Chapter Three

Dask drove his shield between the jaws and Orven. Its rim flashed in the late morning sun.

Teeth struck the iron. The blow shoved his elbow into his ribs and sent his back foot sliding toward the channel. He caught himself and pushed the shield forward.

Orven thrust past its edge. The spear sank into pale flesh behind the jaw. The head jerked away, and a long hand closed around the shaft.

“Leave it!” Dask shouted.

His brother let go. The spear cracked against the sill beneath the raised slab. Orven drew his short sword.

“Back. Stairs.”

Dask moved with him, keeping the shield toward the mouth.

Above the two stair flights, Borek stood at the upper stair head. His stick was raised toward Ravik, across the terrace.

“Lower it!”

Dask had seen him turn it again after Orven's order. Now the wheel was still. Ravik took his hand from the grip.

For a moment Dask thought he would pull it back. The young man looked down toward them, then turned away from the winch.

“Ravik!”

He went along the dry path behind it. The rock shoulder hid him.

Something scraped stone in front of Dask.

The creature's shoulders were through. Dark skin dragged over the sill in wet strips, opening a pale fold beneath one arm. Its hand spread on the pad and took its weight.

The thick trunk followed. One hind leg unfolded along its flank and planted; the other dragged free. The slab stayed raised behind it.

Blood ran from the spear wound into the water. The head remained low, level with Dask's shield, while the long limbs straightened around it.

He tried to fit it to some animal he knew. The crouch, the low head—there had to be something. Then its shoulder rolled back and the arm bent at the elbow.

It was shaped like a man.

Orven touched his back.

“Step.”

Dask felt for the bottom stair with his heel. His brother always left room for the shield. He raised his foot as Orven moved up beside him.

The nearest hand struck.

Dask braced. Fingers scraped across the rim, reaching past it. He twisted the shield outward until they slipped clear, then set his boot on the step.

“Come on,” Orven said. “I've got you.”

The other hand caught Dask's ankle.

The pull took his leg out from under him. He hit the pad hard, the shield twisting across his chest. He shoved it upward as the head came down. Teeth scraped over the rim, close enough for the creature's breath to strike his face.

He pushed with his free heel. His boot found the bottom stair.

“Pull me.”

Orven caught the back of his coat.

The grip left Dask's ankle. A hand reached over the shield and closed around his upper arm.

He felt the coat tear, then a deep, hot pain. The creature dragged him sideways. His shoulder struck the corner of the stair, and the shield strap tore.

Orven's sword cut across the grasping hand.

The fingers opened. His brother hauled him onto the bottom steps until his back struck the ridge-side wall. The shield fell against his boots.

Blood was running inside his sleeve.

Borek had come back down the upper flight. He stopped on the middle landing, leaving the lower steps clear.

“Can you get him up to me?”

“Stay there.” Orven bent to take Dask beneath his good arm. “Dask. Feet under you.”

He tried. His left arm folded uselessly, and the stairs tilted. He caught Orven's belt with his right hand.

His brother's grip tightened.

Then Orven looked past him.

He let Dask settle against the wall and turned with his sword raised.

The creature had planted its feet again. A hand came over the fallen shield. Orven cut across it and forced it back, keeping his body between Dask and the head.

“Go!” he shouted up the stairs.

Borek turned at once. His stick struck the first step of the upper flight.

Orven gave ground onto the stair above Dask. The step put him high enough to strike down at the reaching fingers. He cut again, and the creature drew its hand back.

“Up,” Dask tried to say.

His brother did not look at him. His free hand was feeling behind him for Dask's coat.

Dask reached for his sword. He could get it clear if Orven held the thing away for another moment. They could take turns. His brother could pull, and he could keep the point toward it.

The hand came again.

Orven cut at it. The fingers passed his blade and closed around his wrist.

His boots struck the stair edges as he was pulled down. He caught the edge of the step above him with his free hand. For a moment he held there.

“Orven!”

The head rose beneath his brother's chin.

Dask heard the bite. Orven's hand opened on the stone. His sword hit the pad, and the creature shook him once before letting him fall.

He landed beside the broken spear. His mouth was open. He did not move.

Borek's stick was tapping rapidly on the upper stairs.

Dask pulled his sword clear. The effort brought black spots across his sight. He could not lift himself.

The creature climbed past him.

Its hand struck the middle landing. The hind feet followed, scraping stone, and it went up the second flight.

The stick clattered back down. A shoe scraped on the terrace; then Borek cried out. Dask caught a glimpse of his coat at the stair head before it was dragged away.

He pressed his good hand over his torn sleeve.

He could hear feeding above him.

Orven lay a few paces away. Dask tried to call him, but managed only a breath. He waited, watching his brother's chest.

A little water ran beneath Orven's coat and stirred the loose cloth at his side. Dask leaned forward, waiting for it to move again.

The water passed.

Nothing moved.

His sword lay across his knees. He shifted his right hand back to the hilt and kept still.

Minutes later, in a flooded chamber inside the ridge, a man woke dragging air into his lungs.

His chest heaved against the breastplate. The breath would not go deep enough. He took another, then another, until the sound of it filled his helmet.

Something clicked beside his head. He tried to slow his breathing enough to hear it.

The clicking came from the wall. Water was running somewhere below him.

He opened his eyes.

He lay inside a stone pod. The cover had opened only a little, letting in a thin line of light. The pod shook beneath him, but the cover stayed stuck.

He tried to lift his hand. His fingers moved inside the gauntlet, but the arm stayed heavy against its support. He worked the fingers again, then the wrist. On the next attempt, his elbow came free.

A pale marking shone beyond the gap. He turned his head to bring it into view. Part of it went dark before he could read the whole.

He set his palm against the cover and pushed. It shifted, then caught.

He let it settle and tried nearer the edge. The same hard stop. He held the cover there and listened. The mechanism clicked beneath his shoulder, but the cover moved no farther. He eased it back onto its supports.

He braced against the pod and drew one knee up.

He gathered strength into the raised leg. The heaviness eased. Pressure tightened through his chest. He held the strength for one breath.

His heel struck the stone.

The cover tore loose with a sharp crack. It hit the floor several paces away, skidded through the shallow water and slammed against the far wall. The impact rolled back through the room.

He stayed braced for a moment, hauling air into his lungs. Then he lowered his foot through the opening and found the floor.

His knee gave.

He caught the pod's edge. Pain tightened beneath the lower edge of his breastplate, sharp enough to hold him bent over. He waited for it to ease, then set his other foot down.

This time he stood.

Water ran between his boots. Grit ticked against the fallen cover and gathered along its edge. A thin stream entered beneath the doorway opposite him.

Beside the pod, a shallow enclosure held equipment. He kept one hand on the pod until he had his balance, then reached for it.

He pressed the release, watching the line along the frame. No light answered. The axe lay within reach behind the front, secured in its supports.

He drove his armored fist into the edge of the case. Its front cracked away from the frame. He tore the broken panel clear and let it fall into the water.

He worked the axe sideways against its supports until the first bracket gave. The second snapped as he lifted the head free. He settled the familiar haft across his palms, then took the tome from its ledge and secured it in the clasp at his hip. He pulled once against the fastening before letting go.

The clicking stopped.

He touched the slab beside the recess. A release warning remained among the pale markings. The lines beneath it were incomplete; another section went dark beneath his hand.

Water was lapping over the toes of his boots now.

He left through the doorway.

The room opened onto a gallery along the side of a broad hall. Water covered the lower floor and moved beneath the short stone spans joining its landings. Across the hall, carved figures filled the wall. Their heads and raised hands caught what little light remained; the water cut across the scene below them.

A length of cable hung from a mounting near the gallery. Its loose end knocked against the stone with each surge.

He crossed the nearest bridge to a junction. One passage led upward. The other ran toward containment, with water flowing out of it.

He took the second passage.

The flood hid its floor. He moved close to the wall, feeling for each step before putting his weight down. Something loose brushed his shin and turned away in the current.

At the isolation threshold, he stopped.

The frame was dark. A strip of torn seal hung from its lower edge. Beyond it, the confinement stood empty. Water washed through the space and covered the deeper service opening.

He leaned past the frame to check the near corners. Nothing moved there. The flood struck something loose in the deeper opening, lifting it against the stone. He watched through another surge, then reached into the water for the torn seal.

The lower opening remained uncovered by any gate he could see. He lifted the torn seal toward its seat. The broken ends would not meet. He let it fall and turned toward the passage.

His breath caught before he had taken the first step. Pressure spread through his chest and up beneath the helmet, separate from the pull at his injured side. He held still, one hand braced against the wall, until he could draw air without it breaking short.

Then he returned along the wall.

At the junction, water was spilling across the foot of the upward passage. He took it to the service stairs. The first steps were submerged. He found their edges with his boot and climbed, keeping the axe clear of the wall.

The stair turned back on itself. He stopped at the turn, breathing hard, and looked down. Water was climbing the steps below him. Beyond the bridge, it had swallowed the gallery and reached halfway up the doorway to his room.

He shifted the axe to his other hand and rested his free palm on the wall. He waited until he could draw a full breath, then climbed the remaining flight, testing each step before taking his weight off the last.

The upper corridor was dry. Air moved along it, cool against his hot armor, carrying the smell of mud. He followed it to a closed stone door.

He took hold of the inside release and pulled.

It moved a little, then stopped. He eased it back, set his feet and pulled again. A deep clunk sounded within the wall. The pressure on the release gave.

He put his shoulder to the door. Its edge scraped across the sill, opening a thin line of daylight. Roots dragged across the outer face as it moved. He pushed until the gap would take his armor, then stepped into the court.

He stood beneath the lintel while the brightness resolved into a pool below the terrace. Iron bars disappeared into the water beneath the stonework. Trees crowded the slope above him.

A root had grown into a joint beside the threshold. He looked from it to the trees, then down toward the pool. Water moved steadily between the bars. Nothing broke the surface.

A short flight of steps led down to an outside path. He took it and followed the path around the foot of the rise. Rock hid the pool as he rounded the shoulder. The walk bent ahead between low stone edging and trees.

The wall of rock kept him from seeing where the path ended. He slowed at the last bend, listening before he stepped out.

The path brought him onto a dry terrace behind a wooden winch. Across the open ground, two stair flights descended past a middle landing to the outlet pad. A rope ran from the winch over a high pulley to the slab still raised in its guides.

A broken spear lay beside a motionless body below. Blood marked the stairs and continued onto the terrace.

A wet tearing sound came from beyond the upper stair head.

He brought the axe into both hands. Keeping clear of the rope, he crossed toward the sound.

Dask sat against the ridge on the bottom steps, his sword across his knees. Orven lay beside the broken spear on the work pad below him.

The feeding stopped on the terrace above.

An armored man appeared at the stair head with an axe in both hands. The terrace edge hid his boots, but Dask could see the closed helmet and the water dripping from his armor.

The creature rose behind his shoulder.

Dask tried to warn him. His throat worked, but no sound came.

The man turned and swung with both hands.

The blade went through the reaching forearm. The hand flew clear with a length of arm, and the creature reeled sideways. Blood struck the man's breastplate.

The axe carried on past it. Before he could bring the head back, the creature's other arm struck him.

The blow rang against his armor. He lurched sideways, the axe head dropping.

The creature followed.

He moved away from the stair head, into the open ground between it and the winch. The creature turned with him. Its maimed arm hung against its side. The remaining hand spread low.

The stranger brought the axe across his body. The creature followed, blood running from the stump.

Dask pushed with his good hand, trying to sit higher.

His left shoulder shifted. Pain flashed through him, and the hilt slipped across his knees. He caught it before it fell. When he tried again, his boot skidded on wet stone.

He dropped back against the ridge and bit the inside of his cheek.

Above him, the creature lunged. Its remaining hand struck the stranger across the waist.

The impact turned the man halfway around. He caught himself, but the jaws were already coming up.

He put his shoulder into them. Teeth scraped over the plate. He forced the haft between the head and his body, and the mouth closed on it.

For a moment they held there. The long fingers worked across his side.

Dask watched the axe. Orven's spear had broken in the same mouth. He could hear the haft scrape against the teeth as the stranger changed his grip.

The man set himself against the jaws. Slowly, his arms began to straighten.

He kept pressing. The head went back. He wrenched the axe free and moved clear of the reaching hand.

A dark line ran from beneath the plates at his waist.

He stopped with the weapon held across him. His shoulders lifted once, heavily, beneath the armor.

The creature came after him. He gave ground across the terrace, then swung for its head.

It jerked away. The blade passed in front of its face and carried on beyond it. The stranger let the axe head drop as he brought it around again.

The creature crouched.

Dask tightened his grip on the sword.

He knew that crouch. The arm could reach farther than the jaws, low enough to pass beneath a shield. He had felt it close around his ankle. Orven had been beside him then.

The reaching hand dropped out of sight behind the terrace edge.

“Your legs.”

The words came out thin. Dask tried to raise his sword to point, but the effort pulled at his shoulder.

The creature lunged.

The stranger shifted sideways. The reaching arm swept past him.

He drove the returning swing low, turning with the weight of the axe. The blade vanished behind the terrace edge.

Bone cracked.

The creature's hindquarters dropped. Its back twisted as it fell, dragging the head down out of sight. The remaining hand clawed at the stone, trying to pull the body upright.

The stranger followed. He raised the axe in both hands.

His breath caught inside the helmet.

The blade fell out of sight.

There was a heavy, wet impact. The creature dropped out of sight. An arm slid over the terrace edge and hung there, its long fingers curling toward the ground below.

Claws scraped stone, then stopped.

The helmet stayed bowed. Dask could hear breathing through it, short and hard.

He waited for the hanging hand to move again.

The fingers opened, closed halfway, and went still.

At last the stranger straightened. The axe came back into view, blood running down the blade. He waited with his helmet angled toward the fallen creature.

Dask looked down at Orven.

His brother's face was turned toward him. His coat had ridden up beneath one shoulder. Dask wanted to pull it straight.

He laid the sword across his knees and put his good palm against the stone, trying to slide down to him. His injured arm dragged across his body. He stopped before he had moved the length of his hand.

“Orven.”

The helmet turned toward the sound.

The stranger left the body on the terrace and came down. His axe hung in one hand. Dask watched him approach, trying to lift his sword before the man reached him.

The point rose a little, then struck stone.

The stranger stopped with one boot on the tread below Dask, the other a step higher.

The helmet tipped toward him.

Dask looked into the narrow visor, searching for the eyes behind it. There was only darkness. He could not tell whether the man was looking at his face, his wound, or the sword still trembling in his hand.

He pressed back against the ridge. The metal mask stayed turned toward him. He could hear breathing behind it.

“My brother,” he said.

The helmet did not turn. A drop fell from the axe and broke beside Dask's boot.

He tightened his grip on the sword. He could not get the point up. The stranger stood close enough to see that.

Dask waited for him to speak.

Then the empty gauntlet came down.