The trench ended at a sheer drop of forty feet. There, the ancient underground river had once tumbled over a lip of dark pale limestone into a massive circular plunge-pool known as the Dragon’s Cauldron.
The pool was dry, its bottom filled with thirty feet of rounded boulders and white river gravel that smelled of dried algae and stale dampness. Across the lip of the drop, mounted into the solid rock with four-inch lead anchor-sleeves, stood a heavy timber derrick frame built from twelve-inch squared oak balks.
Tomas walked to the base of the derrick.
The timber was massive, braced with slanted struts and heavy with heavy iron gusset-plates bolted through the wood with inch-thick carriage bolts. Suspended from the center head-block hung a triple-pulley wheel brass purchase pulley, through which ran the rotting remains of a two-inch manila hoisting thick ship rope.
Tomas pulled on his split-leather work mittens, reached up, and took the rope in his hands. He leaned his weight back, testing the fiber. The outer strands were brittle, flaking away in gray, powdery fibers under his palms. But the inner core, preserved by the dry cave air and birch-oil dressing, remained surprisingly tough.
“This derrick was built to lift ten tons,” Tomas said, looking up at the head-block. “You don’t need a ten-ton hoist to lower three brave heroes with broadswords into a monster’s pit. You need a ten-ton hoist to lower iron mine cars, rail tracks, and forty-gallon powder kegs into the lower galleries.”
