The underground wind died six thousand paces below the shattered Netherworld Gates.
In its place came an unnatural, sickening lightness in the marrow.
The four iron-shod wheels of the heavy wagon lost their purchase on the roadway, grinding to a halt with a high-pitched metal shriek.
Beside the tongue of the wagon, the two mountain mules let out muffled, panic-strangled brays.
Their iron horseshoes clicked against the black stone. But their forelegs lifted six inches into the empty air, pawing uselessly at nothing.
A handful of loose dark rock shale drifted upward from the ground, tumbling toward the cave ceiling in slow, lazy spirals.
Up was no longer up.
Down was no longer down.
