The metal clatter of the sounding spike against the stone floor echoed with sharp, unnatural clarity through the vaulted fault recess. Kezra Venn froze, her teeth clenched, attempting to force her fingers to close tightly around the forged steel grip. But the nerve fatigue that had been gathering in her tendons over thirteen hours of nonstop underground hard effort refused to obey her will. The extensor muscle of her right thumb continued to flutter with a rapid, reflex burst. She shivered against the metal shaft.
Before the rod could strike the stone a second time, Paxa Sel’s hand clamped down firmly around Kezra’s wrist, arresting the motion with the decisive, unbending grip of a master surgeon.
“Set the iron down, Kezra,” Paxa commanded. Her voice dropped into that low, level register that brooked no argument.
“It’s nothing,” Kezra protested. Her voice was tight with frustration and the bitter taste of mountain dust. “It’s just the cold. My fingers are stiff from coiling the hemp lines. Ninety-two paces, Paxa. The basal reference plane is less than a hundred steps below this landing. In two hours, we can walk the four cardinal drifts, log the datum stone, and certify the profile before Krail’s night check!”
