The ground shuddered again as I poked through the crates, hoping to find something that would let me plug or melt the pipes. My lungs felt like they had cotton in them, the gaseous air worse in this chamber than it had been in the tunnels. I didn’t need a special detector to tell me that I needed to hurry and finish up before I passed out—forever.
Several of the crates held more pipe, shorter pieces. The dark elves must have welded many of them together and drilled them into the ground. There had to be tools somewhere. Wouldn’t they have used blowtorches or something similar when they’d originally strung them together?
My knuckles brushed the binder—it was still open to the map Damas had found—and I glanced at a few of the pages behind it. One held a diagram of what looked like their ple
