The circular check shaft climbed seventy feet through solid bedrock, lined with rusted iron rungs and cold granite blocks that cried thick stone water drops. At the top of the shaft hung a heavy bronze check hatch, padlocked from above with a heavy, case-hardened steel chain.
Arthur Vance climbed the iron rungs with smooth, practiced agility, his ARC-7 Mag-Carbine slung tightly across his back. His leather gloves gripped the cold, slippery metal rungs, his boots finding secure purchase on the wet stone. Grimm didn’t need to use the ladder. The Great Shadow Panther leaped effortlessly from rung to rung, his sharp carbon claws finding tiny purchase in the damp stone mortar. He climbed behind Arthur with the silent fluid grace of a creeping arachnid. Every few yards, Grimm paused, his black glass whiskers twitching as he tested the draft of air flowing down the shaft, his amber eyes reflecting the dim yellow light from below.
High on Arthur’s right shoulder, Pip tilted his head toward the bronze hatch. The Three-Legged Golden Crow’s amber eyes pulsed with a dim, rhythmic fire, his third talon resting lightly against Arthur’s collarbone. A soft, telepathic warning rang through the neural link in Arthur’s time cortex: Heavy shakes above. Metal deep ring. High sound wave height. Unnatural rhythmic percussion.
