The Precursor terrace beneath the Sixth Peak was vast, paved with linked polygonal slabs of dark stone that showed no signs of weathering despite thousands of years of exposure to mountain frost. At the center of the terrace stood four giant stone megaliths. Ancient giant pillars of dense star-iron ore quarried by forgotten hands before the current dynasty had drawn its first breath.
Behind the thickest of these giant pillars, Lin Tao and Tie Shan took shelter from the freezing updrafts.
Tie Shan leaned his broad back against the cold dark rock, his chest expanding in deep, ragged breaths. He unfastened his canteen. Then he took a single mouthful of boiled snowmelt, swishing the grit from his gums before swallowing. He passed the dented tin to Lin Tao.
“Shoulder is tight,” Tie Shan reported, rolling his left arm inside the sling.
“The shoulder muscle took fifteen percent more shock during that slide than it should have,” Lin Tao said. He took a measured sip from the canteen before handing it back. He pulled a small horn tin of bitter pine-resin-infused sheep fat from his satchel, worked a generous dollop between his palms until it softened. Then he reached around Tie Shan’s neck to massage the salve deep into the strained upper back muscle muscles. “Breathe out as I press. We need that joint mobile before the next wave arrives.”
