The two valley-born shrine guards—twenty-one-year-old Tann from the lower barley flats and twenty-two-year-old Kess from the cider mills, both sturdy Coal-realm spearmen—looked at Commander Arel Fen to make sure they had heard the order correctly.
“Article Two of the Bridge Trial obliges the defeated keeper to yield safe passage across the gorge boundary,” Arel said in his crisp, parade-ground voice, though his eyes rested briefly on the dark bloodstain soaking through Ilyra’s right shoulder wrap. “Safe passage down two leagues of iced shale with three bedridden travelers needs four sound shoulders on the poles when the escort’s spearwoman has a torn shoulder muscle and her scout has a cut thigh.”
He looked at the two young guards.
“Carry the two litters down to the lower timberline shelter where the shepherd trail levels out. Don’t ask what roof they’re choosing, don’t enter their quarters, and report back to the eastern road post before sundown.”
“Yes, Commander!” both young guards answered at once, slinging their iron-shod polearms across their packs and stepping forward to the pine litters with undisguised relief.
For the past hour on the freezing western bank, neither farm boy had wanted to draw blood over an inner-council dispute they barely understood. Carrying sick neighbors down to a warm stove was work their hands knew and their consciences welcomed. Both Tann and Kess had slept under dry blankets at the eastern road post the night before and eaten hot porridge before dawn.
