The fourth strand of the fouled wire rope parted with a bone-shaking whip that struck the stone face of the well like the crack of an iron whip.
Tomas stood chest-deep in the churning rough churning of the intake well, his right shoulder screaming with tiredness. The eight-pound copper sledgehammer felt as heavy as an anvil, his fingers cramping into claws around the ash-wood handle.
Inside his helmet, the air was choking. Every breath brought a hot, choking taste of rubber and sulfur that burned his throat. His vision was beginning to narrow around the edges, the amber lantern light flickering in gray halos through the quartz glass.
He had five minutes of mind left before carbon dioxide poisoning overwhelmed his brain.
Beside him, Sile Rook was watching. Through Sile’s viewing port, his dark eyes were steady, fixed on Tomas’s hands. Sile had his left arm braced against the granite doorstep. He held his body motionless so as not to disturb the delicate balance of the resting four-ton casting.
Tomas didn’t look up at the surface. He didn’t look at Sile. He looked only at the last two strands of the thick ship rope. Seventy-four thin threads of high-carbon Swedish iron, wrapped around a core of tarred hemp rope that was swollen with grease and river water.
