The descent from the Upper Arch took two grueling days of marching down the ice-sheathed switchbacks of the Devil’s Rib.
The descent along the Devil’s Rib was an exercise in nonstop, punishing slowdown. To hike downhill with seventy pounds of iron and stone tools on an ash pack frame is harder on the thigh muscles and knees than any ascent. Every step needs the bearer to arrest his driving force against gravity, bracing his heels into the loose scree. Meanwhile, the pack straps bite into the collarbones.
Tomas kept the steady, plodding rhythm of the Low Basin draymen. He didn’t rush. He kept his knees slightly bent, his balance point low over his hips. His right hand firmly gripped his ash walking stave. His left arm rested securely in the chest sling. The cold vinegar wash had done its work. But the torn muscle fibers of his forearm were tender as bruised meat. A loose pale limestone pebble skittered beneath his boot-plates. Each time, a sharp twinge shot through his left wrist joint. He tested the rigid support of the calfskin brace.
Beside him, Sile Rook moved with the tireless, rhythmic pace of an infantry veteran. The captain carried his heavy tall body-shield flat across the top of his pack, its blackened oak face deflecting the occasional pebble dislodged from the cliffs above.
