The siphon ran for another thirty-five hours while Vorn assembled the pumping rigs and earth-fire barrels needed to carry out Malakor’s order. The defenders kept crews below in rotating shifts.
A subterranean shriek of boiling magma tore through the limestone floor seventy feet below the eastern rampart.
Pipes of heavy pressurized copper shuddered in the mud outside the valley.
Siege General Vorn stood atop a scorched earthen berm, clutching Malakor’s burning blood-talisman in his leather gauntlet.
Behind him, twelve heavy iron pumping rigs thudded rhythmically against the frozen soil.
“Pump it all!” Vorn roared, his single good eye bloodshot with manic urgency. “Dump forty barrels of liquid earth-fire down the eastern ventilation shaft! If we can’t drink from the pipe, we’ll melt the mountain foundation beneath their boots!”
His engineers turned massive iron spoked wheels with heavy pry bars.
Massive brass pistons hammered down with concussive, deafening force.
