Steam erupted in a blinding, concussive shriek as the white-hot slag struck the frost-coated iron bars.
The black ice sizzled and popped, sending boiling droplets of mineral water spraying across the damp stone floor.
“Brine! Bring the salt brine from the pool!” Barnaby Holt bellowed, his voice echoing off the limestone ceiling as he heaved a wooden bucket of cold mineral water straight into the teeth of the red-hot grate.
The water struck the cherry-red iron with a violent roar, enveloping the archway in a thick cloud of choking white vapor.
Beside him, Linnea dragged two more buckets from the warm spring pool, dumping the mineral-heavy brine along the sagging lower hinges. The cold shock caused the cooling iron to shiver, locking the metal back into rigid place with a metallic groan.
“The thermal shock is micro-fracturing the outer casing,” Linnea called out, shielding her face from the boiling spray. “Keep the brine coming! If we let the surface temperature equalize, the lance will punch through in two hours!”
Outside the gate, three mine bandits lunged forward with heavy iron crowbars, trying to pry open the softened seams.
THWIP. THWIP.
