The warning came not with a roar, but with a sudden, greasy smell of sweet sewer cabbage.
Tomas was standing on the dry upper landing. He leaned on his ash staff. He watched Crate Number Seven emerge from the dark water on the derrick tackle. Sile stood beside the ash friction drum, his hand steady on the brake lever, while young Darrow guided the wet rawhide sling with an oak setting pole.
Suddenly, the surface of the flooded stairwell heaved.
A huge bubble of gas—six feet across, dark and rainbow-bright with sulfur scum—rose from the underwater archway like a rising whale. It broke the surface with a loud, wet gloop that sprayed black, acidic droplets ten feet across the slanting granite walls.
A heavy, invisible wave of vapor rolled up the cleats into the upper entry hall.
In the corner, the flame inside Nessa’s mica lantern flared instantly from an amber bead into an intense, howling cone of pale blue fire that whistled wildly against the brass gauze wire.
“GAS!” Nessa screamed through her breathing mask, throwing her canvas coat over the lantern to smother the intake. “DOUSE THE LAMPS! EVERY WICK DOWN!”
Tomas didn’t hesitate. With a single sweep of his staff, he knocked the second mica lantern from its stone bracket into the water bucket at his feet. Sile reached out with his gloved palm and pinched the brass wick-snuffer of the third lamp shut. He plunged the underground chamber into utter, choking pitch darkness.
