The granite alcove smelled of wet river moss, old machinery grease, and the hot, coppery stench of opening veins.
Jon Hale ripped the salt-stiffened linen neckerchief from his throat with a sharp jerk that tore the coarse hem. He folded the cloth twice, pressing the makeshift pad firmly against the puncture wound beneath Tobin’s ribs, trying to stem the dark, frothy tide that welled between the boy’s shattered bones.
Within three heartbeats, the linen was soaked through. Blood seeped through the weave, hot and slick against Jon’s fingers, overflowing his palms and running in thin, bright rivulets down Tobin’s leather trousers onto the wet stone floor.
“Hold pressure,” Jon said, his voice flat with the terrifying calm of an innkeeper handling a catastrophic structural collapse. “Alden, give me your neckerchief. And the wool wrap from your belt.”
Alden Bram did not move to reach for his wrap immediately. The master mason knelt on the cold granite sill, his broad back wedged against the edge of the opening to shield them from stray bolts that still sang across the river mist. In his right hand, he held his heavy square-headed adze, the polished steel edge resting ready across his knee in case any enemy sappers tried to scale the maintenance ladder from the lower spillway. His rough, weather-beaten face was set in lines as deep and unforgiving as quarry rifts, his grey eyes fixed on the bubbling ruin of the boy’s chest.
