The sulfur stench of overheated slag hit Ferra's nose before the wagon even cleared the rocky defile leading into the old High Gate foundry gorge.
She swung her boots down into the gritty ash along the wheel ruts, hauling her heavy leather tool chest off the tailboard with a single, practiced heave of her shoulder.
Behind her, two young smithing apprentices named Tobin and Marra scrambled down with long iron valve hooks and fireproof aprons bundled against their chests.
The foundry had been built fifty years earlier against the granite wall of the ravine, its crumbling brick chimneys belching greasy lavender smoke into the overcast afternoon sky.
Ferra led the way through the breached service gate, stepping over lengths of warped copper conduit that had been hastily spliced into the exterior bedrock.
