The ascent of the spinal litter through thirty-two paces of upright stone was an exercise in pure, nerve-shredding metrology.
Inch by inch, the three-part purchase at the surface drew the heavy canvas litter off the damp gravel floor. On the surface, Kroll walked his two Missouri freight mules in a slow, dead-straight line away from the A-frame, their iron shoes crunching into the terrace gravel. Meanwhile, Fellis controlled the friction catch with his good right hand. Above them, Oren braced his heavy shoulders against the guide spar, feeding the braided line through the bronze pulley wheels with steady, rhythmic pulls. Every driver in Joric’s camp stood in disciplined silence along the picket ropes. He watched the line rise.
Down in the dark chimney pipe, Yseld worked the green tag line from the foot. That kept the stretcher lined up with the central axis of the chimney. Meanwhile, Kezra leaned back against the red head line, her boots slipping in the damp fiery silt. Every two yards, Kezra called a halt to let the litter settle, checking through the beam of her horn lantern that the ash frame was not swaying against the circular stonework.
At twenty-six paces—where the jagged iron collar spur projected four fingers into the shaft—the critical test arrived.
