The forty-mile dark rock spine of the Ironfang Dike loomed against the autumn sky like an unbending wall of dark iron.
At the base of the mountain pass, Giles Croft stood beside a four-ton steam-driven percussion drill rig.
The heavy air-powered hammer slammed an eight-inch drill steel into the solid dark rock with ear-splitting, rhythmic blows that shook the ground underfoot.
CLANG-BANG-CLANG-BANG.
Water sprayed from the hollow core of the drill rod, washing grey dark rock sludge from the deep drilled shaft.
Beside the rig, Master Borin Bronze-Lung and Foreman Corbin Cross were supervising the chemical mixing station.
Ten wooden vats, each holding a thousand gallons of white, granular prills, were being blended with diesel fuel oil and fine powdered light metal under the watchful gaze of Rathmor the Rusty.
“Ammonium-nitrate fuel oil slurry, Giles,” Borin shouted over the hammer blows. “Mixed with three percent runic powdered sensitizer from the old sky-wharf charge banks.
