Down in the dark, vaulted chambers of the Third Gate, four levels below the cobblestones of Lowbank, the impact of Master Sorell’s locked override hit the building like a physical battering ram.
The heavy granite floorboards jumped half an inch on their foundation sleepers. A violent, bone-shaking sound shock wave—the sound signed name of forty thousand tons of river water slamming into a closed iron gate at thirty miles an hour—traveled through three miles of solid bedrock and erupted into the underground vaults with the roar of an underground explosion.
From the vaulted ceiling, a blinding cloud of ancient lime dust and stone flakes cascaded down into the gloom, extinguishing two horn lanterns and coating the wet machinery in gray powder.
Apprentice Dan was thrown against the iron handrail of the check narrow high walkway. His shoulder struck the bronze upright with a sickening thud. He cried out in pain. He grabbed his bruised arm as his tin speaking trumpet clattered down through the floor gratings into the black water below.
Beside him, Ada Morland stood with her steel-toed boots planted eighteen inches apart, her knees bent to absorb the violent shuddering of the floor, her fourteen-inch forged pipe wrench gripped in her gloved right hand.
