The road was not a road. It was the stone-hard spillway of an underground river that had dried during the First Cataclysm, carved smooth by hundreds of years of hyper-high-pressure water.
Arthur walked on foot at the head of the convoy, his heavy combat boots finding purchase on the slick, black dark rock. Every breath tasted of wet shale, stone lime, and the crisp, tingling static of underground aether. At four thousand meters below the surface, the air pressure was noticeably heavier. It settled against the ears with a steady, muffled thrum that forced the commoner drivers to swallow constantly to equalize the pressure in their middle ears.
“All drivers, gear down to low signal,” Arthur spoke calmly into his throat mic, his voice broadcasting over the closed tactical hum of the Iron Ark. “Don’t ride your high-pressure friction brakes. If the lining glazes on this slope, you’ll slide two miles down into a dead drop. Let the engine squeezing hold you against the incline, and keep at least fifty meters between bumpers.”
Beside him, Toby was wrestling with a clockwork brake drum on Hauler Six, his wrench clattering against hot cast iron. The air around the crawler’s six massive drive wheels shone with heat haze. He smelled strongly of scorched asbestos and scorched stone grease. The vehicle groaned under the sheer driving force of its cargo, its mid-air springs tightly packed flat against the axles.
