On the stone floor of the Four-Hundred-Foot Gallery, beneath the shelter of the heavy canvas belfry tarpaulin, the smell of burning charcoal mingled with the pungent, stinging reek of hot vinegar and carbolic oil.
Tomas sat upon an empty oak cable drum, his wool coat stripped from his left shoulder. His left arm lay flat across a smooth ash plank resting on his knees. Sile Rook knelt beside him with a basin of steaming hot water, gently peeling back the soaked linen wrapping from Tomas’s forearm.
The old Bellwether scar—a jagged, four-inch white line across the inner flexor tendon—was swollen into a thick, purple ridge that stood out a quarter-inch above the skin. The surrounding tissue was hot to the touch, mottled with deep under-skin bruising where the gristle had stretched under the eighteen-hundred-pound dynamic shock load.
Tomas’s fingers remained stiff, locked in a semi-curled claw. Sile gently tried to extend the index finger. Then, a sharp burst fired up the forearm nerve into Tomas’s neck. That forced his breath out through his teeth.
“Tendon sheath is intact. But the scar tissue has pulled away from the surface of the bone,” Sile said, his veteran fingers examining the damage with cold and exact care. “No bone fracture. But if you carry twenty pounds with this hand in the next fortnight, the tendon will snap clean through the palm.”
