by Mason Thomas
“Even if the trajectory was clear and unobstructed, you’d never be able to hold your breath long enough,” Quinnar said.
Hunter paced the small room, a hard stone sitting low in his stomach. The very notion of this was terrifying. It roused his greatest fear—getting trapped in some dark and tiny space. Happening underwater was an additional bonus horror. This would send him into a panic attack for sure. But he wasn’t about to let Dax go to the gallows without attempting to spring him first, and this sounded like the only way to get in undetected. Dax had saved his skin how many times now? It was high time he returned the favor.
The others were right, though. Thinking he could hold his breath that long was foolhardy and suicidal. He had a decent lung capacity, but certainly not anything Olympian. And he wasn’t exactly the epitome of grace in the water. But there had to be a way to make it through that distance.
Something caught his eye on the shelf loaded with supplies. Sitting atop a crate was an empty leather wineskin. Hunter picked it up, pulled off the stopper, and blew into it. The bladder swelled up and Hunter quickly pushed in the cork stopper to keep it inflated.
Watertight also meant airtight.
“How many of these can you get me?” he asked. “Large ones.”
The three stared back at him.
“How many?” he asked again. “I have an idea.”
28
“THIS IS madness,” Zinnuvial told him. “You realize this.”
Hunter ignored her. “You sure it’s down there?”
He stood on the edge of the wall and peered down into the river. Nothing remarkable or distinctive about the place, nothing to mark it as the castle’s water intake. The wall simply made a sharp right angle, jutting out into the river, then it turned again to continue as before. He expected to see some sign on the surface—a disturbance in the flow of the river. He saw nothing but the churning reflection of the moonlight brushing the surface of the dark water.
His heart pounded with wild frenzy. Panic threatened to overtake him and shake him apart. He tried to force his breathing into a slower, steady cadence, and he tucked his thumbs into his belt to hide the quaking of his hands.
“Having second thoughts?” Corrad said.
Quinnar had ordered Corrad along to help, but Hunter was convinced he only came willingly to see if he backed out. Or if not back out, watch him dive on down to his death. Uri stood behind Zinnuvial, looking distressed. He, too, had refused to stay behind.
They all agreed to wait until the cover of night before they slipped unnoticed from the small safe house out into the street. Hunter had tried to get some sleep, but to no avail. He was too wired—like the night before a big match. He could only stare up at the ceiling. As they skulked through the dark and vacant streets, not a word was spoken between them. Zinnuvial led the way, taking them on a less direct route, concerned the city guard could still be lurking about.
A lingering smell of wood smoke and fish were in the air.
“It is down there,” Zinnuvial said.
Standing there, looking down at the water, Hunter was beginning to agree with the others. The idea was preposterous. But with Corrad staring at him, waiting for him to cave, he swept the doubt aside and tightened his resolve.
“And the grate that covers it?”
“We removed the lock that was on it. Back when we were exploring the idea,” Zinnuvial said. She dropped the loose-knit sack she carried on the ground. The bag of wineskins. “I doubt anyone noticed.”
He wondered about the grate hinges, whether they had rusted shut. He wondered if he was hopeful they had. It would give him a reason to abandon this.
“I stand by my assertion that this is unwise, Hunter,” she added.
Corrad chuckled. “Leave him to it.”
Hunter responded by pulling the tunic off over his head. The cool morning air bit at his exposed skin. Zinnuvial and Corrad’s eyes focused on his mother’s amulet that hung around his neck to rest on his breastbone. Both lifted their brows in surprise.
“Is it wise to bring that?” Zinnuvial asked.
Hunter subconsciously pinched it between his fingers. He’d gone through hell to retrieve it. It wasn’t going anywhere. “It stays with me.”
Zinnuvial accepted that with a nod and dumped the contents of the sack onto the ground. Empty wineskins and a coil of rope. “I gathered the largest skins I could find. Twelve of them. Once inflated, it’ll be too difficult to pull them all down at once, so you’ll have to do it one at a time. Dive down, tie it on the inside of the grate.” She removed a dagger from a small hilt on her thigh and tossed it on the ground next to the sack. “Once they are all in, cut the lines and go.”
Sounded simple enough. He pulled off his boots.
Zinnuvial pulled something out of a pouch on her belt. It was crystal of some kind, attached to a leather thong.
Corrad’s eyes widened. “Quinnar know you took that?”
Zinnuvial ignored him. “This is a moonstone. It glows with a faint light. It isn’t much, but it is something.”
Hunter nodded and took the stone. It felt faintly warm in his palm. He took the two ends of the leather strap, reached behind his neck, and knotted the ends together. The stone rested next to his mother’s amulet on his breastbone. He wondered if they could see the two pendants bounce with the mad beating of his heart.
“Better get started,” he said.
One by one, the skins were inflated into sad, misshapen balloons, and the corks quickly thrust into the openings. “Tie the length of rope around your middle,” Zinnuvial said as she secured a length of twine to each skin. “The current will be very strong at the opening. We will have to pull you up each time.” She checked them one by one for leaks by squeezing them.
Which meant he was dependent on Corrad to help Zinnuvial. Her strength was impressive, but she wouldn’t be strong enough to haul up his bulk on her own.
“You’re going to have to be extremely careful, Hunter. If the current pulls you into the conduit before you’re ready, you’ll drown.”
Hunter stripped off his trousers, leaving him naked and shivering. Every inch of skin on his body trembled. It was chilly—but not that chilly. His nerves were getting to him. He was starting to unravel. While Zinnuvial knotted the thick rope around a metal docking ring bolted to the rock wall, he slipped the other end around his waist and secured it as tight as he could with a knot.
He then lowered to the edge of the wall with his feet dangling and looked down into the water. A leaf spiraled below him for a moment before it was pulled under the surface. Like it was going down a drain. Yes, the conduit was down there.
He circled the twine from the first inflated skin around his fist, took a few long breaths to prepare, and pushed off.
The shock as the cold water squeezed around his torso and shoulders made his lungs hitch. His head dropped below the surface, and he was consumed in eerie green darkness. Already he could feel the staggering forces at work. The river’s current tugged on his upper body, wanting to carry him off downstream while his legs were being dragged downward by a disconcerting and powerful undertow. He fought his way back up to the surface, heaving his arms behind him to fight being dragged down. But as his head broke the surface, the cold wouldn’t allow him to pull fresh air into his lungs for a second, and it took a moment before he managed to pull in quick choppy gasps.
The inflated skin was bobbing on the surface and pulled the full length of its tether as it tried to drift farther out into the river. He lured it back to him and tucked it under his arm.
Three faces leaned over the edge and peered down at him. Zinnuvial cupped a hand against the side of her mouth. “Tug on the rope when you are ready to resurface.”
He gave them a thumbs-up—absently wondering if that symbol meant anything here.
Then he filled his lungs to their capacity and plunged down.
The resistance of the single puffed-up skin against him was astonishing. It tugged, it shi
fted, it lurched—it did anything it could escape Hunter’s hold on it and return to the surface. He pressed it up against his side like a rugby ball, careful not to squeeze it too tight and pop out the cork.
Downward he sank, letting the undertow do some of the work while he used his free arm to steer him. The water surrounding him was a thick green soup. A soft luminance emanated from the moonstone, providing just enough light to spot a gray circle below him. The entrance to the conduit.
The water towed him right to it.
He picked up speed at an alarming rate and slammed against the grate of the circular intake. It was wider than he expected—six, maybe eight, feet in diameter. It was hard to gauge in the murky water. The entire front was covered with a lattice of iron bands, covered in a wiggling green carpet of algae and milfoil.
The force of the impact caught him off guard, and he nearly lost the air in his lungs. The water pushed around him and pinned him to the fuzzy metal bands. He felt like he was at the bottom of a collapsed scrum, the entire squad on top of him.
Fuck, this is was such a horrible idea.
The space between the iron bands was large enough to squeeze the inflated skin through if he was careful. The last thing he wanted to do was puncture the skin with an unseen sharp metal edge. He first tied the end of the twine to a horizontal band. As he tried to negotiate the skin through, he lost his grip on it, and it launched upward as if shot from a cannon. He hauled it back down and tried again.
His lungs were beginning to burn. This was taking too long.
Inch by inch, he worked the skin through the hole. Once inside and free, it was at the whim of two different forces—buoyancy and the force of water entering the conduit. It darted up and deeper inside like a startled fish, and the twine was instantly pulled taut—but it held.
His lungs were desperate for air now. He had to get to the surface.
He tugged on the rope, worried that Corrad had already abandoned him up there, leaving Zinnuvial to the job on her own. If he had to swim back up to the surface using his own power, he would never make it. Terrifying seconds ticked by before the slack in the rope disappeared and his body was dragged away from the grate.
He broke the surface and delicious air blasted into his lungs. He tilted his head back and took a few moments to allow his breathing to steady.
“Well?” Zinnuvial said.
“First one is secured,” he replied between pants.
“Only eleven more to go,” she said dryly, and she tossed the next inflated skin down to him.
Again and again he descended into the dark depths of the river to tie the brown balloons to the grate. His fourth time down, one slipped from his grip and he lost his hold on the twine. Before he could react, the skin burst up toward the surface and was immediately taken down stream by the current. There was no recovering it.
He would have to make do with eleven.
The promise of dawn illumed the horizon with a streak of red when he at last climbed back onto the land again, shivering from the cold air.
“That’s the last of them,” Hunter announced when he rejoined them. “All secured and ready to go.” His muscles were already burning from his fight with the current. He wouldn’t have much strength if he ran into trouble down there.
“That was the easy part,” Zinnuvial replied dryly. “When you swim down this time, take off the rope and tie it to the grate. We will pull it open.”
Hunter nodded that he understood.
She handed him a short dagger and a leather strap. “Tie this to your leg.”
He complied while she continued to bullet point off the instructions to him. His head was in a fog. He was having a difficult time concentrating on the words she said. All he could think about was what awaited him inside that dark tunnel and if it was going to end up being his grave.
What the fuck was he doing? This was insane.
Corrad shook his head. “The only good that is going to come of this is that your dead body is going to poison their water supply.”
Hunter held his gaze. “I’m going to try to rescue a man who sacrificed everything for your resistance. What are you doing?”
Zinnuvial put a hand on his arm. “This is a brave thing you do.”
“It’s idiotic,” muttered Corrad.
She threw Corrad a cold look. To Hunter’s surprise, Corrad’s mouth snapped shut as his eyes rolled up. “If you manage to do this,” she said, “and get in unnoticed, no one will suspect you because they will believe the palace is impenetrable. Do not bring attention to yourself if you can.”
“Sure,” he said. “Where will I find him?”
“In the bowels of the castle is our best guess. The dungeons are said to be extensive and well guarded. It will not be easy to locate him. We’ll take a position near the northern wall. There’s a heavily armored door there that is seldom used. It’ll be off a small yard by the stables. The wall around there will be well guarded, but if you can unlatch that door, perhaps we can get in and provide you aid.”
Hunter glanced over at Uri. His eyes were downcast, and he wouldn’t look him.
“I’ll do what I can,” he said. “Wish me luck.”
He climbed over the edge one last time and dropped into the water.
29
WITH DAWN’S red glow filtering through the surface of the river, he descended once again into the green murk. The inflated bladders were in place. All that remained was to give himself over to the mercy of the water. And pray.
One last time, the river shoved him against the fuzzy covered lattice, the wide maw of the conduit drawing him in with staggering force. His heart thumped in his ears, but he pushed his fear aside and focused on the task of removing the rope from his middle. He fumbled with the knot, but it was too tight and too wet, and it wouldn’t loosen. He didn’t have the time to waste. Already his lungs were feeling the strain. With no other option, he instead worked the loop little by little down over his hips and buttocks and slipped it off his feet. He tied the end to the grate as best he could—then tugged on the rope.
Immediately the rope went taut, and the grate was pulled away from the opening. Gripping the slimy metal with two white-knuckled hands, he inched his way to the edge of the grate. He looped an arm through the hole at the end, circled his body around the edge, and put himself on the inside of it.
The force of the water tried to peel him off the grate. But with the full strength of his arms, he held firm. If he lost his grip without the skins, he was dead for sure. The metal edge beneath the green covering bit into the bend of his elbow.
Now the hard part.
With his one free hand, he turned his wrist around the eleven strands of twine that held the bloated waterskins in place. The balloons bounced and jockeyed about like nervous horses ready to start a race. Hunter wrapped two complete rotations around his wrist; then he tightened the eleven strands inside his fist.
Then he let go of the grate.
His body was thrown out horizontal. The rough jolt cut the twine into his wrist, pinching off the circulation in his hand, as the water pushed his legs straight out into the conduit. But the cluster of twine held to where it was tied. He slipped the knife from his thigh, and one by one, sliced through the strands holding it to the grate.
As soon as the last was severed, he shot through the conduit like a bullet through the barrel of a gun. With a heart-stopping lurch, he was instantly in motion, his body spinning and tumbling out of control. Blackness swallowed him. The moonstone around his neck pushed back at it weakly. His stomach leapt into his throat, and he felt the terrifying speed even though he saw nothing around him except the faint blurred impression of the conduit’s sides. His shoulder grazed the side. Stinging pain shot through his arm as if he were stung by a thousand bees.
He managed—somehow—to get control of his body again, force his body into a straight line. He oriented his feet out, locking his knees, as if going down a water slide. If there was anything blocking the way ahead, h
e wouldn’t see it coming—and going headfirst was a death sentence. He’d knock himself out.
It seemed like an eternity already, but only seconds had passed since he cut himself free. His lungs burned and begged for release. Longer, he thought. A little longer. He had make his air supply last. The leather balloons bounced and jostled above him, trying to reach the top of the conduit.
When his lungs could bear it no more, he pulled one of the balloons in closer. Timing it carefully, he emptied his lungs, pulled out the cork, and shoved the end into his mouth. Even so, a bubble of precious air escaped into the water before he circled his lips around the opening. The air, tasting a little stale and mildly of leather, rushed into his lungs. The skin flattened—his lungs took all of it. He felt he could take more, even. The contents didn’t add up to a full breath. He closed off his mouth, trapping the new air in, and cut the skin loose.
Ten remained.
The light from the moonstone seemed brighter now. But he knew that was only his eyes adjusting to the darkness. It cast a ghostly glow around him and reached out farther. Even so, there was little to see. The conduit walls sped past him in a blur.
The direction changed. He shifted suddenly right. His insides seemed to shift too, but at a delay. His body glided dangerously close to the wall. A sharper turn and he’d collide with it. Then he lunged left again. He was at the will of the water.
Too soon his lungs were begging for more air. He tried to wait, but the burning agony in his chest forced him to pull in another skin. He exhaled and drew in the fresh air like it was sweet wine. The relief was immediate, but not compete. He wanted more. He was tempted to use another, but he resisted. He had no idea how much farther he had to go.
Something whizzed by overhead. An opening? That meant there were more ways into the water supply. If there was one… there were likely more. If he could see one coming, he might be able stop himself, maybe haul himself up, take a breather, refill the skins….