The first strike of the star-fallen ram against the Shallow Gates sounded like a mountain collapsing into a frozen tarn.
The huge iron serpent-head struck the central seam of the stone-hard cedar leaves with sixteen thousand foot-tons of striking force. The five-foot-thick timbers groaned with a horrific, screeching protest of tearing grain, the iron reinforcement bands bulging inward by four inches. From the vaulted arch fifty arm-lengths above, a thick shower of ancient mortar dust and crushed limestone powder rained downward, coating the helmets of the defenders in chalky white powder.
BOOM!
The blast wave blasted through the water of the threshold, throwing up a five-foot wave of dirty salt water that washed over the refugee breastwork, soaking Yan Zhiqiu and her front-rank archers to their waists.
“Hold the braces!” Yan Zhiqiu screamed through the ear-splitting ringing in her ears, wiping a mixture of salt water and lime dust from her eyes. “Brace the third cedar beam! Drive the wedges!”
Thirty refugee craftsmen, their faces grim and set like carved slate, drove heavy timber struts beneath the bulging doors. They hammered wedge-pins of cured hickory into the floor slots with twenty-pound sledges.
Beyond the shuddering cedar leaves, the Conclave engineers were not content with striking force alone.
