The staging apron at the bottom of the canyon was a sea of gray mud, coal smoke, and strained breathing.
At the center of the apron sat the monster.
It was fifty tons of cast hard dark metal steel. The replacement water gate forged forty years ago in the Royal Ordnance Works and left forgotten in the dry-dock cradle. Just then, the royal upkeep budget was liquidated. It was forty feet long, twelve feet wide, and four inches thick, heavy across its back by six massive upright T-section stiffener ribs that gave it the appearance of an iron drop-gate built to hold back a falling mountain.
The gate rested upon a heavy timber launching carriage built of sixteen-inch square white oak balks. Lashed beneath the carriage runners were twelve heavy logging sleds shod in half-inch cold-rolled steel plates, generously smeared with sheep fat and black axle grease.
Master Gault stood upon the front cross-beam of the carriage, his leather coat open to the cold wind. He waved a five-foot hickory timber-jack like a guide-rod’s baton.
“Stand clear of the bridle cables!” Gault roared, his voice cutting through the hiss of the rain. “Jared, bring that four-inch shackle to the center hitch! If that pin isn’t seated home to the shoulder, I’ll have your hide for an apron!”
