The air inside the volcanic cavern was hot, damp, and thick with the acrid stench of burnt sulfur and wet slate.
Great clouds of white steam hissed out of vertical fissures in the black basalt walls, rising toward the unseen ceiling hundreds of feet above. Down on the lower granite wharf, the internal explosion had blown out the timber staging, scattering shattered pine beams and iron drill bits across the wet stone floor.
Prince Bastian stepped out of the heavy iron steam launch first, his knee-high leather boots landing with a heavy splash in two inches of lukewarm water. He carried his lever-action rifle low against his thigh, his jaw set, his dark eyes scanning the lingering gun-smoke drifting through the sulfur mist.
Behind him, Foreman Haddon and six union riflemen stepped onto the pier, their steel shields raised, their boots forming a tight perimeter around Elara Vance.
