( James Vellaroux's POV )
The ridge is a bad climb at any hour and it was the ninth hour of the day.
Loose stone the whole way up. Not cliff. Worse than cliff. The kind of slope that moves under you a hand's width at a time and takes four steps to give you one.
A hundred and forty-odd people went up it at about the pace of a funeral.
Kell was stable by then. Arkwright had him strapped flat on two spears and a cloak and four of ours carrying him and two more walking alongside doing nothing except being there, which she'd told them to do and which none of them argued with.
So we went up a hill six people short and everybody wet to the knees from a river and covered in tower dust, and about half of Brightvale was limping, and Greywall had been on their feet since dawn with no points until noon and nothing since.
Nobody complained.
