Dragon Heartstone > Chapter 60–The Drowning Dance

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Riasean burst into the pump house. The chamber smelled of mildew and stagnant water, its stone walls glistening with moisture in the dim light cast by flickering oil lamps. Ancient pipes groaned overhead, as if sensing what was about to happen.

In the corner, the gray-haired city ingeniare cowered behind a nest of valves and levers, his eyes wide with terror.

“Open the release now!” Riasean commanded, his voice echoing off the stone walls.

The ingeniare remained frozen, his weathered face a mask of paralyzing fear. His hands trembled against the damp floor where he crouched.

“Fool, what are you waiting for?” Riasean advanced, the urgency making his voice sharp as a blade. Outside, the sounds of battle grew more distant, replaced by an eerie silence that could only mean one thing. The Shatain had breached the inner gate.

The man stared numbly at him, pupils dilated with the unnatural dread that radiated from the Mordblades. Even here, deep below the courtyard, the magical fear penetrated.

Riasean cursed under his breath. “Where is it then?” he demanded, scanning the complex machinery network controlling Landros’s extensive water system.

The old man finally responded, pointing to a wagon wheel-like valve control with a trembling arm. The mechanism looked ancient—rusted at the joints, its iron spokes thick with decades of mineral deposits.

Reaching up, Riasean grabbed hold of the massive wheel and pulled. The metal was cold and slick beneath his palms, and despite his considerable strength, it did not budge. He planted his feet firmly and tried again, straining until the tendons in his neck stood out like cords.

Nothing.

Desperation mounting, he raised his feet off the floor and hung from the wheel, using his full body weight. Slowly, with a high-pitched screech that set his teeth on edge, the wheel began to turn. Each increment of movement came with a protest of metal against metal, like some ancient beast awakening from centuries of slumber.

“Turn, damn you,” he growled through clenched teeth.

Riasean pumped and kicked his legs, but progress remained agonizingly slow. The wheel’s resistance felt deliberate, as if the very machinery of Landros fought against its own destruction. Each turn released a shower of rust flakes and stone dust from the ceiling mechanism.

Once, twice, three times he kicked, muscles burning with effort as the wheel crept along its arc. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the damp chill of the underground chamber.

Suddenly, a pair of hands grabbed hold of him from behind. Riasean nearly let go in surprise, his free hand instinctively reaching for his dagger. But instead of an attack, he felt the ingeniare pulling on him, adding his weight to Riasean’s own.

“Together,” the old man gasped, his earlier fear overcome by some deeper instinct for survival. “It’s been… too long… since the mechanism… was used.”

Their combined effort finally produced results. With a groan that seemed to rise from the foundations of the city itself, the wheel heaved loose and began to spin, slowly at first, then with increasing speed.

A loud gurgling noise rose from the pipes and drains around them, starting as a low rumble and building to a roar. The stone floor beneath them vibrated with the awakening power of the reservoir’s immense pressure seeking release.

To Riasean’s left, a large stone slab shifted with the grinding sound of stone against stone. A thin sheet of water sluiced from under it, quickly widening as the pressure built.

“We better get out of here unless you want to be underwater,” the city ingeniare said, his voice steadier now that action had replaced terror. Cold and insistent water already pooled around their ankles. “The entire chamber will flood within minutes.”

They started running up the worn stone steps leading back to the courtyard, their boots splashing through the rapidly rising water. Halfway up, Riasean noticed the ingeniare had slowed and turned to look back at where water now poured into the room in earnest.

“What is it?” Riasean shouted over the growing cacophony of rushing water.

The ingeniare’s face, visible in the flickering lamplight, suddenly drained of color. “Something’s wrong…”

Riasean followed his gaze. A thin sheet of water poured through a square opening where the release gate stood open just a few inches, not the torrential flood they needed. Behind the partially opened gate, the pressure of the entire reservoir strained to break free.

“What’s the problem?” Riasean demanded, already knowing the answer wouldn’t be good.

The ingeniare backed toward the exit, his professional knowledge telling him something Riasean had yet to grasp. “Something is preventing the release doors from opening fully,” he explained, voice tight with fear. “But it’s too late. If we go back and clear the blockage, we won’t escape before the room fills with water.”

“But at the rate it’s emptying now, how long will it take for the reservoir to drain?” Riasean asked, already mentally calculating the time needed versus the time they had.

The old man didn’t respond, which confirmed what Riasean suspected. Too long. The Shatain would have enough time to find and kill every soul in the keep before the water became a hindrance.

Gall’s plan would fail. The Queen would die. All would be lost.

“I’ll see to it,” he said, turning toward the release gate doors, the water swirling around his calves with growing force.

“You won’t survive if you do,” the ingeniare said with genuine concern. “No one could clear that blockage and make it back out alive.”

“We won’t survive if I don’t,” Riasean shot back. “Get to higher ground. Tell Gall what’s happened.” He didn’t wait for a response, already wading against the current toward the sluice gates.

Behind him, the door to the keep courtyard thudded shut. The old man had saved himself—or perhaps gone to warn others. No matter. Riasean was alone now with his task, as he had been for most of his life.

He pushed on toward the sluice gates in ankle-deep water that quickly rose to his shins. The bone-chilling temperature stole his breath—water from the reservoir, fed by melting snow and underground springs. His Elvish eyes made out details in the dim light that human eyes would miss, a slight advantage he’d need to succeed.

The gap between the sluice gate doors appeared before him like a dark line, through which water sheeted with growing urgency. At the bottom, above the closed sewer drain, he spotted the problem—a round, irregular object wedged in the crease where the release door needed to slide. It looked like a large wad of sediment or debris. Too perfectly positioned to be accidental.

“Son of Caretaker,” he cursed, the Elvish oath hanging in the damp air. This was no accident. Something was blocking the release mechanism.

Now reaching mid-thigh, Riasean braced himself against the wall and reached into the gap. The force of the water made it difficult to maintain his position as he thrust his hand into the ooze. The slick substance slid between his fingers, cold and vicious. Working deeper, his hand closed upon something solid but wrapped in cloth—not natural buildup.

He tugged, and it moved slightly. Water cascaded out of the sluice gate in heavier volume, spraying him in the face. He turned his head away, squinting to stop the icy water from blinding him as he grappled with the mysterious object. With a final, desperate yank, the object popped free.

The effect was immediate and terrifying. The gate door slammed open in seconds, followed by grinding and popping noises as other release gates opened in a cascading succession. The water thundered through in a massive torrent, the force of the outward surge slamming into Riasean’s chest like a battering ram, knocking him off his feet and into the rapidly rising flood.

Riasean fought to stand, but the water was already up to his waist and rising fast. With desperate effort, he turned and swam toward the stairs, the icy water seeping into his bones. The stone steps quickly vanished under the thundering deluge, as did the only exit from the watery grave he’d made for himself.

The rising waters rapidly pushed him up toward the ceiling, the rough stone scraping his back as the space between water and roof narrowed to mere inches. The exit door to the courtyard now lay several feet below and to his right, beyond the submerged stairs. His lungs burned, demanding air that wasn’t there.

Not like this. Not after coming so far.

After a final, desperate breath from the last pocket of air, he dove under the frigid water. The current tossed him like a rag doll, slamming him against a wall before he could orient himself. Pain shot through his shoulder, but he ignored it, kicking hard against the stone floor. His hands groped blindly, finally connecting with the familiar shape of the door latch. His fingers dug at the mechanism, numbing from the cold until it finally sprang free.

The door burst open with explosive force, the pressure differential creating a vortex that sucked him through the opening. He tumbled across the outside steps, skin scraping against rough stone as water cascaded around him. For precious seconds, he lay there, gulping air into his burning lungs, the taste of victory sweet despite the coppery hint of blood in his mouth.

The reservoir is emptying. The plan worked.

The exhilaration of escape lasted only moments. As he pushed himself to his hands and knees, water still rushing past his ankles, he raised his head and froze. Six dark figures stood in the growing flood, their hooded forms unmistakable even in the dim light. They formed a half-circle around Gall, who retreated slowly, a translucent black blade raised in defiance. Riasean swallowed hard. Had his efforts come too late?

* * *

Gall swept up his Mordblade, the weapon humming with dark energy that matched the presence of his adversaries. The first Shatain glided through the shattered remnants of the gate, its movements unnaturally fluid, as if it were more shadow than substance. Water had begun seeping across the courtyard stones, casting eerie, shifting patterns of dim torchlight.

“Welcome, my brothers,” Gall whispered, his voice steady despite the pain ravaging his body. “Let us finish this dance.”

He stepped forward to meet the shadow warrior, ignoring the protests of his broken ribs and injured leg. Their blades locked with a sound like glass shattering across a frozen lake—not the traditional clash of steel on steel, but something otherworldly. Violet sparks cascaded from the point of contact, sizzling as they struck the gathering water below. The force of the impact traveled up Gall’s arms, threatening to buckle his already weakened stance.

Behind the first attacker, the other Shatain spread out in a practiced formation. They moved with coordinated precision that spoke of centuries of shared experience—or perhaps a single mind controlling all six bodies.

Gall pushed hard against his opponent, muscles straining, then abruptly disengaged. The sudden release sent the Shatain slightly off-balance. Without hesitation, Gall pivoted despite the sharp pain lancing through his leg.

A second shadow warrior materialized on his right, the man’s Mordblade already sweeping in a deadly arc toward Gall’s exposed flank. Gall darted backward, the translucent blade missing his midsection by a hair’s breadth. He could feel the cold emanating from the weapon even without contact—like the chill of an open grave.

Drawing on reserves of strength he scarcely knew he possessed, Gall countered with a lightning-fast slash at this new opponent, his blade carving through the air with murderous intent. The Shatain blocked, but only partially. The tip of Gall’s Mordblade caught the edge of its shadowy form, releasing a sound like a distant scream. The creature recoiled, hissing and cringing, its hooded figure rippling with what might have been a shudder of pain.

A taste of your own medicine.

Movement registered in his peripheral vision. Another Shatain approached from his left, executing a flanking maneuver in uncanny silence. Gall dropped to one knee, ignoring the explosion of agony from his injuries, and the shadow warrior’s blade passed harmlessly over his head. Water splashed around him as he pivoted on his good leg, using the Mordblade as a counterbalance.

The distinct sound of rushing water grew louder. What had begun as a trickle across the courtyard stones had become a steady flow. Riasean had succeeded—the reservoir was emptying into the city. The water had already reached ankle-deep where Gall fought, slowing the movements of both defenders and attackers.

Gall muttered as he regained his footing. “Need more time.”

Two Shatain converged on him simultaneously, their attacks perfectly synchronized. Gall parried one blade and sidestepped the other, the movement sending jolts of pain through his broken body. His counterattack lacked his usual precision but still caught one of the shadow warriors across what would have been its shoulder on a human opponent. A high-pitched, raspy shriek lanced out of the creature, and it backed away several steps.

Another slash whipped past him, so close he felt the unnatural cold against his cheek. He stumbled backward, his injured leg finally betraying him in the rising water. He nearly lost his balance, his free hand briefly touching the surface of the flood to steady himself. The cold water shocked his system, clearing the fog of pain and exhaustion.

Three of the Shatain paused, their hooded heads tilting slightly as if listening to some distant voice. The other three continued their relentless advance, herding Gall toward the western wall of the courtyard.

They’re trying to cut off my escape route to the western gate. They must not reach Britta.

With grim determination, he readied his Mordblade again, even as the water continued rising around his calves. The battle was far from over, and he needed to hold on just a little longer—for Britta, Larah, and all of Landros.