The cold draft through the limestone crack carried the scent of wet subalpine scree and crushed pine needles. Air that had traveled through open mountain canyons, not the stale, dead lime-dust of a sealed cellar.
“Bring the short pry-bar and the four-pound mallet,” Yseld Arken said. She knelt before the fallen top door beam stone. “The top door beam hasn’t snapped. It dropped off its ledge-stone when the court floor settled, and two rubble blocks have wedged themselves behind the shoulder.”
Kezra Venn knelt beside her. She set her iron-shod sounding rod against the native pale limestone to her left. She tapped the stone once with her horn mallet, tilting her head so her good right ear caught the high, clean rebound. The pitch rang sharp and clear—unbroken bedrock, solid all the way to the core of the ridge.
“The top door beam is sound limestone,” Kezra confirmed. “It isn’t carrying load from the upper wall. The vault above is self-supporting on the pale limestone ribs.”
Working together in the narrow, three-pace hall, Yseld set the forged chisel-edge of the iron pry-bar beneath the wedged rubble stone. Meanwhile, Kezra drove the mallet home with two sharp, heavy blows. The limestone screamed as iron bit into mortar. Then, with a grinding lurch that sent grey dust puffing into their faces, the obstructing block slid six inches backward. Then it dropped into a hollow void below.
