The final hundred feet of descent into the roots of Mount Sunder felt like dropping into the belly of an iron tomb.
The air on Level Four was dead. There was no air-flow draft, no hum of air-powered machinery, and no human voices. The only sound was the cold, hollow splash of the cage entering three inches of standing water that covered the granite floor of the shaft landing.
Tomas Reed stepped out of the cage. The cold black water rose to mid-calf on his cowhide cart driver boots. It was bitterly cold. Seeping through the grease-soaked leather seams within twenty seconds, numbing his toes and sending a deep, aching chill up his shins. The water was dark as ink. He carried a greasy film of coal tar and decomposed pyrites that clung to the leather like yellow slime.
Nessa Vale adjusted the mica chimney of her safety lamp, raising the flame. Beside her, Sile Rook stepped into the water, planting the iron foot of his oak tall body-shield into the underwater gravel with a dull, heavy thud. Mara Flint stood beside Sile. Her bog-oak staff was held horizontally across her chest, her dark eyes scanning the cavernous gloom.
Behind them, Overseer Crag and the two guards stayed on the timber threshold of the cage. Their lanterns were held high, their faces pale and uneasy in the yellow light.
