15 Going Under

THREADFIN FELT HIS body slam into the wall, cracking the plaster, showering the floor with dust. He collapsed with a damp thud.

The ancient Nephilim loomed over him, face like a thunderhead. ‘You wrinkled, gormless, necrotic piece of warg dung! You dare insult me in my own house?’

Threadfin rose slowly with Zane helping him, which was becoming an unfortunate habit in this mage’s opinion. It was always a thing with him; he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

‘It’s not your bloody house though, is it?’ He glanced at Zane for support, but got a pair of raised eyebrows instead. He returned his focus to the elderly giant. ‘Last I heard, you got chucked out of yours.’

The Keeper of the Stone looked ready to crush Threadfin’s bones for soup, but Zane held up a shaky hand to calm him. ‘I brought him here, Volo,’ she said, ‘because Desool told me you’re the only one we can trust now. I apologise for what he said - he’s a vapid-minded undeader; what did you expect?’

‘Don’t apologise for me, dammit! He called me ... uh, something, something—warg dung, yes, I remember that bit. I hate wargs. And dung. Both together is like the worst ever.’

She thumped him in the shoulder. ‘Shut up, will you?’

‘Fine, fine,’ Threadfin muttered, dusting himself off with a decent glare for both. ‘We need you and you need us, blah, blah.’

Zane grimaced, but decided to take his side again for some reason. ‘Keeper, he is correct. We need each other. Neither of us has many allies left. You don’t have to like him, just work with him. That’s what I do.’

‘Hey!’ What was it with everyone insulting him today?

Volo growled; the old buzzard was more menacing than Threadfin had noticed at first glance. Then the giant appeared to shrink in on himself, as he hobbled back towards a ginormous iron bed. Well, probably regular-sized to him, but Threadfin judged it could fit over a dozen breathers in that thing with room to spare. He thought there might be a joke in there somewhere. The Keeper sat on its edge, rubbing at his knees. ‘It is my house so long as I live in it, and I demand respect.’

Volo spoke passable Icarthian which had surprised Threadfin. He had hoped perhaps Zane had mastered their language, and that she might translate for him, but so far, it hadn’t proven necessary.

The former Aidari gave Threadfin a sharp elbow in the ribs. ‘Oh, um, right, yeah,’ mumbled the mage, trying to get his withered tongue around an apology. He never did seem to get the hang of those. They always felt unnecessary, especially since he hadn’t meant to offend in the first place.

‘I guess,’ he managed to say eventually, ‘I should not have said what I did, you know, about you being as much use to us as a decrepit piece of ... er, well, you know what I said. No need to go over old ground.’ He’d only pointed out the obvious—the Keeper wasn’t much of a Keeper without a Stone to keep. He might have embellished a little, but that was all. Artistic license, he’d heard it called once.

Zane had already informed him that a new Keeper had been appointed, Desool having decided his uncle was too advanced in years. At least, that was the official story.

Someone more reliable was needed it seemed. The king had gifted Volo with a new estate, and all the comforts he would need in his final years. It was obvious to Threadfin, if a little belatedly, that Volo had taken the gift as an insult.

His house here in Bolam, which was not the same one the king had gifted him, was modest as Nephilim dwellings went, bordering on dilapidated. Apparently, he refused to live on his new estate.

Rubbish littered the stone floor of the main living area, with an old rickety staircase leading up to a second room. The bed linen appeared soiled and was crawling with lice. There was little else by way of furniture.

‘I was a warrior once, you know,’ muttered Volo in a depressed tone, massive arms dangling over massive knees. ‘Until I was charged with keeping the Stone. From that day until this, I was honoured among our kin. Now,’ he added, throwing up his arms, ‘just look at what I’ve become.’

Threadfin chose to sit on an old wooden crate in the corner staying as far from the Keeper as he could get. Elderly he might be, but he could still kick an undead mage a fair distance.

The old giant shook his head. ‘I can’t believe it. Little Nanel turning on us like that? I just can’t believe it.’ There were tears in his eyes, adding to his shame. Nephilim believed in strength of body and mind, and never tolerated weakness, or what they perceived as weak.

Zane approached the Keeper, obviously feeling braver than her companion. ‘He has come to help us, Volo. The king didn’t do what he did to offend you. He did it to save you, to save all of us. You must know this.’

Volo glanced down at her; for a moment, Threadfin had the horrible impression he was going to eat her. Well, there were a lot of stereotypes about giants, and he had never visited Raddhon before. The last time he’d encountered them was the battle for Byrsa, and Gog had been a monstrous creature. This was Gog’s bloody uncle, after all.

‘The undead,’ said Volo, ‘are always welcome in my presence.’ He glanced at Threadfin. ‘I have received your envoys on occasion in the past.’ He then bowed his head. ‘I apologise for my behaviour. I am somewhat inconsolable these days.’

Threadfin spread his hands wide. ‘I am here to do whatever I can, but we must reach the Shathra Stone. The sorceress is close to getting it. We need your help.’

Volo shook his incongruously massive head. ‘I wish I could, but I have not been told the new Keeper’s identity. I am of no use as you said.’

Threadfin winced. ‘You know I didn’t mean what I said, right?’

‘Rubbish,’ snapped Zane, shocking them both. She stood before the old giant, fists on hips, glaring up at him. ‘I’ve told you already, Desool was trying to protect you, and you know it. Enough of this feeling sorry for yourself. You are a Nephilim first and foremost, and you are a warrior. Do you want to die in this old bed, or will you stand up and fight one last time.’

To her credit, she was a brave woman, or crazy, although she took several steps back as the elderly Nephilim surged to his feet with a growl.

He slapped a fist into the palm of his other hand, the sound echoing in the room. ‘You’re right! Yes, one last fight, and if I die with scarap in hand, fighting to protect the Stone, then I will die with a smile. In fact, that’s exactly what I mean to do. One last battle. Yes!’

Threadfin got to his feet too, glad all that was over with. He had never understood the fascination with fighting and dying. Any fighting he’d had to do had always been horrible and highly inconvenient. ‘Right, so we head for Bashan.’

Zane turned to him, and he realised that at some point when he hadn’t been paying attention, she’d gone and taken charge. ‘We head for Magog.’

‘Wait, what? Desool is in Bashan isn’t he, with the Stone?’

‘Not exactly, but Nanel is in Magog raising an army. You did say you want to kill this Astra Dar, right? Nanel may be the best chance of finding her.’

‘Magog is a fair distance closer to here, I suppose. Still, how are we going to get there? Walking will take us weeks.’ He’d seen no sign of sydarags anywhere since arriving on the southern continent, although he knew some existed in Eladaldor.

For the first time since he’d met her, Zane offered him an evil smile. ‘Well, that depends. Tell me, mage, have you ever ridden a warg?’

‡

The acid rain was torrential, and Ralan felt his skin tingle and scorch. Being a Torment came in handy at times like this, his skin hardier than a normal human’s. The fortress was almost hidden by the rain, which sizzled against the ground.

‘I’m supposing you know a way in,’ he muttered.

Striga stirred at his side, but didn’t pull her gaze from Torrent. She moved first and Ralan kept close behind her. They followed the bank of a dark flowing river—and by dark, of course, it was a thick black sludge which hardly mimicked water at all. There was a burp along its surface, and something with fins appeared before vanishing again.

The sludge passed through Torrent at its lowest point, beneath a low archway that appeared out of the rain, built of thick black stone like the fortress itself.

Striga put a foot into the river, and Ralan gaped at her. ‘No way am I getting in there. No—’

Striga grabbed his arm and dragged him beneath the surface. He’d barely had time to take a last gulp of air. How long they were under he had no idea, but it was like trying to swim in thick wet sand. Something brushed his leg, and he kicked out, blind and terrified. The last thing he needed was to get eaten by some under-sludge denizen with huge teeth. He pushed harder, the breath in his lungs becoming painful, though tolerable. Torments could hold their breath far longer than the average human.

When something took a nip of his calf, he started to panic. Something then grabbed hold of his lower leg and tugged. He felt the sharp stabs as teeth sank into his flesh a second time. Of course, he cried out, and swallowed thick soupy sludge instead of air.

Panic set in and he began to thrash wildly, having no notion of which way was up or down. Worse, Striga had let go of him, and he imagined her battling some other denizen of the dark deep, although in her case he had more pity for the creature.

Then something grabbed him by the hair, and he was breathing air, or at least trying to. He managed to inhale through his nostrils, as his mouth was thick with a foul dark liquid. On hands and knees, he vomited and retched trying to regain control of his dignity.

Whatever had taken hold of his leg had let go. He squinted as a hand wiped at his face, cleaning his eyes, followed by two fingers jammed inside of his mouth. Before he knew it, he was throwing up more black vomit.

‘You bitch!’ was all he managed to say before Striga clamped a hand over his mouth. He thought it was her at least. She was covered head to toe in the same filth he was. He glanced down at his leg, and saw blood, but at least he still had a leg. Another thing about being a Torment was infection wasn’t really a thing, but the strange creatures of the Styx were numerous and most unknown. It wasn’t impossible.

‘You can walk?’ she whispered, and he nodded. She helped him up, and it was then he realised where they were. Inside the fortress of Torrent.

The interior was lit by a reddish glow. They were in some sort of dungeon-like area of the fortress, but instead of cells, there were odd-looking see-through chests with some as large as a house. Within them some creatures stirred, while others appeared dead. There were scores of various types each more hideous than before. One had tentacles, but its body was covered in spiky fur. Another had a human-like face, but its mouth was filled with razor teeth, while its body was one bulbous growth, covered in smaller boils.

‘What is all this?’ he hissed.

‘I think,’ said Striga looking about with fists on hips, ‘we may have landed in the larder.’

‡

How long they’d floated on that piece of wood, Asher didn’t know. It might have been years or mere days. He’d fallen asleep, and when he’d awoken, his mouth was dry, his lips cracked, his throat raw. They had no water, no food, and no way of knowing how far away the nearest land was. At least he was no longer shivering with the cold. The sun was baking hot, and Oracle’s cold form next to him was his only relief. He’d already checked to see if the pouch remained on his belt, and it did. The ameliorate was safe.

‘Hold on,’ she instructed, still clutching both him and the shattered deck of their ship. ‘I see something.’

He wanted to ask her what when she didn’t elaborate, but he couldn’t get his voice to work. His fingers had gone numb, clutching the ragged edge of the wood, and his body was aching all over. Did he really want to know anyway? Was there much point in knowing?

Better to sleep. At least, then he could dream about something and somewhere much nicer. The ocean was quieter now, more of a gently rocking than a violent assault.

Something poked him in the ribs, rudely awakening him. ‘Do not sleep, breather,’ ordered the undead woman. ‘Not now.’

Again, he wanted to ask why, but this time she simply told him, and he quickly wished she hadn’t. ‘We have a visitor.’

It was then he became aware of something in the water near them. A heaving mass moving just beneath the waves. A leviathan of the deep. He’d heard the stories of such creatures from his father and navigators in Atlantis, but he’d never seen one.

‘What do we do?’ he managed to croak, although speaking proved painful.

‘There is no we in this—just I,’ she answered. ‘It’s been checking us out for an hour. It’s made several passes, but I think it will soon attack. I’ve tried scaring if off, but my magic is weakened. I need time to recover.’

Oh, well that’s just great. Why did I ever think coming along on this trip was a good idea? Bloody Adal and his bloody schemes.

Oracle twisted about, letting go of him, and pulled the sword from her back. Awkwardly, she manged to free it from its oilskins, but she left the sheath on. Then she gave him one last look, and in her face, he saw scorn. In fact, he felt threatened.

‘What are you doing?’ he whispered, unable to raise his voice any higher.

‘What I must, Atlantian. It seems I am out of time. I had hoped for more time to recover.’ She began to remove the sword from its sheath, still staring at him with that venomous look. Whatever it was she’d been about to do, he never got to find out, thankfully. The water exploded next to her, and Asher had no time let alone strength, to react. Not that he could have done much.

A wave swamped the partial deck, threatening to rip him from it, but he managed to hold on. Then all went quiet.

Oracle was gone and so, apparently, was the leviathan of the deep. After a few moments, bobbing there in the middle of the ocean, he felt a strange heat near his abdomen. Glancing down, he saw a strong red glow. The ameliorate had awoken, though eventually the glow faded.

Minutes later, something washed up beside him onto the wooden platform. The Crystal Sword, shining bright and it appeared, unsinkable. Then again it was not any ordinary weapon made of metal, but an angelic-made artefact with a piece of the Spectrum, and not to mention its maker’s soul, inside.

He grabbed the hilt and dragged it closer, wishing he had Oracle with him instead of a sword he couldn’t use. He feared she had met a nasty end; he doubted she would’ve let go of it willingly. He kept a look out, terrified the creature would return, but there was no sign of it.

He wondered if his device had done something, bringing the sword to him. He couldn’t understand why. Surely, the viral was a better guardian for the artefact than this Atlantian. Although, considering how she’d seemed about ready to murder him, maybe not. Had he imagined that look in her eyes?

He realised something, which did nothing to make him feel any better. Oracle must have been trying to steal the sword, or else why had she taken it from Droop? Besides, whether she had wanted to kill him for some unknown reason or not, she had abandoned him to die in the ocean. So, in the end, it didn’t make much difference.