A doorway arose, small against the size of the rest of the tunnel. A single door of wood, with black iron rivets holding it up. Oliver neared it, and dared to hope that it would be open. It seemed sturdy enough that if it had been locked, he wasn't quite sure how he was likely to make it any further.
But when he grasped hold of the iron handle and yanked, it tore easily free of the rotten wood. So long had it been down there that it had grown papery and hollow. Wood worms riggled free of the light of Oliver's torch, complaining against his interupting.
A boot finished the job, and Oliver stepped in over the remains.
The narrowness of the corridor that followed that mighty tunnel felt altogether clostrophic. Oliver's unease grew. Ingolsol and Claudia warned him against something – but they could not see what it was. Oliver had never felt them so blind. Even his own instincts seemed repressed.
