The cold chisel bit into the ancient lead sleeve with a dull, heavy thud that jarred Kezra’s wrists to the bone. She knelt in the narrow dog-leg turn of the service stair, the collar of her wool tunic turned up against the bitter downdraught that plunged continuously from the upper low roof walls. Beside her, Yseld held a three-foot crowbar braced beneath the pipe rim of the rusted iron storage crate, applying steady, upward pressure to keep the rusted bolt-head from spinning inside its socket.
“Strike again,” Yseld said, her voice flat and rhythmic in the cramped granite passage. “The lead is crystallizing. Another two hard blows will shear the shank flush with the stone.”
Kezra brought the striking hammer back in a compact, controlled arc. There was barely sixteen inches of swing between her elbow and the opposite hard speckled granite door post. She struck not with wild driving force, but with the focused, muscular snap of a mason driving a splitting wedge through limestone.
CLANG.
A puff of grey lead dust and orange iron scale puffed into the air, smelling of ancient mine animal fat and rusted metal. The upper right bolt snapped cleanly, its six-sided head tumbling down the stone steps with a series of sharp, musical clinks before vanishing into the darkness below.
