The railway tunnel cut through the living dark rock like a gunshot wound.
Two miles north of Silas Kane’s central refinery, an abandoned pre-Cataclysm narrow-gauge mining spur linked the deep dredging shafts to a backup warehouse. Water dripped from rusted iron ceiling arches. It splashed against grease-blackened rails and pooled between rotten timber ties. Arthur Vance moved along the left tunnel wall. His combat boots stepped silently across the damp ballast gravel. The cold underground air smelled of sulfur, damp limestone rot, and rusted battery acid. Ahead in the darkness, the faint, periodic hum of a high-voltage channel shook through the floor plates.
Beside him, Grimm shadowed his pace. The Nether-Spine Direhound’s black coat seemed to swallow the surrounding lantern light, his three hundred and fifty pounds moving with fluid, terrifying grace. In the tight confines of the tunnel, Grimm was an apex hunting beast waiting to spring. His single scarred ear twitched backward, filtering the sound reflections bouncing off the curved stone walls. Every tendon in his massive hindquarters was coiled like a hardened steel spring, his claws clicking rhythmically on the dry ballast rock.
A rhythmic, clockwork clanking echoed from the curve ahead. The heavy, high-pressure stomp of air-powered pistons and the metal rasp of iron claws on stone.
