Rori’s stomach bound itself up in knots as she dragged one of the crates along behind her. Hag’s Rock felt too close to Markarth; she felt too exposed along the path. The crate full of furs was heavy and difficult to manage, and she had two more stashed by the side of the road.
Things were complicated by her reluctance to use the path up the mountain itself. She hated being out in the open. She wished Anluan took to the harness, and had less of a desire to attack strangers. His strength alone could have taken all three crates up the hill. But she had sent the sabre off hunting, away from the redoubt. It was safer for everyone.
Still. She had made it this far on her own. She could make it the rest of the way.
At the sight of the arches, she caught her breath. Flexing her hands as she dropped the rope, Rori fell back against the archway and shut her eyes. She whisked the sweat from her forehead and took a hasty drink from her waterskin. Perhaps when she made it up the hill, there would be others willing to venture down and fetch the rest of the loot.