The Gates of Thelgrim

by Robbie MacNiven

  She laughed out loud, a sound of pure relief. They’d made it. They’d reached the aqueduct and were being carried above the city’s rock-cut buildings. She wasn’t going to drown in some watery tunnel or have her skull dashed by submerged stone.

  She let the aqueduct’s flow carry her back down, striking out with fresh purpose. The Aethyn were ahead of her, the glow that suffused the water making the bubbles that billowed from them gleam, like the knives strapped to their waists and backs. She caught up with them, locating Shiver amongst the pack. He glanced to the side and nodded to her.

  They passed breaks in the stone on either side, tributaries that fed the aqueduct’s water to other parts of the city. Astarra was forced to kick hard to avoid being hauled into one of them, staying with the elves as they followed the main artery.

  Abruptly, the current surged. She no longer had to strike out – it hauled her along, a suctioning force she couldn’t have resisted even if she tried. A roaring noise built amidst the pressure in her ears. She realized what was about to happen. She didn’t get a chance to feel afraid.

  The elves swimming directly ahead disappeared. She caught sight of the cavern roof through the water, and then she was plunging, her stomach turning over, and body buffeted by water as she fell. They’d reached the aqueduct’s end and been swept out over its edge.

  She managed to resist the urge to cry out. The freefall was over almost as swiftly as it had begun. She hit the surface of the Blackwater and was immediately forced under, battered and beaten by the roaring waterfall surging out over the aqueduct’s edge.

  A series of pounding blows hit her as she was driven down, down and down again by the weight of the water surging into the lake. She tried to struggle upwards, to find a current that would drag her out from under the waterfall, but there was none. The downpour forced her under and kept her there. She struggled with it, battling the deluge, panic starting to set in as she felt her strength waning.

  Something snagged at her staff, followed by a sharp force. She lost the last air she’d been trying desperately to keep a hold of as she was hauled through the water, the horrendous, crushing pressure of the constant downpour finally relenting.

  With a gasp she resurfaced, hauled up two-handed. Shiver had dragged her out. The elf was waist-deep, standing behind the flood of water cascading down from the aqueduct. The rest of the Aethyn had gathered beneath the structure’s last, damp stone pillar, shielded from the view of anyone who might have been standing on the bank of the lake by the sheet of falling water.

  “You are hurt,” Shiver said. Astarra was too busy spitting out water and dragging air into her aching lungs to understand what he meant. She gained her footing in the shallows lapping around the aqueduct’s final arch, barely able to stand, her body utterly drained of energy. Only when she doubled over with her hands on her knees did she realize what the elf meant.

  At some point during the desperate, half-blind surge through the tunnels and caverns, her elbows and one knee had been scraped bloody. Between the surging currents and the bitter chill, she’d failed to notice at the time, but now the sting registered, making her hiss. The blood was running pink, staining her sleeves.

  “Hold still,” Shiver said, laying a hand gently on each graze in turn. She bit her lip at the sting of contact, but it lasted only a moment.

  The grazes healed. She felt the power Shiver drew upon, the strange, unknowable reserves of the Empyrean, and momentarily thought she knew what it was like to be able to innately call up its energies. Then he withdrew his hand, and the sensation was gone. Her flesh was whole again. She stooped in the water to wash off the worst of the blood.

  “We do not have time to pause here,” Maelwich said. The daggerband had gathered itself in the lee of the aqueduct, checking blades and straps. They presented an even more fearsome visage when drenched, their skin appearing alabaster-white, their black hair hanging lank and glistening upon their shoulders, dark eyes seemingly full of threat. Astarra found herself thinking of the sharks she had once seen swimming in the Teallin Sea, their palled, sharp forms exuding predatory danger. She noted that none of them had suffered wounds or grazes the way she had, and none of them were shivering from the cold.

  “I’m fine,” she told Maelwich, trying to mask her own shaking. “Just tell me what’s next.”

  “Next, we enter the lake,” the elven leader said, nodding past the waterfall. “There is a submerged tunnel that leads to the fortress. The garrison is able to use it to access fresh water directly in the event of a siege.”

  “I’m assuming it’s well guarded?” Astarra asked.

  “There are guards, yes,” Maelwich said. “And a sunken gate. But that’s where you come in.”

  •••

  They struck out into the Blackwater, swimming downwards at first to avoid being seen on its surface.

  In its stygian depths, Shiver tried to suppress his doubts. They’d been lingering with him since setting out into the river, their persistence frustrating. On one level, the plan was not without its merits. Astarra was correct, the burrowing device would be useful, and Maelwich seemed to be privately relishing the opportunity to strike at the Dunwarr in their most secure fastness. But still, he worried they had embarked upon a doomed venture. They were risking their ability to stop the shadow from spreading. What if he was unable to locate Mavarin and Raythen? What if they’d already been executed, or suffered some other debilitating Dunwarr punishment?

  Astarra’s claim that he had abandoned the two dwarfs stung, mainly because he now realized it was true. He’d become wholly preoccupied by the threat growing under Thelgrim, even more so after the realization that he likely had a hand in its creation. There were no longer any doubts – he had been led here for the purpose of expunging the evil that was taking root within the mountain. For a while, all other considerations had become secondary.

  He chided himself for that. He had long ago come to understand that pursuing a righteous end without restraint was a sure path to ruin. Was it not how he had fallen in the first place? At times, when the power of the Empyrean was coursing through him and the goal ahead seemed as though it was in plain sight, he had to catch himself, remind himself that the people and the places he encountered on his journey mattered too. If he betrayed them, if he abandoned them as he had abandoned Mavarin and Raythen, his penance would be hollow and meaningless.

  He paused amidst the still waters of the lake, looking about for Astarra. She was still with them, her eyes full of determination as she swam. Privately, he had worried she wouldn’t survive the journey to the aqueduct, though he understood her well enough by now to know that voicing his concerns would be a waste of breath. She was single-minded in her purpose. He supposed he wasn’t one to judge.

  He followed close to her, resisting the urge to outpace her. The light of the jaela root had been deemed too risky in the middle of Thelgrim, so her only guides were Shiver and the elves in front of her. His vision pierced the murky waters surrounding them, hunting for the submerged wall that would indicate the edge of the Dunwol Kenn Karnin.

  He found his eyes drawn down, towards the depths of the lake. There was darkness there, the deeps that gave it its name in both Dunwarr and Aethyn – the Blackwater to the former, the Black Well to the latter. Even to the eyes of an elf it was impenetrable, seemingly fathomless and all-consuming. And as Shiver watched, it seemed to move.

  The darkness shifted, and began to rise. It coiled slowly upwards, invading the surface waters where the glittering illumination of the far-off cavern ceiling dared penetrate. It drove the light back, spreading like a blot of ink.

  Shiver recognized it too late, its hunger like a physical presence in the waters around him. It was a maw, a gigantic mouth of ravenous darkness, shadows coalescing to form vast, individual fangs as it yawned open beneath them. At the heart of it was a void, an utter absence of anything, a primordial nothing
ness that seemed to want to drag in everything around it – the light, the lake, the very essence of their souls.

  It surged upwards with a howl that shuddered through the surrounding waters. Horror gripped Shiver. He lunged out, managing to grab onto Astarra, who turned, surprised and struggling. He ignored her efforts, kicking desperately for the surface and hauling her up with him. He could feel the darkness just below, coming for them both, its insatiable need to gorge itself on their bodies and souls overwhelming his thoughts.

  He broke the surface gasping and panting. Astarra was with him, gulping down air, unable to speak. He found himself looking up at a sheer wall rising out of the lake before them, a cliff-face that was part natural rock, part artifice. It seemed to glare down at them both, its parapets and arrow slits laden with threat. He realized they’d surfaced directly beneath the lakeside bastion of the Dunwol Kenn Karnin.

  The vision shattered, his fear of the ethereal shadow banished by the very real danger that they’d just been seen by someone.

  He snatched Astarra’s shoulder and hauled her back down under the water. They dove together, into its murky embrace, into the darkness that seconds earlier looked as though it was going to consume them all. It was gone now though, passed as if in a dream. The maddening hunger that had filled Shiver’s mind was no more.

  Silently, he cursed himself. He had no idea if they had been seen from the walls above. It didn’t matter anyway. They had come too far. Regardless of what he thought of the plan, it was the one they were now committed to.

  The rest of the daggerband were visible through the gloom ahead. They’d arrived at the waterside wall of the Dunwol Kenn Karnin, which plunged down beneath the surface. Tunneled into its flank was a large, circular port, an access point that admitted the waters of the lake into the lower part of the fortress. In times of siege, it was typically sealed off, as the water that flowed into the fortress was considered sufficient for the garrison, but without an enemy threatening the walls of the great citadel a heavy iron grate was considered enough.

  Astarra surfaced again briefly when they reached the base of the wall, driven by the need for air. Shiver couldn’t help but wonder again if they’d been spotted. He suspected if they had been, crossbow quarrels would already be slashing through the water around them. That, or they were now walking into a trap.

  Astarra returned, her staff freed from her back. She had fastened the Deeprune in place. Shiver could feel its power radiating through the lake, drawing strength from it.

  He worked his way down the wall until he was able to grasp the grate. It took only a moment of focus before he found the strength to reach into the Empyrean. Immediately, the bars beneath his fingers started to become covered in a thick rind of ice. It spread along the latticework of metal, the temperature of the water growing noticeably more chill. He heard, as though from far away, the crump and crack of metal starting to distort.

  With a grunt of effort, he drew back his hands and kicked away, making space for Astarra. She took his place before the grate, uttered a word that was lost to the frigid depths, and thrust her staff forward. There was a concussive blast of pressure as the Deeprune channeled the crushing weight of the ocean bed in the direction Astarra had sent it, slamming it into the grate covering.

  The Dunwarr-forged metal, which may otherwise have resisted the aquatic blast, had been made brittle by Shiver’s ice. It burst inwards with a submerged pop that threatened to damage Shiver’s eardrums.

  Astarra pulled herself to Shiver’s side as Maelwich surged through the opening, her daggerband following. Shiver nodded to the runewitch to go ahead of him. As she kicked after the Aethyn, he cast one more glance at the lake’s darkness beneath him, then slipped past the twisted ends of the ruptured gate.

  They were inside the Dunwol Kenn Karnin.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The sound of the horn reverberated through the halls of the Dunwol Kenn Karnin, echoing down the stairs to the depths of the Dunwol Keg. It had rung out six times since Raythen had been returned to his cell, two short notes then one long, drawn out, its echoes seemingly refusing to fade as they bounced through the vaulted, stone space of the Dunwarr citadel.

  He knew what it meant. It was the Kaz Nok, the War Horn, and it was summoning the Warriors’ Guild to battle.

  He’d expected nothing less after Mavarin’s admission. He’d claimed the deep elves had taken the Hydra from where he’d left it. Raythen knew the likes of the twins wouldn’t need any further excuse to advise Ragnarson to muster Thelgrim’s host. Conflict with the Aethyn seemed to have been brewing for a long time. The Dunwarr were marching to war, to reclaim their sorcerous relic.

  Raythen wondered whether that was part of Mavarin’s plan. On the face of it, the wily inventor was bound for the executioner’s block. But if Ragnarson wanted to lead an army in pursuit of the Hydra, he’d likely need Mavarin to guide the host to the last known location of the Shard. Mavarin would have earned himself a stay of execution, and who knew what might happen if he was taken, even under guard, beyond the walls of the Dunwol Kenn Karnin?

  He’d been dealt a new hand, while Raythen was down to his last card. He had sat and listened to the Kaz Nok’s warlike peals, and tried to weigh the odds. By rights, he was now a free Dunwarr, absolved by the Trial of the Mountain. Those laws hadn’t been tested in Thelgrim for decades though, and he had no doubt Zorri and Korri were doing their very best to find a means to get him back on the block next to Mavarin. The mood of the guilds was certainly on their side, and he knew he couldn’t count on his father to intercede.

  He might yet walk out of the Dunwol Kenn Karnin, and Thelgrim, but his chances seemed increasingly slim. Perhaps if they could recover the Shard the guilds would feel placated, but he knew the realities of a Deepling War. Many Dunwarr would fall rooting the elves from their caverns and passageways, and the mood of the council would likely be even more bloody than it had been before.

  Raythen had been reliant on the mercy of others for too long now, and that was never a good sign. It was time to take action. Time to do what he did best, and get well out, before it was too late.

  He reached up, pulled back his eyepatch, and hooked a finger into the hollow socket beneath. A tiny slip of cloth, barely bigger than his fingernail, came loose in his hand. He carefully unfolded it, and then extended the sliver of metal within, before slotting it carefully into the lock of his manacles.

  It took time – it always did, regardless of the stories most rogues told – but finally he heard the satisfying click of the manacle lock coming undone. The weight of the chains fell away, arrested by Raythen’s grasp just before they could clatter to the floor.

  He rubbed his raw wrists, stretched out his arms and legs, and silently approached the cell door. Manacles were one thing, the heavy lock on the entrance to the Dunwol Keg was quite another. He crouched in front of it and slipped the pick home, trying to do so in complete silence. The jailer was right outside.

  He worked at it for what felt like an age, his limbs burning and sweat stinging his eye. Eventually, finally, he heard a series of dull clicks. He paused, breath held, heart racing as he waited to see if the jailer had noticed. There was a slight scuff of feet from beyond the door, but nothing more. Fractionally, he worked the pick from the lock.

  Now he just had to wait, and hope. He stood and replaced both the pick and his eyepatch. Eventually, the first note of the Kaz Nok sounded again. He waited for the second, the echoes building, before grasping the door and hauling on it.

  The jailer turned, a look of total shock on his face. Raythen struck, slamming one of the manacles he was carrying into the side of the Dunwarr’s head. He dropped off the stool he’d been sitting on like a leaden weight, the clatter of his fall swallowed up by the reverberating peal of the War Horn.

  Raythen knelt and swiftly relieved him of his keys, before grasping him under the arms and, teeth gritt
ed, hauling him into the open cell. His heart was racing. In a way, it was a thrill to now be committed to the plan. And it had been an easy enough start too, but then again, he’d expected as much. The jailer was only really there to slide slop through the door hatch and open it for visitors. The real challenge would be the two fully armed and armored, veteran Warriors’ Guild guards that protected the doorway at the head of the shaft.

  He headed to the corner of the cell and retrieved the pile of stale slop he’d slowly been collecting since the start of his imprisonment. It had turned rock-solid, so he dipped it in the cell’s drinking trough and worked at it with his fingers, until it had turned gelatinous and stodgy once more.

  The jailer groaned and tried to roll over. Raythen hastily clamped the chained manacles around his wrists and patted one bloodied cheek as he came to.

  “Sorry about this,” he said. “Don’t worry though, I’m going to find you some company.”

  He straightened up and strode out of the cell, using the helm of his shirt to cradle his old slop. Working quickly, he climbed a third of the way up the shaft’s stairs and began to spread the paste across several of the steep stone steps, working his way back down. After coating four of them, he stopped and looked back through the cell doorway.

  The jailer had come fully to. He sat up, groggy eyes fixing on Raythen. A hand tugged at his restraints, the chains rattling as he realized just what had happened. Fury replaced his dazed expression.

  “Guards!” he bellowed, his voice ringing up the shaft. “Guards! The prisoner is escaping!”

  “Oh no, what ever shall I do now?” Raythen muttered under his breath, looking up the stairs. There was a scraping sound as the hatch at the top of the shaft was unlocked and dragged open. Two Dunwarr appeared, both fully armored bar one missing a helmet. They spotted Raythen, hefted their axes and shields, and charged down the stairs.