The Basalt Deep gap was an ancient scar in the earth, formed during the fiery ruptures of the Cataclysm three hundred years ago.
Its sheer walls of black dark rock rose sixty paces on either side, carved with jagged upright flutes that caught the pale morning light like rows of black glass spears. The narrow floor of the gorge—barely twelve paces wide—was littered with stone-hard fiery boulders, loose shale, and deep fissures filled with black marsh runoff.
For an armored mechanized column, it was a geographical nightmare. An enclosed funnel where superior numbers were stripped of maneuverability. That forced every vehicle into a single, unsafe line of march.
When the lead six-wheeled gun-truck reached the thirty-yard marker, Arthur Vance raised his right hand.
On the high northern cliffs of the Red Mesa, Master Old Anvil Szabo was waiting for that exact gesture. The veteran smith stood behind the sandbag low roof wall, his leather apron covered in black powder soot. His broad hands gripped the firing lanyard of the first captured Type-58 howitzer.
“Eat iron, you corporate vultures!” Szabo bellowed.
He hauled back on the lanyard.
The Basalt Deep gap exploded into a howling storm of smoke, bone-shaking pressure, and screaming metal.
