The Devil’s Rib was a knife-edge of pure white limestone no wider than a cart track, suspended between two upright abysses that dropped two thousand feet into cloud.
To the left, the southern gorge fell away into the dry, sun-baked canyon of the White Creek. There, the terraces of Split-Stone looked like tiny gray steps cut into an anthill. To the right, the northern deep gap was a pit of shadow and freezing mist. There, the underground draft from the deep karst fissures groaned like an organ pipe.
Tomas leaned his torso against the rock face, his fingers hooked into a level bedding joint. The stone was bitter cold, sucking the warmth through his split-leather gloves in seconds. His boots were fitted with four-spurred iron crampons lashed over the instep with rawhide thongs. With every step, the steel teeth grated into the limestone with a sharp, dry crunch, biting through the crust of verglas that coated the northern ledges.
Behind him, Nessa moved with careful, unrushed grace. Her boxwood survey rod was lashed horizontally across her shoulders, acting as a balance pole in the howling crosswind. Her aimed sound horn was stuffed with a woolen rag to prevent the wind from ear-splitting her ears, its brass bell clinking rhythmically against her transit case.
