The sulfuric gale sweeping off the rim of Caldera Tartarus tasted of powdered dark rock, boiled away zinc, and old ash. Four miles below the cliff edge, the Sunda fiery trench boiled like an open crucible of black glass. Waves of blazing bright melted rock waste slammed against towering metamorphic cliffs. It sent geysers of orange foam-stone screaming into the smog-choked stratosphere.
Arthur Vance knelt on an outcrop of glass-fused granite. His fingers tightened around the cold, textured grip of his Ancient Suture Lance. The weapon was a masterpiece of field surgery and projectiles, forged from the stone-hardened bone marrow of the Antarctic titan Ymir. Through the dense padded seals of his armored pressure coat, he could feel the ground trembling. A deep, rhythmic drumming that rattled his molar teeth.
Beside him, Grimm rested his heavy, soot-dark chin against Arthur’s left combat boot. The hound’s single intact ear stood erect, swiveling toward the deep pit. Meanwhile, the torn stump of his left ear twitched against the rising heat. Even at eighty-two percent old family purity, Grimm remained a pragmatic alley scrapper at heart. His wire-dense coat, black as fiery black glass, absorbed the blinding glare of the lava lakes below without reflecting a single photon. A faint, low rumble rang in his broad chest, not of fear, but of hungry excitement.
