The Witchstone Amulet

by Mason Thomas

  But who was he kidding? He could barely see anything beyond the reach of his arm. He’d never see the opening in time. And there was no way he could fight the force of the water.

  The conduit altered again. It threw him sharply left this time and he swerved toward the conduit wall. Two of the skins happened to land between him and the wall. They cushioned the impact, saving him from potential injury against the rough stone. With the speed he was going, he could have lost all the skin on his arm or shoulder. But something snagged. With a muffled pop, the skins ruptured. Air escaped into the water as one giant bubble and sprang to the top of the conduit, lost.

  He was down to eight.

  And then seven. Each time he pulled the air from skin, it seemed less and less sufficient now. His lungs wanted more. But he had to wait. He had no idea how much farther he had to go.

  Another opening whizzed by overhead. Fuck. If there was only some way he could catch the lip of it as he passed it… but the notion was ridiculous.

  He happened to look in the direction he was traveling, toward his feet. Something was visible up ahead. Approaching quickly.

  Fuck.

  His feet struck an iron grate seconds after his mind registered it was there. The force of the impact made his entire body jolt. A shock wave reverberated through his ankles and legs, pain exploding as if he’d jumped from the top of a building. He was lucky he hadn’t shattered a bone. His jaw clenched to prevent the air from escaping his lungs. A fraction of a second later, his entire body was pressed up against the metal.

  Another grate. The way was blocked. He was trapped.

  Panic threatened to seize hold of him, but he choked it down. Stay calm, he told himself. You’re not going to die. You’re not going to die.

  But a voice inside him was more realistic. If he didn’t find a solution, he would die.

  The entire grate was covered in slimy debris. His hands fumbled around the circumference of the barrier, searching. His heart thundered in his ears and his lungs were already clamoring for more air. His fingers dragged over something different—roundish, cylindrical. A hinge.

  That meant it was designed to open.

  He made a frantic search on the opposite side. There had to be a release of some kind. His shaky hands touched and grasped at everything while the water pressed in around him to escape through the holes in the grate.

  He found a metal peg wedged down through a hole.

  He gripped it as tight as he could and tugged upward. It didn’t give at all. He tried to wiggle it.

  Nothing.

  He couldn’t wait any more. He needed air. He dragged in another skin and drained it of its contents. He had only six left now.

  If he’d had his boots on, he could kick the damn thing, but his bare feet wouldn’t likely do much to loosen it. And the force of the water wouldn’t allow him the movement needed. He tried rattling the grate, hoping to initiate some movement, but it remained firm. He used the handle of the knife and tried to pound it up from the bottom. Still, the peg didn’t budge.

  Frustration and panic overwhelmed him. He pounded on the flat metal of the lattice with the heel of his hand.

  Something snapped.

  One of the strips of metal broke free. The old metal, after years, perhaps centuries, of being submerged down here, had weakened. Hunter pounded on it more.

  Another section snapped loose.

  He gripped the slime-covered slat and started rocking it back and forth. At first nothing—but then he felt the metal of the lattice start to give.

  Another broke free. Then another.

  Using all the strength he had left, he shoved on it. Again and then again. The grate bent back. A little at first, but then more. And then a little more. The opening was getting larger.

  He just had to push it back enough for him to slip through.

  His lungs forced him to stop and take in another skin full of air. He now only had five left.

  He resumed his desperate effort to bend the broken section back. The metal was stubborn. It moved—but in tiny incremental amounts. And his strength was flagging.

  He used another skin. Four left.

  The gap he made was still narrow, but he judged it large enough for him to pass through. Desperation forced him to give it a try. Fighting the current, he turned his body sideways and slid his head through first. The slats of metal squeezed against his thick torso. He shifted, inch by inch. It grew tighter around him.

  He was going to wedge himself in and be killed for sure.

  His stomach was in his throat. Jagged edges of metal cut into his skin as he cajoled his thick form farther through the opening. If he survived this, his skin would be a road map of scrapes and gashes.

  And then he was through it. He felt a momentary hitch—two of the skins caught the sharp edges of the broken slats and ripped open. More of his air bubbled out and was gone.

  Two left.

  He had no choice but to use another of the skins. The exertion of getting through the grate had made his vision blacken around the edges. He was near the point of passing out. He grappled for the skin, emptied his lungs and gulped down the air from the bag.

  And then there was only one.

  The relief the air provided had shrunk to nearly nothing. Immediately after taking the air, his lungs were already wanting more. But he waited, holding out as long as he could.

  Free of the grate, he picked up speed again quickly. It felt even faster this time, as if he was moving downhill. Maybe he was. He had no way of referencing that.

  Then, suddenly, the walls of the conduit were gone. His body tumbled, and he plummeted in free fall. Sound crashed into his ears. The sound of a waterfall. He was no longer submerged. He was out of the water. His mouth opened and air that tasted like a cave rushed into his lungs. He didn’t care—the sensation of full lungs was euphoric.

  This lasted for a second—then he was underwater again. Plunging. The sound of the cascading water cut off to become a muffled roar.

  The hard force of the water was now gone. Except beneath him. He could feel the water trying to tug him down into dark depths. He clawed at the water to pull himself up, praying there was a surface.

  He broke from the water. He tilted his head back, and while kicking and swooping his exhausted arms through the water to keep himself afloat, he took long satiating breaths until his heart rate recovered.

  He’d done it. He made it through and was now inside the castle.

  Naked. And with no idea where he was supposed to go to find Dax.

  But he was inside. And still alive. It was a start.

  30

  HUNTER LIFTED the moonstone from the water and held it aloft as high as the leather thong would allow. The soft light danced off the ripples of the water’s surface and reached out to gently touch the cavern-like walls that curved up to form a rough dome. No brickwork. The cavern was cut from solid rock beneath the castle.

  Water cascaded from the clay cylinder that protruded from high up the sandstone wall. The same cylinder he’d tumbled out from moments before. It struck the pool in a continuous deafening thunder that resounded off the walls.

  He drifted away from the waterfall and deeper into the cavern, taken by a current. The walls tapered, and as he was funneled into a passage, he picked up speed. The roar of the falling water dulled to a deep hum as he drifted farther and farther in. Up ahead, he saw the passage split into two separate channels. The moonstone’s light reached in the dark recesses ahead to reveal the hint of red brickwork lining their arched ceiling.

  He was under the castle now and entering the network of passages designed to distribute the water. Water used for cooking, cleaning, drinking—which meant there had to be multiple places for people to access it. He hoped at least one was large enough for him to crawl through. Otherwise he’d end up flowing into where waste was dumped into the water. As disgusting as that would be, it wasn’t the real danger. Eventually, he’d start to flow back out toward the river. If that
meant another conduit, with no more wineskins left, he was dead.

  He paddled toward the left opening.

  The ceiling quickly lowered almost to the surface of the water. He had just enough space to allow his head to remain above it. The air was thick and stale and tasted like stone. The soft strokes of his arms through the water echoed around him.

  The passage split again. He steered himself left again, only because the passage seemed wider. He’d had enough tight spaces for one day.

  Up ahead, a section of the ceiling was no longer red brick—but black. The light of the moonstone touched on nothing but curved edge. A hole. He waited until he drifted under it, then quickly grabbed the edge to bring himself to a halt. The water tugged on him, coercing him to keep moving, but he held firm and peered up the round opening, the moonstone elevated in his palm. The light dusted the sides of the tight shaft that shot straight up but didn’t reach the top. The walls were smooth—nothing for his fingers to grip on to. And it was too narrow for him. He’d never be able squeeze his thick trunk through it.

  He let go and kept drifting.

  He passed under two more openings, both no different than the first. Too small for him. The walls too smooth. Fresh apprehension blossomed in his gut. If all these water access points were the same, he was in real trouble.

  The sound of a thump and a splash resonated off the stone. He could feel the force of it in the water as it passed him in a wave. His heart made a hollow dip. Something was in the water with him. Something living down here in the depths of the caverns. He hadn’t considered that. Of course creatures would exist down here in this sprawling network of passages. Fish, certainly. Rats. Snakes. And probably other ungodly things he couldn’t imagine. He could almost sense something moving in the dark water around him.

  He forced his breathing under control again. Get a grip, he told himself. The sound wasn’t something in the water, but an impact on the surface. It came from another nearby tributary, a passage that was even smaller than the one he was in. He shoved back his fear and diverted his course toward the sound.

  The ceiling was even lower; he had to lift his chin up to keep his mouth above the surface and prevent his head from scraping the top. The channel curved, and he saw a light dancing on the ripples of the water ahead. Small waves rolled past him and splashed into his mouth. Something lifted out of the water.

  A bucket with a rope tied to the handle. It wobbled a moment as it cleared the surface, water sloshing from its sides; then it disappeared through the opening in the ceiling.

  The current was weaker here, and the passage was narrow enough for Hunter to brace his legs and arms against the walls to stop his forward movement. He brought himself to a halt just before the shaft and peered up. Warm light spilled down from a hole, illuminating the walls and the water, as the bucket was hauled up. The light seemed intense compared to the moonstone, and it stung his eyes as he gazed up at it, but it was likely only torchlight. He caught a glimpse of a silhouette and heard a grunt as the bucket was heaved out of the hole. Female, by the sound of it. Hunter then heard the creak of hinges, and a wooden lid slammed down, plunging the shaft in darkness once again.

  Twenty, maybe twenty-five feet up, Hunter estimated. And this shaft was wider than the others he’d found. Wide enough for him to fit through. But in the brief illumination, he hadn’t seen any rungs or handholds up the sides.

  He reached up into the shaft and ran his palm around the wall, searching for a handhold. At the extent of his reach, his fingers passed over a protrusion, a single brick that extended out far enough for him to lock his fingers over the top of it.

  Kicking his feet for added force, he pulled himself up out of the water with his one hand while his other slapped around the opposite side of the wall for something else to grasp. Finding nothing, gravity tugged him back down and his hand slipped off, and he collapsed back into the water.

  He tried again. And again.

  On the fourth attempt, his hand found purchase on another protruding brick, and he dangled there, half out of the water. He heaved, using the full extent of his upper body strength, and wedged himself into the shaft, pressing his back against the wall and lodging his feet opposite him. Water cascaded off his skin. The roughly cut bricks stabbed into his back, but he ignored the pain. He was out of the water.

  Inches at a time, he trudged up the hollow shaft, feeling like the Grinch shimmying up a chimney in Whoville. He kept his eyes upward. At any moment the trap door might open again and a bucket get launched down onto his head. He strained his ears for any sound that would announce someone returning, but all he heard was the chiming drip of water as it fell from his skin to the surface below.

  His legs cramped, and his back muscles were threatening to spasm. And he was afraid to see what the skin of his back even looked like now. Each time he shifted upward, it felt as if more skin was stripped away.

  Closer to the top, he heard voices. Muffled and distant. But still not close enough to hear distinct words. He froze in place for a time, listening. Two women, by the tone, engaged in casual conversation. He had no idea how far they were from the opening at the top. He shuffled a bit higher. A whiff of something acerbic drifted down into the shaft. Urine.

  His whole body stiffened. The last thing he needed was for this to be a latrine. He looked up, wondering if the next time the hatch opened it would be covered with two asscheeks, and he winced at the thought.

  He hesitated a bit longer. But his back muscles started to seize up. He wouldn’t be able to hold this position much longer, and the last thing he needed was to slip and plummet back down. He had no choice but to keep moving.

  He shuffled the remaining few feet up and waited again. The voices faded as the speakers moved farther from the opening. With an awkward shove, he forced the hatch lid up.

  Tentatively, he craned his head up through the hole. The smell of ammonia burned in his sinuses as he scanned the cluttered little chamber. It was cloaked in heavy shadow, but a light from the next room pushed through a cracked doorway. Voices were still audible beyond the door but fading.

  Safe. For the moment.

  He hoisted himself through the hole, and as soon as he was out, he lowered the wooden lid with a decisive thud, and he dropped his bare ass on top of it, panting. The worst of it was over, he told himself. The nightmare inside the conduit was behind him. He was out of the water and inside the castle. Hands on his knees, chin low, he took a few moments to savor that.

  Now… to find Dax.

  He peered through the gap in the door and, seeing no movement, gently pulled the door open a bit farther. Hinges squeaked, and his heart quickened, but no other sounds followed. The room beyond was quiet, the women apparently gone. Still reluctant to risk more noise, he slipped sideways through the door’s slim opening.

  Warmth greeted him, a welcome change from the chill of the water, but the air was swampy and dense. The chamber was large, but the array of a dozen or so stout pillars filling it made it hard to gauge its full size. Hooded lanterns that hung from chains cast a strange patchwork of shadow and light on the stone floor.

  Crouched, he tiptoed on the balls of his feet along the wall. One side of the room was lined with four colossal hearths, and inside, massive iron pots hung over shimmering coals. Tendrils of diaphanous steam rose from them like escaping spirits. Woven baskets overflowing with clothes were strewn about nearby like fluffy boulders after an avalanche. Earthenware vats, large enough for him to crawl into, were huddled around the pillars. Wondering if one was a place he could hide inside, Hunter shuffled over and leaned over the edge. Ammonia burned the inside of his nostrils. It was the source of the urine smell. White linens were soaking in it.

  He wrinkled his nose. The thought of sleeping on sheets cleaned with urine made his stomach twist.

  Of all the places he could have emerged inside the castle, this seemed the most fortuitous. The room, at least for the moment, appeared empty. The women must have gone off to gather
more baskets of dirty laundry. No telling how much time he had before they returned. He had to move fast.

  He scurried over to one of the baskets and made a quick rummage through the clothes. One after another, he held tunics up to his chest to gauge their size until he found one that seemed large enough—light brown, with conspicuous wine stains dribbling down the front. It smelled a bit ripe, but he tried not to think about it and pulled it over his head.

  Other baskets carried women’s garments mostly, simple ones that likely belonged to servants of the keep. He ventured deeper into the room, looping around pillars in search of baskets that held any men’s clothing.

  Voices reached his ears. The women were returning.

  He all but sprinted toward an unexplored cache of baskets piled near the wall. Frantic, he tossed each rejected garment onto the floor as he dug deeper. More servants’ wear. He unearthed a hooded cloak that was only long enough to just cover the shoulder, some sleeves with satiny ties at the arms but no vest to go with them, and a padded shirt—something Hunter guessed would be worn under armor.

  The voices grew louder.

  He dumped the contents of the next basket onto the floor. Rummaging through the pile, he unearthed a pair of brown woolen pants. He held them by the waist against him. Way too small. They’d never make it past his thick thighs.

  He emptied another basket. Sticking out from the pile was something green that looked like a pant leg.

  The women were entering the chamber now, chatting freely and laughing. He considered for a heartbeat trying to hide, but the women would see the mess he’d made as soon as they entered and surely investigate.

  He shook the garments loose from the pile, positioned his thumbs inside the waistband, and without checking the size, stepped into them. He slipped them over his thighs and ass with ease.

  He was tying the drawstring into a bow when the two circled around a pillar and froze. Their conversation ended midsentence and, mouths ajar, they dropped the loaded baskets they carried.