The wind coming off the north gorge tasted of wet slate, wild thyme, and burnt black powder.
Noll stepped out onto the wide stone terrace of the upper pass with his jagged left shoulder socket exposed to the grey sky. A drift of pale limestone dust blew from the broken joint, scattering fine white grains across the dark wool of his trousers. The six-hundred-pound frame listed slightly to the right with every step—the sudden loss of sixty pounds of river stone from his left flank forced his stone knees to compensate with an awkward, heavy lurch that ground the mortar in his hips like turnip mash.
Tessa walked half a pace behind his right elbow, her fingers resting lightly on the pommel of her salvage bread knife. She did not try to hold his arm or guide his stride; she knew the difference between a man who needed a crutch and a man who needed room to learn his own balance.
Below them, the outer lane of the hill fort was swarming with living men.
The artillery fire had not ceased, but its pattern had fractured. Half a mile up the ridge, the third battery was still throwing iron into the hillside, sending geysers of yellow clay and shattered shale into the mist. But down in the valley pasture, where the Crown infantry had bivouacked in neat white company squares, panic had broken the lines. Two mortar shells had fallen short, tearing through the baggage park and setting three hay…
