Twelve hours after the auxiliary centurions took up their gardening hoes, the surface world turned to fire.
A high, shrieking whistle tore through the dry morning air high above the canyon rim.
General Dravus stood behind three interlocking spiked pavises atop the northern bluff, his heavy iron greaves grinding into the crusted salt. His scouts had discovered the deserted tents of the eight provincial centurions at dawn. Worse, the remaining auxiliary regiments were murmuring among themselves, passing quiet rumors about petrified Golden Cores and poisoned imperial rations.
Dravus did not bother questioning the sentries. He was a veteran of thirty border pacifications, and he knew the foul stench of mutiny before the first drum even sounded.
If the auxiliary corps broke, his siege lines would collapse before the week ended.
He raised his iron commander’s baton, pointing it directly at the sunken basin where the Vance household was holed up.
“They think they can outwait an imperial legion,” Dravus snarled, his voice carrying over the blare of five bronze war-horns. “Wheel forward the heavy engines. Bring up every barrel of black pitch from the rear depot. Load the salt-fire boulders. Burn that sinkhole until the bedrock melts into green slag.”
