The Harrowing Deep

  Contents

  Cover

  The Harrowing Deep – Miles A. Drake

  About the Author

  An Extract from ‘The Court of the Blind King’

  A Black Library Publication

  eBook license

  The Harrowing Deep

  Miles A. Drake

  Prince Cycladaean was surrounded by the unfamiliar. But then, he had been for many years. Ever since he’d parted ways with his Motlynian kin, he had roamed the seas. But he was no mere nomad that had lost his way. His exile had been calculated. It served an agenda. Wherever he went, he sought to remind his kin of their potential. Of the realms they’d fled from.

  Were the idoneth not sculpted by a god of light and illumination? Why should they hide in the depths, ashamed of their very nature, when there was so much to reclaim?

  Some enclaves, the Ionrach, the Nautilar and the Briomdar to name a few, had already taken their first steps towards unifying the idoneth. Towards proving to their creator that, regardless of their flaws, they were worthy of his blessing. Even if these steps had been taken unwittingly, out of pragmatism rather than an effort to redeem themselves in the eyes of Teclis, they had served Cycladaean’s goal. There was, as such, no need for him to guide those enclaves when there were others that were less enlightened…

  And so he chose to seek the dismal, dark places where the idoneth clung to suspicion and cold pragmatism above all else. He could have gone to many places, for the majority of the enclaves were still mired in such ideology, but he had felt a calling to Ghur. To the Dhom-hain.

  And so Rúndhar, the Dhom-hain city nestled deep in the darkness of the Black Trough, became Cycladaean’s home.

  It was a dismal home, to be sure, for the Dhom-hain lacked much of the refinement of other enclaves. And that could be seen no more clearly than in the very structure of their royal court. The Maw Court, as it was aptly named, rested inside the skull of an ancient god-beast, long buried beneath aeons of siltfalls. Cycladaean moved past rows of colossal teeth that flanked the gloomy interior of the court, the buoyancy granted to him by the ethersea allowing him to drift between the sculpted coral forms growing across the chamber’s floor. The ethersea seemed cold and heavy, and though he had acclimated to the unsettling sensation, it served as a perpetual reminder that he did not belong.

  But Rúndhar was full of such reminders.

  In the dim ambiance, illuminated by clusters of glowing anemones and transient shoals of bioluminescent squid, he saw more akhelian enter the court. He couldn’t see their eyes in the gloom, but he could feel their cold stares. The mix of disdain, suspicion and predatory hostility served as an ever-present reminder that he was an outsider in a court that hated outsiders. But he showed no fear. If one cowered before a circling allopex, it would go for the throat, and the Dhom-hain were no different. They lived off the hunt. They lived for the hunt. And somewhere throughout their brutal history, they became the hunt.

  Ignoring the glances, he took his customary place at the edge of the court, leaning back into one of the sculpted coral thrones, feeling its fanlike branches bend around him. His section of the court was meant for foreign envoys, and as such, he was alone.

  As more akhelian filtered in, the presence of so many warriors bearing the colours of the Hunting Phalanxes gave Cycladaean a clear indication as to why the court had been summoned, though the presence of the Lasroch Host was certainly new. They were the Dhom-hain elite, the finest veterans of the Hunting, Raiding and Warden Phalanxes that the enclave could offer. If they had been called, then it was drawing nearer.

  That, of course, presented an opportunity. If the Dhom-hain grew too desperate, then perhaps they would allow an outsider to join their sacred hunt, and in doing so, he could well earn their respect – a necessity if he was to have any success in swaying them to rejoin the assembrals.

  But his musings were interrupted when three figures emerged from the gloomy tunnel disappearing into the throat of the god-beast. Even in shadow, they were as resplendent as any Dhom-hain akhelian could be, wielding serrated hunting glaives and clad in armour sculpted like organic waveforms, gleaming green in stark contrast to the dark mesh they wore beneath. At their head, King Akhamar, the royal consort and lord of the High Guard stood as the epitome of what it meant to be Dhom-hain. The gracefulness of his armour was offset by the tattered allopex-scale cloak hanging from his pauldrons, and the thin, spiny crown of fin bones jutting from his barbute helm like a crown of thorns.

  The king panned his gaze over the gathering crowd, and thudded the butt of his glaive onto the coral dais that extended from the throat of the court. ‘All silence for the high queen!’ he roared, before bowing his head and stepping aside.

  The rest of the court made gestures of respect as High Queen Mheáve emerged from the inky darkness behind him. She had all the grace and poise of an ancient statue, rugged and scarred, but no less beautiful for it. Armoured in an ornately sculpted breastplate and a surcoat of glittering scales, her arms were bare, marked by claw-marks and fang-scars. Winding eel tattoos coiled down from her shoulders, and an open-faced barbute helm crowned by the dagger-fangs of a lampmouth adorned her regal visage. The cloak of kelp-fibre streamers hanging from her fin-like pauldrons resembled the tentacles of an ochtar as it billowed behind her.

  ‘Court of Rúndhar, voice of Dhom-hain, I call this assembly once more to address that which plagues us.’ Her voice was sonorous, and easily captured the attention of any in the court. Cycladaean recognised the power that radiated from her, and had long reckoned that she was a descendant three, perhaps four generations removed from the ancient cythai. He knew such things, because that power was in his blood too.

  ‘It has been six tides since Prince Maghadrym led his hunters after the beast. That he has not returned can mean only one thing…’ she continued, eliciting a chorus of whispers from the crowd.

  It was as Cycladaean had expected, then.

  She waited for them to subside. ‘Further word from the dredger colonies speaks of the beast’s continued rampage. It goes unimpeded beyond the colonies of the Abyssal Rim. It draws nearer to the continental rise. To the Black Trough…’

  The whispers became more hushed, and more tense. The beast’s marauding trail of slaughter was bringing it steadily closer to their city, and while Cycladaean doubted the Dhom-hain were truly afraid, he imagined the mere existence of a beast that defied them so would at least upset them. And that would work to his advantage.

  The court grumbled, but soon enough, a scarred Lochian prince stood. He was a veteran hunter, given his heraldry.

  ‘Perhaps this is best suited for the Lasroch Host,’ he called. ‘If this beast knows the scent of idoneth blood, then it is only a matter of time before it decides to make a foray into the Black Trough. Rúndhar could be in danger.’

  ‘Are you a coward, Prince Achúlainn?’ another prince, bearing the heraldry of the Lasroch Host, interjected. ‘Are you shying away from hunting a beast that your hunters have thus far failed to slay?’

  The scarred hunter turned to face his accuser, his features curled into an unsubtle snarl. ‘What I am saying is that if my hunters have been unable to fell this monster, then perhaps it is time we devote more resources to the problem. And yes, this insinuates I believe it to be beyond my phalanx’s capabilities. Better my humility and a dead beast than my pride and a living beast rampaging through the Bryozoan Groves!’

  The rebuke was sharper than it sounded, for Cycladaean knew that Prince Mhazaer, the accuser, held the fertile outer Bryozoan Groves as his personal demesne.

  The back and forth continued, and Cycladaean took a deep breat
h, tasting the thick salt suffusing the ethersea. There might never be a better opportunity. He stood, and at first, only the high queen and Akhamar noticed. The arguing continued, and Cycladaean saw Akhamar whisper something into the high queen’s ear, no doubt attempting to dissuade her from listening to whatever the outsider had to say. But eventually she brushed him off, and waved her hand to silence the court.

  ‘My brethren,’ Cycladaean began, taking a diplomatic tone, even if he knew most in the court would loathe him using that word to address them. ‘It is clear this monster presents a significant threat to Rúndhar, and the rest of the enclave. The mere fact that it has not only evaded but also killed multiple hunting parties belonging to the enclave boasting the finest hunters in all the seas is testament to its threat. And that it has done so without a single survivor returning to report should only emphasise that now is not the time for division. Now is the time that differe–’

  ‘The reason our hunters have failed…’ King Akhamar cut in, stepping forward to cast a withering glare at Cycladaean, ‘is that we have yet to send a party of our finest. Samarghainn led the first party, Cairweath the second, and now Maghadrym. All names of renown. But only one name per hunt. If we assemble a hunt comprising only our finest, then we can surely track down and slay this beast!’

  Cycladaean was certain he could best any of them in single combat, but that accounted for nothing when he hadn’t had the chance to prove himself. He gave an exasperated sigh as Achúlainn countered.

  ‘Or perhaps we will be risking our best, when this is truly a matter that requires a more heavy-handed approach. If our hunters have failed three times, perhaps now is the moment to unleash the full might of the phalanxes.’

  The master of the Lasroch Host muttered something, and stood. ‘Yes, I am loath to agree, but from what I’ve heard, this predator is confined to the seabed. We can strike it from above.’

  ‘Or it will scurry away into one of the many crannies in which it can hide, only to return later once we’ve lowered our guard,’ another akhelian countered. ‘Or did you plan on devoting part of the Lasroch Host as a garrison to keep the beast cornered? We are not numberless. Think of what might slip our patrols, should too much of the phalanx be deployed.’

  Cycladaean took a deep breath and spoke again. ‘If you are concerned for the lives of your capable hunters, then send me. Surely there are many that would not shed a tear if I end up in the gullet of the beast.’ Such was the truth, unfortunately. Cycladaean would play to their hearts, even at his own expense.

  ‘That… is an affront to tradition,’ King Akhamar called, voicing his typical protest against any and every one of Cycladaean’s suggestions. ‘We are Dhom-hain, the honour of the hunt is–’

  ‘Irrelevant.’ The high queen’s voice cut through the chatter, silencing them, and earning a glare from Akhamar that some might consider treasonous. ‘The outer reaches of Rúndhar are threatened, and a beast has slaughtered the namarti colonies along the abyssal rim. This is no longer a matter of honour. This is a matter of survival.’

  Cycladaean exchanged a barely perceptible nod with the high queen, one that would undoubtedly cause a stir if any of the other akhelian had sense enough to notice. High Queen Mheáve had been a traveller once too. During the few times they had managed to speak to one another, Cycladaean had found her to be almost… agreeable.

  ‘If the outsider Prince Cycladaean wishes to accompany our hunt, then so it shall be, tradition be damned!’ she continued.

  Cycladaean bowed low in genuine respect. ‘Then I humbly request to join the next hunt.’ He was starting to like the high queen. Perhaps he could make her see the light, and rejoin the assembrals. He only needed to prove his worth.

  That was why he was here, of course. During his exile in Príom, he had done exactly that with the Ionrach, and he had learned that they needed allies in all of the realms. They sought to create a unified front against the threats of Primordial Chaos and the Soul Collector all at once. And as mighty as he was, High King Volturnos could not do so alone. And so Cycladaean had sworn allegiance to the Ionrach, and come to the Dhom-hain court as an envoy. Given that the Dhom-hain accepted no diplomats from other enclaves, Cycladaean had been forced to adopt an exile’s disguise… though there was truth in that as well.

  Sitting back down, he let the ripples of dissension flow around him. While most opposed the high queen’s decision to allow him to join the hunt, some did not, and Cycladaean made mental note of those few. It was only when Akhamar spoke up again that Cycladaean’s attention snapped back to the matters at hand.

  ‘Then I will lead this expedition,’ he said. ‘It is only fitting that a matter sanctioned by the high queen is led by her hand.’

  While Cycladaean loathed the fact that he’d have to play subordinate to his greatest nemesis in the court, he gave Akhamar a cold smile, bowing ever so slightly. Akhamar or not, things were at last beginning to fall into place.

  After the assembly was adjourned, Cycladaean retreated to his private guest quarters in the Leviathanbane Ward, following a series of silty trenches between the ruddy-hued, overhanging table corals that made up Rúndhar’s akhelian estates. Schools of axehead lanternfish and glowsquid darted away from him as he weaved his way through the warren of jagged basalt, gnarled coral roots and fanlike bryozoans. Eventually, he reached his personal lodgings, an elegant, hollow coral spire, hanging from the ceiling of a larger cavern in the wall of the Black Trough.

  It was a meagre abode, but it served him well enough. He drifted through a gloomy series of chambers, devoid of much decor and lit by sparse clusters of bioluminescent anemones. The pallid light did little justice to the stunning kelp-fibre tapestries of Hyshite sunsets and Barricadian reefscapes that he had brought with him.

  Upon his arrival, Aimheáre, his assigned namarti retainer, began the process of armouring him. Even if Cycladaean had shared accommodations with the namarti for several cycles, she’d spoken little. With practised grace she assembled his ornate armour, fastening its glassy platinum plates over his garish mesh of teal, crimson and white. While he might abide by the drab dress code of the Dhom-hain in court, during the hunt he would fly his true colours.

  ‘There is a possibility that I might not return,’ he mused, attempting to elicit a response. ‘Actually, I should say the chance is rather large. I fear I might have chosen a poor beast to gamble my capabilities on.’

  ‘The beast…’ Aimheáre whispered, fastening one of his sleek, fin-like pauldrons to his shoulder.

  ‘Yes. That beast, I’m afraid.’

  ‘It has killed many of us…’

  Cycladaean detected the hint of mourning in her monotone voice. Emotion was always difficult to read in the half-souled namarti, and while there were plenty that argued the namarti felt less than the higher castes, Cycladaean wasn’t so certain.

  ‘Well, then let us hope the fourth hunt shall yield success,’ he offered. ‘Because if it doesn’t, it will mean I am dead. And I’d prefer to delay that inevitability for as long as possible.’

  Aimheáre said nothing as she fastened his cloak to his pauldrons. It was a mesh of crimson and white kelp-fibre, bound with a lattice of spindle-quartz thread from Hysh. As she handed him his warhelm, a close-faced barbute bearing a lateral crest resembling the dorsal fin of a sail-fish, she finally spoke.

  ‘Then may the Ghost of Mathlann favour you.’

  Cycladaean smiled. It was a touching gesture from a namarti. He rose, resplendent in his panoply, and took his helm under the crook of his arm, moving into his personal quarters. A net hammock hung between two coral pillars, wrapped in blankets of dense kelp-weed. In typical Dhom-hain fashion, the skulls of fangmora eels decorated the tops of the pillars. But what he sought leaned on the weapon rack in the corner, casting its golden light around the chamber.

  Reaching forth, he felt the heat of the weapon a heartbeat before he gripped
it. It was a trident sculpted from living diamond, a relic rumoured to have been forged by the ancient cythai, and said to have received the blessing of the great illuminator, Teclis, himself.

  ‘Pontumahár,’ Cycladaean addressed it. ‘It is time, once again.’ He held it aloft as he moved through the main chamber. That Aimheáre seemed to react in the same way any other idoneth would when confronted with its light always marvelled him. Could the namarti see it?

  ‘Well,’ he said, partly to Aimheáre, partly to nobody in particular. ‘We have sought shelter in this place of shadows and gloom. Perhaps it is time to cast a light into our dark world…’ Saying nothing further, he strode out, setting off in the direction of the stables.

  At the end of a long trench, a massive warren of sculpted coral growth marked the akhelian stables. It delved deeper into the bedrock of the cliff-face to open into a network of vacuous interior chambers that housed the akhelian’s bond-beasts. Harpoon-armed namarti thralls patrolled the dark corridors, while embailors, dark robed and silver masked, worked within the black cells to repurpose the souls of new captured beasts. Cycladaean’s beast lurked in one of the more spacious cells. Opening the leviadon-shell doors, Cycladaean entered a sizeable natural cavern in the basalt and greeted the beast that had accompanied him into exile.

  Ishcetus uncoiled its tentacles from an outcropping and descended into the main chamber to circle around Cycladaean, its form sinuous and lithe, its flesh scarred. Aquamarine and viridian scales shone a muted grey in the pallid anemone-light as it pushed its head towards Cycladaean. The deepmare’s horn had been broken off years ago, and so Cycladaean had fashioned it a skull-plate, befitted with a crest of four horns sculpted from hooked, serrated blades.

  ‘At long last, Ishcetus,’ he said. ‘We may ride again.’

  Exiting the labyrinthine structure, Cycladaean mounted, and stared up into the twilight, bathyal gloom of the sea above, feeling the primal power of the deepmare flow through him. ‘Ride, Ishcetus,’ he urged. After so long confined in the courts, he longed to feel the rushing currents of the ethersea.