The iron door of the Vault of Founders shrieked as another bone-shaking blast from Cardinal Vane-Krell’s flanged war-mace hammered the outside plate.
Inside the red granite chamber, dust fell from the groin-vaulted ceiling like fine grey snow, coating the shoulders of the summons and dusting the dark stone sarcophagi they had wedged against the threshold. The smell of burning sulfur and ozone seeped through the warped seams of the iron, sharp and choking.
Ren Vale sat braced against a six-sided granite column. His left arm was held immobile in Artificer Ren’s horn-and-resin splint. The crystal-clear throbbing in his collarbone had settled into a steady, hot ache that flared with every breath. But his right hand remained steady as he sharpened the silver metal ring of his mammoth ivory awl with a slip of whetstone.
“Reinforce the tertiary slanted!” Lord Ren roared, his voice cutting through the thundering booms of the siege.
The Ash Emperor stood upon the lid of a four-ton sarcophagus, his blackened iron plate armor spattered with crushed lime. His heavy iron broadsword was planted point-down into the stone between his boots, his gauntleted hands resting upon the handle knob. His scarred, stern face was cold and calculating, treating the sealed tomb not as a trap, but as a royal castle wall.
