The iron harpoon struck the outer curtain wall of Entry hall 106 with a sound like a thunderbolt cleaving an ancient oak.
The missile was eleven arm-lengths long, forged from solid void-iron by the armories of the Severed Horizon Order. Its four barbed flukes, each the length of a butcher’s cleaver, bit eighteen inches into the pale cut stone stonework three yards below the low roof wall. Attached to its butt was a twisted cable of six-strand cold-drawn steel, three fingers thick. It hummed with terrifying, elastic tension as an iron-plated steam winch on the distant Conclave castle wall began to haul it taut.
Cr-r-r-ack.
A spiderweb of hairline fractures blossomed across the marble face around the iron head. White dust, fine as sifted flour and smelling of ancient, calcined seashells, puffed outward in a sudden cloud, drifting lazily into the cold sea-fog.
Qiao Ming knelt on the narrow walkway atop the low roof wall. His oilskin coat was dusted white from the blast, his dark hair powdered with lime. His bare feet gripped the damp flat stone slabs, feeling through the skin of his soles the shuddering echo of the winch engine three hundred paces away across the sunken courtyard. Beside him, two refugee youths cowered against the inner breastwork, their hands clasped over their ears to shut out the screeching hum of the cable.
