Smoke twists around the edge of the Hurricane Shield, streaming past and behind me. Though protected from it, I can smell the soot stains in the steel floor beneath me. The ill-fitting guard boots clank beneath me, their sound almost overwhelmed by the rush of wind.
The recoil from the shield strains the muscles of my left arm and shoulder. I know that collapsing the arm against my body would break the spell. It is a spell of defiance, of courage, not dogged endurance. My arm trembles. I reach out and brace it with my right and press on, step by stubborn step.
Periodically, small side passages open to either side. Fresh, hot smoke gushes from them into the wider tunnel. I could crawl into them, perhaps, but not while maintaining the shield and not against that foul current.
The tunnel begins to slope downward and narrow. What if it's a dead end? I groan at the thought of repeating this journey, walking backwards.
The side vents feeding this main line grow bigger. The air grows hotter, and sweat slicks my face, soaks through the adventurer's gear underneath the guard gear.
My eye catches on one small side passage. No fresh smoke comes out of it. Perhaps the forge connected to it isn't running right now.
I crouch next to it, arm still held high, and peer in. The air is relatively clear, and the narrow tunnel leads into the distance. I take a deep breath, drop the shield, and try to slide in.
The venting soot hits me like a wall the moment the shield drops. The force might have been enough to push me off my feet had I been standing. As it is, I immediately begin to slide back the way I came.
Quick and precise, I grab the lip of the side passage and pull myself in. I crawl, barely room to keep my belly off the floor, guard helmet scraping against the ceiling. The glow from the gem fades slowly, going dormant. I push myself as far as I can with breath held, lungs beginning to convulse before I draw in air. Need to get as much distance as possible from the rushing poison behind.
I draw in a ragged breath, and begin to cough from the stench of the floors. My body wants to curl into a ball around my abused lungs, but there isn't room. I just manage to roll onto my back, forcing smooth breaths, arms quivering from holding the shield so long.
This isn't the best situation, I reflect.
As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I can tell that it's not total. A faint, warm glow comes down the passage.
Well, lying here won't get me out of this stinking place. I roll over and crawl on. I go slow now, cautious, as quiet as I can be. The light gets stronger. I can see my hands in front of my face again. Eventually, I reach the first of several grates set in the floor and see the glow of torchlight from below.
A large forge rests in the room beneath, built into the wall. It seems to be made for casting parts for clockwork soldiers; hip pieces, perhaps? I've never seen one of those constructs disassembled. It's hard to tell. That is perhaps not the most important detail to my current goal.
The forge is cold, quiet. Two workers service it, taking turns crawling into its belly and speaking softly to each other about the repair. I examine the grille, discovering four screws holding it in place, the hexagonal nuts on the inside. I begin working them with my fingers, slowly loosening each one.
The workers take a break. They're uniformed, and look as much like guards or soldiers as technicians. The outfit is lighter than the city guards with less padding and armoring against impact. They wear a smaller version of the shock pack, baton, and crossbow. Their crossbows are hand-sized, stored unstrung, and the batons are short – practically pressure sticks. The whole kit tucks together neatly with the power supply in a unit that rests in the small of their backs.
One of the technicians is a woman. She takes off her helmet and shakes short auburn hair free with a sigh of relief. Her partner pulls a water skin from his belt, takes a swig, and offers it to the grateful woman.
"I wish we didn't need to wear all this whenever on duty," she says, gesturing at the long-sleeved, full-body uniform. "Sure, you don't want molten metal on your skin when working at a live forge, but couldn't we wear something lighter for other duties?" She gestures at the cold forge.
The man sighs. "Byrne's personal policy. It's everyone's duty to repel intruders and prevent sabotage, apparently."
"Has there ever – even once! – been an infiltration? Who would even want to? I know there are rumours, but it's not like we're even at war," the woman says.
I loosen each bolt, ever so slowly, a few turns on each one. I don't need one coming out and clattering down before I'm ready.
"They say folks are getting restless in town. Don't like the way the kingdom's being run. You know there used to be homes in the Industrial Zone? Everyone was moved out to make room for more production. Royal decree, but I hear that was Archduke Dragmire's pet project," the male worker explains.
"That doesn't mean that our citizens are now… terrorists," the woman says, exasperated. "All this mistrust, the high guard presence… it's not necessary! Calatians are good people!"
The man shrugs. "Above our pay grade. We just keep Byrne happy."
With a quick twist of each wrist, two bolts fall free from opposite corners.
"Ah, what now?" the female technician sighs, glancing up.
The grate comes clear with the last two bolts and I pour into the room, headfirst but landing in a handstand on the top of the forge.
She gapes at me, the man only just looking around.
I spin into a handspring off the forge, one leg coming around and connecting with the woman's temple in a sweeping strike. She drops as I land, baton already out. The male worker fumbles for his at the small of his back, and I stun him before he can draw.
With relief, I strip off the town guard armour. The prince's blue riding outfit, which I already affectionately think of as my adventuring clothes, have stayed blessedly free of soot but cursedly soaked with sweat.
The town guard disguise is bundled up and stuffed in the guts of the forge. I peel off the prince's clothes – no, my clothes, I think, blushing at the phrasing of my previous thought – and swap them for the female technician's. The fit is much, much better, though I can see why she would complain. It's still far too warm for the heat in here. It must be unbearable when the forges are actually live.
It doesn't feel great to leave her here in her underwear. I pull the guard jacket back out and ease it around her. It's long, and should save her some embarrassment. I empty her work bag – so many interesting tools that I don't have time to examine! – and replace its contents with the adventuring clothes.
Okay. New character. I'm a forge technician, slightly bored but alert for trouble. I'm relieved to have finished one task, and I'm in a little bit of a hurry to get to the next. I open the door and strike out, turning south towards the heart of The Foundry.
This place is a maze of hallways, open side doors to active forges, labourers by the dozen keeping the fires lit even at this time of night. This place is a whole town unto itself; I pass a cafeteria, and bunkrooms with beds placed tightly like shelving along the walls. I get some looks from passing workers, and realize my face must be filthy from the crawl. I keep my head high, avoiding eye contact, on a mission.
There's signage for the Inner Furnaces, and I follow the arrows. I emerge from a short passage to a surprising sight: A great, cavernous room opens before me, a giant dome filling it. Heat pours off the structure and out of giant grilled window sections. I can see more people toiling inside, wearing thick full-body protective gear. The face masks glow a faint blue, and I suspect there must be some Calatian magic at play to keep these people alive in the heat.
Two sentries in these armoured heat suits stand next to the structure's only entrance, gazes turning to me as I pause. I know better than to try the "I have a message" ploy again, but no better ideas occur to me.
"It's beautiful," I tell them, gesturing at the dome and giving them an encouraging smile.
"It's hell," one sentry tells me, the other scoffing in agreement.
"But, the artifice…" I trail off.
"If you love your artifice so much, get back to it!" he grunts. "Don't let Byrne see you killing time like this."
I nod, ducking my head like a chastened little worker, and scuttle back into the halls.
I pass a washroom and turn decisively into it. Examining my face in the mirror, I see that it is indeed a terrible mess. The washbasins here are fed water from pipes, the flow controlled by simple valves. I open the nearest and gratefully splash water on my face. It's warm, but still feels refreshing in this place.
"You're not Nat," a woman's voice challenges. I look up and see a technician emerging from one of the privies behind me. She washes her hands in the basin next to mine. "So why are you wearing her clothes?"
"This is my uniform. I don't know what you're talking about," I say, brisk, dismissive, flicking water off my hands. I'm just a forge worker, eager to get to my next task.
"She sewed this patch on herself," the woman says, nudging my right knee with hers. The patched spot is small, barely noticeable. Curse this woman's perception. "How about you tell me today's authentication code, stranger?"
Authentication code? Uh oh.
I go for the stun stick at my back. Why am I making such a habit of knocking strangers out in dark corners?
It won't come free. I've never seen one drawn, and there's some safety latch I hadn't noticed.
The woman draws hers smoothly, calling "Help! Intruder!" I dance back from her swing and thrust, being pushed back toward the door.
She rushes me and I dodge away. I plant my right hand on a basin and vault over it, feet running along the mirrored wall for two steps to land behind her, grappling her weapon arm. She's strong, but I control the joint well, pulling her off balance, twisting her hand back, the stun stick sliding from slack fingers…
The door slams open. Shock bolts pour through. I twist the woman to shelter myself, but the current travels through us both. One impact, two, threefour –
My vision goes black.
