Tomas Reed, Nessa Vale, and Mara Flint moved swiftly down the central aisle of the Deep Gallery, their boots crunching in the dry stone dust.
At the open wrought-iron drop-gate, Sile Rook stood in the center of the threshold, his heavy oak tall body-shield planted firmly in the gravel, his iron-wood hooked pruning blade balanced in his right hand. Beyond the gate, in the wet, dripping haulage drift of Level Four, Overseer Orso Crag and his two guards were backing away toward the central shaft, their horn lanterns swinging wildly in the dark.
“What’s it, Sile?” Tomas asked, stepping through the broken iron doorway into the cold, standing water.
“Crag sent one of his guards back to the lift cage ten minutes ago,” Sile said, his one good eye fixed on the overseer fifty yards down the tunnel. “I heard the bell-pull strike twice. A signal to the surface.”
Tomas looked down the drift. Overseer Crag stopped, turning around, his face pale as lard in the yellow lantern light. In his hand, his lead-weighted truncheon was trembling against his thigh.
“We... We have to clear Level Four, Reed,” Crag stammered, his voice echoing nervously off the wet timbering. “The shift engineer sent a message down the speaking tube. The boiler pressure on the hoisting engine is dropping. If we don’t take the cage up now, we’ll be stuck down here until the night shift raises steam at sixth bell.”
