The concrete collar of the manhole vomited a geyser of white-hot white vapor into the casting bay the instant Len’s boots cleared the rim.
Melli Dorn swung her powerful torso backward. He hauled Len across the lip by the canvas of his undershirt. He dropped him heavily onto the compacted cinder floor. Bram Ash and Ivara Quill didn’t wait for an order. Working together, Bram threw his weight onto the heavy circular iron cover. It slammed it down over the shaft with a bone-shaking, ear-splitting CLANG that rang through the foundations. Meanwhile, Melli drove a six-inch steel wedge under the main locking dog with a single, savage blow of an iron maul.
The manhole was sealed.
Beneath the cast-iron lid, the furious, clockwork hammering of fists against the iron rungs sounded twice—two muffled, percussive thuds that shook the concrete rim—before the sound pulled back down the thirty-foot shaft into the roar of the vented steam.
Len lay on his side on the cold cinders, his breath coming in ragged, whistling gasps that tore his raw throat.
His vision was swimming with gray, pulsing clouds of tiredness. With trembling fingers, he tore the smoldering asbestos glove from his right hand, tossing the stiff, blackened gauntlet onto the floor.
