Beneath seven feet of black tannic water, time was measured not in minutes, but in the burning agony of oxygen-starved lungs.
Tomas planted his cart driver boots firmly against the limestone flags of the cellar floor, wedging his knees into the narrow recess beneath the underwater stairs to lock his lower body in place. The cold water pressed against his chest like an iron plate, numbing his skin until his fingers felt like wooden dowels.
He thrust the chisel-tipped end of the hardened steel pry-bar behind the top iron staple that anchored the chest to the stone bridge pillar.
The iron was thick, forged by village smiths twenty-five years ago. But a quarter-century of acidic marsh water had eaten into the mortar joints. Tomas threw his entire body weight backward, using his hip and the leverage of his broad shoulders to pry against the stonework.
A string of bubbles burst from the mortar as the lime yielded with a dull, grinding crunch: scrr-unch.
The top staple tore free of the stone.
Tomas didn’t wait for the bottom staple. He wrapped the heavy iron chain twice around the iron bands of the chest, threading the forged grab-hook through the links and snapping the lower block of his tackle onto the bridle.
