“Part of some engine, maybe?” Braddon wondered, running a hand over the thing’s surface. It seemed to be made from the same material as the spire, but of a darker hue.
Clay checked the seam between the cog’s teeth and the surrounding wall, straightening in surprise at what he found. “It’s buckled,” he realised, lifting a lamp to illuminate a large indentation in the cog. It looked as if it had been punched inward by some impossibly huge fist.
“What could be capable of that?” Skaggerhill asked, eyes wide and round beneath his bushy brows.
“The ice,” Hilemore said. “The pressure of it. But it must have taken centuries to have such an effect.”
“There’s a gap,” Clay said, his lamplight revealing a space between the cog and the wall. It was a few feet above his head so they would need ropes to reach it, but it was wide enough for a grown man to gain entry. “Looks like we got us a way in.”
? ? ?
Hilemore insisted they wait for morning before venturing inside. The decision grated on Clay’s burning desire to know what lay behind the great cog, but his undeniable fatigue prevented him from voicing an objection. He fidgeted and groaned his way through a fitful sleep, waking with head pounding and his body wracked all over in protest at the previous day’s exertions. It took a hearty swig of Green to banish his various aches and another before he became fully mobile.
“Lieutenant Sigoral,” Hilemore said, having once again forbidden Clay from being first into potential danger. “When you’re ready.”
The Corvantine shouldered his carbine before taking a firm hold on the rope. He reached the gap in a few heaves of his athletic frame then paused to haul up an oil-lantern. He played the light over the gap for a short moment then carefully lowered the lantern inside.
“I can’t see much,” Sigoral reported to Hilemore. “Some sort of passage-way, but it goes on too far to see the end.”
“Stay put when you get inside,” Hilemore instructed. “We’ll join you shortly.”
Sigoral nodded and unfurled another rope from his back, fixing the grapnel in place and casting the line into the gloom below the gap. The opening was an easy fit for a man of his proportions and he levered himself through in short order. After a short delay they heard his echoing shout of assurance.
“I’ll go next,” Hilemore said. “Then you Mr. Torcreek.”
“What about the rest of us?” Braddon asked.
“We have no notion of what awaits us in there,” Hilemore replied, drawing his revolver. He turned the cylinder a few times to ensure it hadn’t seized in the cold, then holstered it. “I won’t risk more lives than necessary. At least, not until we have a sound estimation of the dangers.” He turned to Steelfine. “Lieutenant, you have command in my absence. Wait until tomorrow morning. If we fail to return, do not follow.” He held the Islander’s gaze for a moment until he received a terse nod.
“I c-can’t stay out h-here,” Loriabeth stated. She huddled between Braddon and Skaggerhill, both standing close to provide more warmth.
Hilemore seemed about to dismiss her with a reassuring platitude but stopped at the sight of her hollow and shivering face. It was plain to all present that another night on the ice might well kill her. “Can you climb?” he asked instead.
“To g-get out of this c-chill . . . I’d climb a S-seer-damn mountain.”
“Very well. You follow me.” He turned and started up the rope, reaching the top to clamber halfway in then waited for Loriabeth to follow. He was obliged to grab her arm and haul her the last few inches as her hands began to slip. After they had disappeared inside Clay took hold of the rope, then paused to address his uncle.
“The captain’s right,” he said. “Don’t linger too long and don’t follow.” He glanced at Steelfine. “Regardless of what he does.”
Braddon said nothing and Clay knew he had just wasted his breath. Neither his uncle, Skaggerhill nor Preacher would simply walk away if they failed to come back. He was also fully aware that Steelfine had no intention of following his captain’s orders.
“Well, anyways,” Clay said, starting to climb and grunting with the effort. “Here’s hoping this damn thing ain’t empty.”
? ? ?
He dropped to Hilemore’s side a few minutes later. Both the captain and Sigoral had lanterns in hand and were casting their light at the huge tube-like passage ahead. Loriabeth sat against the cog, deep breaths echoing along the passage-way. “You alright, cuz?” Clay asked.
“It’s . . .” she began, then forced a smile, “. . . like a green-house in here.”
In fact, the interior of the spire was only marginally less cold than the air outside, but even a small upturn in temperature brought welcome relief. “I’m guessing it’ll feel a sight warmer the farther in we go,” Clay said, helping her to her feet. “Where’s your iron?” he enquired, putting a judgemental tone into his voice. “You still a gunhand or not?”
“Eat shit, cuz,” she muttered, reaching into her coverings to extract one of her revolvers.
“If you’re quite ready,” Hilemore said.
“Lead on, Captain.” Clay drew his own pistol and moved to Hilemore’s side.
“I’ll take the lead,” the captain said. “Lieutenant, Mr. Torcreek, guard the flanks. Miss Torcreek, rear-guard, if you please.” He hefted his lantern, the beam swallowed by the gloom barely twenty feet ahead. “Let’s be about it.”
Hilemore set a slow pace, continually playing the beam of his lantern from left to right. There were indentations in the walls every few yards and Clay soon understood that the passage had been fashioned from a series of huge rings placed end to end. Apart from the indentations, the walls remained as featureless as the exterior until Sigoral’s lantern alighted on something that broke the monotony.
“Is that writing?” he said, pausing to let the light linger on a symbol carved into the passage wall. It was large, a good ten yards wide and twice as high. Clay saw no meaning in it but the way the form curved and entwined stirred immediate memories of the script he had seen in the city beneath the spike.
“Mr. Torcreek?” Hilemore prompted as Clay continued to stare at the symbol. “Do you have any notion of what this means?”
“It means we’re in the right place,” Clay said. “Beyond that, I got no clue.”
They moved on, taking only a few minutes to traverse the passage before coming to an abrupt halt.
“No way the ice did that,” Loriabeth said, eyeing the pile of rubble ahead. It seemed to Clay that one of the rings had collapsed, filling the tube from floor to ceiling.
“A blast of some kind, perhaps?” Sigoral said, crouching to scoop up a handful of dust from the floor. He let it fall through the beam of his lantern in a glittering cascade.
“Whatever it was,” Clay said, “it was enough to turn this stuff to powder.”
“Whilst we haven’t been able to scratch it,” Hilemore added.