Len Vey dropped through the square opening of the trapdoor into the total darkness of the underground turntable vault.
His boots struck six inches of stale, oily water with a loud, hollow splash that echoed off the underwater stonework footings. The cold liquid hit his shins like ice, biting through his wool trousers and stinging the raw, scraped skin along his ankles. He caught himself against the upright rungs of the iron ladder with his sound right hand, his heels digging into the slick gravel that had settled over the bedrock floor. His fractured left forearm, bound rigid in its beeswaxed cedar splints, slammed against the side rail of the ladder. The shock sent a bolt of white fire through his elbow and collarbone that made him bite down hard on his tongue to keep from shouting.
Above him, the square of dim yellow light from the forge shop hatch was suddenly blocked by a heavy, dark shape.
Bram Ash came down the rungs with an awkward, hitching descent. His left arm grabbed the iron upright while his right shoulder hung limp and useless. The defected court guard missed the bottom two rungs, slipping on the greasy scale, and fell backward into the water with a heavy, bone-shaking splash that sent black spray flying across Len’s coat.
