They heard the drill half a mile before they saw the basin, and they felt it through their boot soles before they heard it.
Every eight seconds a dull, iron thud traveled up the limestone ribs of the gorge. Each time the shock hit, pebbles rattled down the shale banks, the water in the drainage ruts jumped into cross-hatched ripples, and the wooden guide beetle on the path ahead paused to steady its twig forelegs before clicking onward.
In Ysabet’s left hand, the castoff glassfish scale tugged noticeably downward, its dull silver tip angling toward the floor of the canyon as if weighted with lead. Beside her hip, Pip walked with its head low, the gap in its left lattice antler turned toward the noise to break the worst of the pressure before it reached their bond. Even so, Ysabet felt a gritty ache behind her back teeth at every drop of the weight.
“Keep below the steam line,” Kiv said quietly, touching Siv’s shoulder so the three wolves dropped into a crouch behind a ridge of yellow sulfur crust.
They crept single file into a cluster of warm cooling vents where cracked chimneys of travertine breathed out clouds of damp chalk-smelling vapor. Lilt folded her broad gliding fins tight against her flanks, her tail twitching in distaste as hot condensation dripped onto her back. Below the overhang, the gorge opened into the central basin of the Wild Cradle.
