The underground chamber of Bastion-Nine had preserved the heat of a mountain cave eighteen winters dead.
Tomas Reed stepped out from the shored breach onto the cold granite flat stone slabs. The beam of his tin reflector lamp swept across thirty feet of square vaulted stonework, cutting through air so dry and uncirculated that the fine white stone dust hung suspended in the light like frozen mist.
His left wrist brace creaked as he raised the lamp high. He paused, leaning his back against the nearest granite pillar. Then he performed his regular tendon exercises: thumb to index, thumb to middle, thumb to ring, thumb to little finger. The physical discipline was clockwork, necessary, and grounding. In the silent cold beneath the earth, the memory of his injury was a reminder that every surviving body paid for its history. He took out his small horn cup of sheep fat, working a dab of the dense grease into the cracks of his knuckles where the cold stone dust had very thirsty his skin.
Beside him, Nessa Vale set her brass sighting scope upon its short tripod, leveling the spirit tubes against the central drain. “The floor slopes two inches toward the western sump,” she noted, her voice crisp and low, swallowed by the massive stonework. “No groundwater has pooled here since the sally port was blown. Look at the wall joints. The granite cut stone is pinned with iron dowels run through lead sleeves. It was built to withstand siege catapults…
