The dry granite tunnel smelled of ancient lime and damp stone.
Twenty men in dusty gray mason smocks pushed four heavy handcarts through the empty aqueduct conduit. The mountain stream had been diverted upstream two hours earlier, leaving the stone floor slick with black silt.
On each handcart rested five iron-hooped oak kegs stamped with black skull runes.
They were filled with earth-shattering powder, blended with alchemical sulfur and corpse-fire pitch.
“Keep the wheels in the mud,” hissed the saboteur captain, wiping sweat from his scarred forehead. “If an iron rim strikes a flint and sparks, we all fly into the clouds.”
The men nodded, straining against the heavy wooden handles.
Their boots were wrapped in burlap to muffle their steps. Beneath their gray smocks, they wore hardened leather armor and carried serrated trench knives.
“The aqueduct runs straight under the Guild Tower’s eastern cellar,” the captain whispered, checking a sheepskin map. “We drill the foundation stones, pack twenty kegs against the load-bearing pillars, and light the ten-minute fuse.”
