The lead-sealed sarcophagus lay in the bottom of the fresh railway cut, half-buried in grey shale and crushed dark rock.
A circle of twenty laborers stood fifteen paces back, clutching their picks and shovels like magic charms against the dark. The cold mountain wind groaned through the new rock trench. He carried with it the faint, metal scent of ancient lead and damp earth.
Captain Kenneth Drake stood with his boots braced on the rubble. His hand gripped his ten-foot iron-shod pacing rod as if it were a spear.
“My lord,” Kenneth said, his voice hushed with the solemn gravity of a royal soldier. “The runes on the lid are the Seven Vows of Binding.
When the Founding Age collapsed, the Synod buried their heretic arch-sorcerers in deep stone vaults. They were sealed with molten lead and cursed with eternal sleep. If the seal is broken, the corruption may spread through the valley. We must send for a priest of the Sun to consecrate the site before another shovel strikes the stone.”
Giles Croft walked down into the trench, carrying his check hammer and a brass-bound folding rule.
He didn’t look like a man confronting an ancient necromantic curse. He looked like an engineer whose builder had delivered a shipment of unwashed gravel.
