The cold wind whistling through the shale chute cut through wool and leather, reminding Kezra that an injured man on a freezing mountain was on a rapidly running hourglass. Rann sat against the frost-split boulder, his braced right arm cradled in his sling. His face was pale and clammy despite the climb.
Yseld stood five paces up the slope, her hooked staff planted in the shale. She looked down at the young scout with an experienced, calculating gaze. “We can’t leave him in the Mile 3 shelter with half a loaf of bread and hope his friends find him, Kezra. His companions are at the eastern outpost, eight miles across high snow saddles. If shock sets in. Or if his wrist swells beneath the linen and cuts off the pulse to his fingers, he will lose the hand before tomorrow morning.”
“And we can’t bring him up to Empty Choir,” Paxa added, repacking her shears and linen bandages into her field satchel. “Voss is unsealing the shaft small roof-dome and clearing the survey trenches. If an enemy scout sees forty paces of exposed ancient stonework and the bronze Station IV benchmark, our entire operation is compromised before we swing a hammer. Even if he swore silence, Krail’s judges would have the truth out of him in an hour.”
