The high-pressure shudder of the steam-drills outside the black glass vault sounded like an iron beast gnawing its way through the mountain’s ribs.
In the narrow stone entry hall between the outer bronze gates and the inner sanctum, the air was choked with crushed granite and the reek of boiling sulfur. Every twenty seconds, a bone-shaking blast wave rippled through the floor slabs. It sent showers of dark rock grit raining down from the vaulted ceiling.
Lord Ren stood at the center of the threshold, his dark cape pinned with an uncut iron signet ring, his broad shoulders squared against the bronze archway. His dark eyes were cold, steady, and unblinking. He watched the six-inch bronze doors bow inward beneath the impact of Arch-Chancellor Malakor’s siege rams.
“Form the wedge!” Lord Ren roared, his voice cutting through the clockwork din with the thunderous weight of an emperor who had commanded thirty sieges. “Unit Ren, anchor the left pillar! Apostate, hold the top door beam! When the bronze yields, no royal boot crosses the threshold!”
Beside him, Unit Ren stepped into the doorway. The machine-grafted summon stood seven feet tall, his left arm and ribs a fine, detailed cage of polished brass channels, high-pressure steam pistons, and spinning steel flywheels. With a sharp hiss of venting air-powered pressure, Unit Ren driven both clockwork fists into the granite floorstones. He locked his silver-steel-alloy anchor pins deep into the bedrock.
