The shift was not a burst of light or an angelic choir. It was a sudden, violent redistribution of physical mass that made Tomas’s collarbones groan beneath his leather harness. In an instant, the five-hundred-and-eighty-pound dead weight of the waterlogged bog-oak chest, soaked timber, lead lining, and ten thousand silver bullion bars split with clean, steady care across the shoulders of two men.
In Tomas’s mind, the sheepskin ledger locked the settings of the contract:
Two hundred and ninety pounds.
It was still a huge, crushing load—more than any commercial porter was legally allowed to haul under the borough statutes—but it was no longer an unmoving boulder anchored in river silt. It was a load a seasoned cart driver could balance on his hip. A weight an experienced pack-soldier could haul through mud if his boots had iron plates and his teeth were clenched tight.
“Now!” Tomas yelled, spitting river foam from his teeth.
Sile Rook let out a deep-throated, bull-like roar that cut through the thunder of the incoming torrent. His broad back bowed, his scarred muscles bunching beneath his wet wool tunic as he seized the rear iron handles of the chest. Tomas took the front harness, setting his iron heel-plates into the bedrock seam of the altar stone base.
