The iron raised stone road gates of the High Karst Citadel didn’t yield to a battering ram. They yielded to the terrifying, unified weight of three hundred limestone quarrymen hauling on two five-inch hemp derrick cables. With an ear-splitting screech of ripping bolts and shearing stonework, the outer drop-gate was ripped from its stone guides, toppling outward into the snow with a thunderous crash.
The twenty hired blades didn’t fire their wheel-locks. Faced with an avalanche of working men carrying heavy mining sledges, iron drills, and leather buckets, the guards broke ranks and fled up the outer spiral stairs toward the safety of the Upper Keep. That left the courtyard wide open to the town.
Within three minutes, an unbroken human chain of two hundred and fifty men, women, and apprentices stretched from the well-head in the courtyard, down the stone stairs, and into the smoking cave of the Great Northern Storehouse. Copper wash-tubs, wooden firkins, iron kettles, and leather fire-buckets moved from hand to hand in a rhythmic, clattering blur that didn’t pause for breath.
At the head of the chain inside the burning vault, Tomas Reed stood waist-deep in hot water and floating charcoal. Beside him stood Brom, his great arms glistening with sweat in the orange glare, his beard plastered to his chest. Together, the two men took the heavy sixty-pound water-casks as they arrived from the line and hurled the deluge directly into the heart of the burning stacks.
