. His face was caked with charcoal and salt-spray, his jaw set in a rigid, hollow mask. He moved with the slow, deliberate stride of a veteran court guard who had walked the outer edge of seven wards every night for five years. But his brass badge was missing from his coat lapel, tossed into a sump tank six hours earlier.
