Chapter 59: Smallfolk VI
Mid 158 AC
The sun had barely risen before they had ventured underground, and without the traversing of it across the sky, it was impossible to tell the passage of time in the deep gloom beneath the land. With a good number of men left behind to guard their camps and larger caches of supplies, taking with them only what they could carry and mules with whatever carts they could empty, Edric and the rest of his fellows followed their lord into the oppressive gloom. Marching along by torchlight, their column was far longer than it was wide, if only to avoid clumping together too easily. Some had muttered about maintaining a tighter formation but given how the ebb and flow of the river had cut through rock at different turns, a wider grouping would have forced them to slow at every narrower portion.
This place was… strange, in ways Edric truly did not know how to voice amongst his fellows. Great lengths of stone drooped from the ceiling like great fangs, or grew from the ground as glistening spikes, their true names lost to him. Boulders and slabs of flat rock seemed haphazardly scattered along the way, some in tighter clusters nearer the water, and others piled further from their path, large and looming in their torchlight. The ground nearest the river seemed muddied yet walking near it revealed only a small layer of such soil, the rest being carved rock and deposits of silt. To think that something so large as this river meandered beneath the land was an impossibility they were forced to accept, despite the insistence that this portion of Dorne should not be near so barren of wells if the likes of this flowed beneath it.
Edric did not like the glow that came from the water, faint as it was. It was a sickly sort of color, like moonlight filtering through smoke on a dry night, and he knew many of the men were uneasy, their weapons close at hand and eyes peering through the gloom for any sign of trouble. This was entirely uncharted, for no maps made mention of such a cave system, and the reports from the scouts had been unusually secretive, per the orders of the prince and their lords. This only added to the unease, as if they knew something they did not, but whether that was for good or ill was impossible to truly measure. Lord Wytch had earned their trust ten times over by now, but that did not mean they were not wary.
"At least we can get a good night's rest again," Edric muttered as they marched along, feeling refreshed for the first time in days. Why those horrid dreams had ceased the other night were a mystery, and whilst some chalked it up to simple nerves affecting the camp, that so many had had such similar dreams…
The whispers among the men were scattered, disorganized, but they made the rounds all the same. Their dreams were an ill omen for the objective of this venture, and unbidden as he glanced at the water again, Edric made the sign of the Seven. He just hoped whatever treasure they found would be worth it, for by now all he wanted to do was return to his home. Gods, what was his Floris up to with winter upon them? How were his parents handling their extended absence? Hopefully they had hired whatever help was needed to keep the animals cared for now that the fields were growing the turnips.
Around a large bend their column marched, and from there Edric saw the glow of the river, somehow, increase to the point where torches were not as necessary. It was so jarring to see the sickly glow just fade at an arbitrary point in the river behind them, like a ray of sunshine being barred by a shuttered window. It was still there, but so reduced compared to further upstream, and the whispers around him made mention of it. Yet soon those whispers disappeared, for their entire procession came to a sudden stop, and before them stretched a vast body of water, the glow somehow missing from the main body but the flow nearly imperceptible. Indeed, the water instead seemed somewhat rough and choppy in its center, as a puddle was after a small pebble disturbed its surface.
"A spring?" he heard a man say, and turned to see Captain Farlin speaking with another captain, most likely from Lord Galewood's portion.
"A bloody big one, bigger than I've ever seen, yet it's not glowing like the rest of the water," Farlin replied as the men gathered along the shore, their progress obscured by the men in front of them. "No wonder there's a river nearby, if a spring were this large I don't think even dragonfire could have burnt the damn thing."
"It's not just one," Edric heard Arin say, and followed the man's outstretched hand.
Indeed, from the center were what could only be other rivers, disappearing in all directions into darkness, even their glow disappearing around bends and through cracks in far walls. To think that so much water lay beneath here, to be so close to those who so needed it in this dry land…
Edric turned at a slight commotion from the front, and amidst shuffling men and softly whinnying mules came the Targaryen prince and the assembled lords, their own among them.
"Men, there is good news, and bad news," Lord Wytch said. It was telling that his men were the only ones to stay silent, with snippets of groaning and grumbles coming from other groups.
"My lord?" Captain Farlin asked, stepping to the front.
"The good news is that there is a bridge crossing another flow of water just around the next bend, and by all accounts it leads to the other side of this lake," their lord said. "That, and the scouts reported there is a large pile of something along that shore, but much of it is yet obscured until we draw closer."
"The treasure, then?" another captain asked, sounding a touch too hopeful for Edric's liking. Better not invite trouble by thinking the worst of it was over…
"Perhaps, but the bad news is that we are definitely not alone down here," their lord said, and Edric could feel the men around him tense even further. Had unseen eyes been watching them? Some demonic visage that dwelt in this dark, isolated place? "Across the lake appears to be a settlement of some kind, but we've no idea if anyone yet dwells within it, as the scouts never drew near so they would remain unseen. So, we will assume it is, and act accordingly until we have crossed the bridge."
"Who is going first?" one of the other captains asked, but Edric felt his heart thump against his ribs even before his lord spoke.
"Straws were drawn, and my men will be first to cross to secure the far shore." His lord seemed annoyed by this, and really, Edric was annoyed too. They'd been the ones building the best camps with their engineers, tending to the wounds of everyone with their medics, and providing so many additional supplies and carts when needed, and yet they were the ones who had to cross first, by mere chance? Fuckin' hells, he wanted to go home as soon as he could.
Without a word, Captain Farlin motioned for them to form up, and with weary nods they did so, Edric falling into line beside Berric. They'd been mostly silent since the light of their primary entrance had long since disappeared, and as they moved through the other ranks, it was rankling to see so many of them just… letting them past. Some small part of him, a bitter and angry sliver of his mind that rarely saw daylight, slithered from the pit of his belly to his ear, whispering as it went. Was this some sort of slight against their lord, to make him go first? Had the other lords cheated and wanted them to be the first to suffer if things went wrong, in the twisted games that nobles played for power and glory?
Edric felt like slapping himself for such thoughts. Yes, they had struggled for so long, what with sleepless nights, waking nightmares and that unforeseen bandit attack, but they were within sight of their goal! To simply give up now over some unusual buildings beneath this vast series of caverns would be an insult to everyone who had come on this journey, including the prince himself. To say nothing of the men that had suffered this far and had yet carried on, himself included. Rousing his courage as best he could, and shunting away that little voice, he looked ahead as they rounded the bend, his eyes and ears straining for any sign of something amiss.
Indeed, over water littered with that same green glow as the river they had followed, there was a bridge, old and stony and utterly at odds with the cavern itself. The style was not one he had seen before, but it was undoubtedly high enough over the water that a fall would not be pleasant.
"By the Seven," Arin muttered from beside them. "I'd know that kind of bridge anywhere."
"A Dornish one?" Berric quipped, earning a few chuckles from the others.
"Aye, but not just any bridge will do in Dorne. My great-uncle worked in a quarry all his life, all the way up to the foreman 'fore he died, but his son, me pa's cousin, he knew his stuff too. Dorne can't build bridges as easily as elsewhere, seein' as so much of our rock is sandstone."
"So?"
"Certain sandstones erode real easy from water, and bridges in water flowin' this fast need to be made of the strong stuff to last long. Only a good, trained eye can tell if the sandstone they quarry is of the kind that don't erode easily, and findin' the right stuff takes more time than findin' the poorer stuff, and with how long this bridge's been under here…"
"Then we can only hope they built it right," Captain Farlin replied in a tone that ceased all other chatter, just as they reached their side. Indeed, judging from larger rocks scattered about, they had either begun or finished building this bridge from this side, and even now, in what compact soil remained, he could see a score of old wagon tracks and even the occasional old bootprint. "Shields and spears up front, then armsmen, bowmen to the rear."
The stones beneath their feet, held together by old mortar, thankfully did not shift as they cautiously marched across the bridge. Indeed, the scouts had said it was wide enough for two carts to pass side by side, but to Edric it might as well have been thrice that. To see their group of men so spread out, even if their ranks were truly full, made him feel unnaturally exposed. After all, they could only charge forward or flee back, as the right and left meant injury or death in those turbulent, sickly waters. He glanced behind him to see other groups following, a small distance between each, likely to avoid having too many men on any one portion of this old bridge. None wanted to be the ones too eager to cross, and to clump the men together enough to cause the bridge to fail and send them tumbling into the river below.
Edric had neared the far side of the river when the first rock slammed into an old part of the bridge next to him, the sound unnaturally loud as small splinters of rock scattered about.
"Slingers!" Captain Farlin cried, and as one, everyone in front of him raised their shields as more rocks came whistling from the darkness before them. The man in front of him stumbled over a loose chunk of mortar, and Edric felt a rock just barely whiz past his ear, splashing into the water below. Ducking behind as the shield wall was finished, more and more rocks pelted off their frames, splashing into water around them or landing at their feet. "Advance!" came the captain's cry again, and as one they began to move, continuing to feel the rocks pelt off their shields and the bridge around them, their sharp cracks echoing over the low rumble of the flowing river. Yet the rocks did not abate until they had reached the other side, and as they spread out, cries came from the darkness and the far outlines of what Edric assumed with buildings.
A group of men approached them, loosely standing abreast of one another, bearing white wood tipped with blackened ends pointed towards them. No, not wood, but bones, long and lashed together, ending with chunks of rock or what almost looked like the rough scales of some fish. The men… Edric was as disgusted as he was unnerved, even though they were not even half the number of his own lord's men. Their hair was thin and long, their skin paler than milk and their eyes… their eyes seemed large, the pupils taking up near the entire eye as they approached. Their teeth, what few they had, were almost jagged as they shouted amongst themselves and at Edric's comrades in a very rough Common Tongue, though Edric could barely understand anything other than "begone" and "die if you wish", but much else was simple lost in their cacophony of noise.
Yet their bravado disappeared in a flash as the front men's spears extended, presenting a wall of death as they secured the far shore in an ever-growing line. Indeed, the stranger men quickly retreated, holding at a distance that spoke of no wish to flee, but no desire to die upon good castle steel. Some even lowered their weapons, quarreling amongst themselves instead. Meanwhile, after shouts from other captains and a lack of further stones falling upon them, the other troops added their steel and occasional shouts to their growing wall of death. With so many men now across the bridge, a captain Edric could not see bellowed an order, and slowly, they all began to haphazardly advance. Edric moved to atop a small cluster of rocks with the others, all nocking their arrows and making ready to fire, their captain raising his hand to give the order to fire-
The clopping of hooves across the bridge behind them drew his gaze, and to his amazement, resplendent in his armor and with the other lords by his side, Prince Baelor made his way to the line of men. "Halt!" he cried, his voice carrying loudly across the dull din of marching men.
As one, their line finished its advance, but spread out further, forming a crescent guarding the bridge with shield and spear alike. With his arrow nocked but bow not yet raised, Edric further studied the group of pale men before them. They looked… old, or some of them did, as two with very pale hair seemed to be arguing amongst themselves. Their words were not the Common Tongue, that was for certain…
Eventually, a consensus of some kind must have been reached, for several of the men followed one elder back towards the settlement with a good deal of haste, while the other lay down his weapon and slowly, cautiously, approached their group. The prince said something to one of the men by his side, a sworn shield most likely, and with a rummaging within a sack upon the prince's saddlebag, a flag of truce was brought forth. Edric watched in amazement, likely mirrored by the others around him, as the old man met with several of the prince's men, including one of his sworn shields, and exchanged words of some kind. Not loud enough to hear, but the men were standing far enough away to avoid any sudden strike, but without their own weapons drawn to keep to the terms of the truce. At least they were not taking any chances by sending the prince in there, or one of the lords…
"Can you hear what they're saying?" Berric asked.
"Nah, sounds too garbled from here, and the river ain't helping," Edric replied. "Arin, what about you?" he asked, turning to his comrade, only to find a look of shock on the man's face.
Others must have noticed as well, for one of their bowmen shook him, knocking him out of his stupor.
"Sorry lads, I just…" the man replied, shaking his head. "I've heard speech like that before, or somethin' close to it, before my kin and I came to Lord Wytch's lands."
"Which one? That Common Tongue theys was shoutin' before?" Berric asked.
"No, no, what those two palehairs were sayin'. It almost sounded like somethin' the Orphans would say, whenever they were talkin' amongst themselves or so nobody else understood."
"Orphans?"
"Aye, the Orphans of the Greenblood, descendants of the Rhoynar that came with Nymeria centuries ago. Not many of them left who speak that old tongue, I reckon, but what those were sayin'… I'd bet my year's wage it's similar, if not the same."
"Can you understand what they were sayin'?"
Arin shook his head. "Hells no, I ain't no scholar or maester, I only know what it sounds like, not what any o' it means."
Edric turned to the gathered group as more pale figures, most of them men and even a few pale women appeared at the edges of the settlement. "Now what in the hells is going on here?" he asked aloud.
"Something none of us expected, men," Lord Wytch said, dismounting and moving amongst them. "Keep your eyes sharp, men, but for now, stand down as best you see fit. Captain Farlin, ensure nobody was injured by those rocks, and see to it that we have some sort of defensive perimeter, even if we just pile some of the scattered rocks as some sort of low wall. Should things turn sour, I'd rather we weren't caught with our jerkins down without structure to slow an attack as we fall back."
"Aye, my lord," Farlin replied.
"In the meantime, I'll see to the defenses of the other side of the bridge, and then we'll try and find out just what the hells is going on."
Dorne X
Perros was an old man, he could feel it in his bones. Seasons in the Undersand were not timely, with certain floods coming and going with the passing of some seasons. The elders in his youth had said it was the end of winter and the melting of snow that brought such changes, but none of them had ever witnessed snow. White fluffy powder that turned to water when it warmed? It sounded ludicrous, but it was by which they measured their passing of time, for that was when the ceiling filtered down water and the cave teeth grew from the ceiling. Were he to guess, perhaps he was five and ten winters, perhaps pushing six and ten? Few men lived to as old as he had, and yet he'd felt a youthful excitement when the strangers made themselves known.
These foreigners had brought out a table and chairs upon which to sit. Wood, such a rare and precious resource so far down here, usually only arriving from the entrances of distant high caves through which bats flew and floodwaters poured. It was by which most trade was done, and a good haul of such wood could see a settlement prosper for years. Yet here it was, used for something as mundane as sitting. That they offered something he'd never eaten before was also incredible. He'd heard tales of bread, but never tasted it in his life, for the elders in his days had told of their grain running out long before his own time. It was delicious, and the few elders that were brave enough to join him at this table agreed, even old Wyllam, the grouchy wall cricket he was.
"Who are you?' the young man across from them asked, his silver hair a beautiful shade compared to their own duller locks. Many a woman in Darkwell and beyond would love for a daughter of theirs to bear such locks, and given his robust frame, would also have fine sons to defend their people.
"We are the people of Darkwell, so named for the great wellspring from which all waters flow," he replied, gesturing to the great rough lake near them. He was immensely glad that, while rough, they could understand one another's Common Tongue. "From it we draw our water, our fish, and whatever else may be found. From the rivers that flow from it, we gather whatever soils we can, and when seasonal floods from above the Undersand sweep in flotsam, we harvest that as well."
"What are your origins?" the young man's companion asked, his white armor nearly blinding in its cleanliness. Strange that anyone in these lands had access to armor not of old bronze make, which was extremely rare these days. What was lost or broken was rarely able to be repaired, let alone replaced.
"Tales speak of our ancestors coming to these lands long ago, to escape great calamity at the hands of fire and monstrous wrath. It was meant to be a temporary escape, but our entrance was sealed in a manner we could not overcome, and after some journeying, our ancestors settled along these waters. We have lived here since."
Their guests were silent for some time, the younger one lost in thought, as if trying to determine something. "By chance, are there others like you? Those lost underneath these lands?"
"There used to be more," Old Wyllam stiffly said, though not without a touch of sorrow. "Travel along the rivers from Darkwell was how we kept in contact with other settlements, with some taking days and others weeks to reach when the waters were not flooded. Yet as seasons progressed, and people died, many moved to other settlements or disappeared entirely. Tales say of some trying to find a way out and perishing in their attempts or falling afoul of our gods' wrath for their transgressions."
"Indeed, we have not heard from many within the past season, and those we originally sent did not return, or found only empty villages," Perros added. "We dare not send more, lest they too disappear, and with our number already so low, we dread to think of what else may be out there."
"Which is why our god protects us, and demands little in return," Old Wyllam said. "What know you of our god, outsiders? Have you treated with him before?"
"I can't say that I have," the young man replied. "I know of the Seven Who are One, and of the Old Gods of the North, and even of the Drowned God of the Iron Isles, but I know not of your god. I doubt anyone has ever herd of you, for we did not know you would be here at all."
Names of places and gods he did not know, nor understand, but he was not so deluded as to think all he knew was all there was. "Did you come from further downstream? You do not look much like us, and for all my life I've never met anyone so well armed or fed," Perros said.
"Nay, a cave-in of a damaged well allowed us access to this place from up above what you call the Undersand."
Perros could feel the elders beside him freeze in place. There was a way into their land? The last one to sate the hunger of their god, a youngster named after himself, had spoken of dreams detailing things none of them had seen with their own eyes. The other elders had beaten the lad until he'd spoken of it no more and had promptly dismissed the matter, especially old Wyllam, but words did not fade so easily from Perros' mind. Might their time beneath these lands be at end?
"Impossible," Old Wyllam said. "Nobody has left these lands for generations, and according to what is left from our ancestors, they tried. Our god struck them down for their impudence, and thus we have stayed, as he commanded us to."
"Yet we don't look like you, possess that which you do not, and knew nothing of you or your god," the armored one said. "Yet my prince speaks true, for we have found a way down here, and that means there is now a way out."
"Why were you here in the first place?" Wyllam asked, pointing an accusing finger at the outsiders. Perros could see several bristle at the unsaid accusation, and it worried him. He'd never seen it before but knew from the words of his elders of what steel was, and every man these strangers had brought bore it. Were they to come to blows, there was no doubt who would emerge victorious.
"We found evidence in an old journal of a treasure long lost to time, and sought to try and find it," the one now known as a prince said. "It will go a long way to accomplishing a great many things, and from what we can see, that great pile of yours is what we have come for."
Indeed, it was a great pile, though it had not grown in some time, not since their neighbors had long lost their own treasures or disappeared into the darkness. For generations, it had been kept in a large building fashioned out of the wood from old carriages and chests, but with time that wood had been scavenged or rotted away into nothing. Perros had seen it collapsed into ruin not long before the death of his first wife and their child upon the birthing stone, and from then on it was considered an offering to alleviate their misfortunes. Few ever drew near it, and none dare take anything from it for fear of their god's resulting wrath.
"That treasure was brought by my ancestors to be kept safe from the dragons," Old Wyllam said. "Now it is an offering to our god, and he will not tolerate thieves."
"We are no thieves, good sir, but we have come far and struggled long to reach this treasure," the prince said. "With the war over and peace to be kept, it falls to me to ensure that this treasure will be put to better use than to be left to rot along the edge of an underground lake."
"What war?" Perros asked, cutting off Wyllam before he could get angry. He had seen the weapons and armor of these outsiders, they would stand no chance against them should a fight occur.
"The Conquest of Dorne by King Daeron of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm," the young man said. "I am his brother, Prince Baelor, of House Targaryen and his current heir, and my companion here," he added, gesturing to the one with the white cloak, "is Ser Alliser Thorne, one of his Kingsguard."
"Dorne? That was what the elders called the surface in my youth," Perros said. "They spoke of driving out the armies of a conqueror after a devastating war with winged beasts they called dragons."
"My ancestor, Aegon the First, and his sister wives."
"It was dragons that drove us down here then, his dragons," Old Wyllam said. "I am kin to the old line of Wyl, though we have had no titles in generations down here. How fare they after the war with dragons?"
"The dragons and Wyls are both extinct now, the former before the latter," the Kingsguard replied. "Dorne has been conquered by the Iron Throne and is now a part of the Seven Kingdoms. This treasure, by right of conquest, belongs to my prince."
"This treasure belongs to our god!" Wyllam replied, making to rise, only for Perros to forcefully seat him and shoot him a glare that even an old fool like him meant to stay quiet.
He ignored the angry look the old bastard returned his way, ideas beginning to form. The dragons were gone, which meant their need to hide away from the rest of the world was gone as well. They were in a weak position, which grew even weaker the longer they learned of the world above, but there stood a chance for them to gain from this. Yes, yes, he had not lived this long by being stupid, but he would need to be careful, for the sake of his people…
"It would take a great deal of convincing for the people of Darkwell to part with this treasure hoard, prince," he said, giving a respectful nod at the young man. "Yet I do believe there may be a means by which to peacefully resolve any… disputes on the matter."
"How so?" Prince Baelor asked.
"Long have we known that someday we would return to the surface, to Dorne it would seem, but therein lies a problem."
"That you would return to the surface?"
"Perhaps, but by the accounts of you and our own ancestors, we were Dornish once, but that was long ago. The reasons for our descent into the Undersand, of dragons and war, have ended. Of Dorne's people, who is least likely to accept our return in exchange for this treasure hoard?"
"Not many once word gets out, and it will given how many men we have taken on this journey," the prince replied. "In the western and southern reaches of Dorne, many might think you outright traitors for collaborating with us no matter your circumstances. The east, not as much, but it would not be a friendly reception. The lands of Wyl have yet to acquire a new lord and house to rule, but the lands above Darkwell need people to work it once more. Around the Vulture's Roost are the remains of what were likely the settlements of your ancestors, and I would see them once again inhabited, if you would be willing."
"I believe a number of us could do so, but it would not be without trouble," Perros said, ignoring the fuming grumbles of old Wyllam. "I also know that a number would still resist your taking of this treasure hoard, but as an elder, I have a great deal of weight in my words. Whilst I cannot speak for all, it would be in our best interests to work together to avoid unnecessary bloodshed."
"Indeed, I'd rather no more have to suffer over this treasure than already have. Until recently, many men were beholden to terrible nightmares of a place much like this, with terrible hissing and sickly colors, even portents of doom." He paused, rubbing his chin in contemplation. "Were you to painlessly leave us to the treasure, what would your terms be?"
"That we would come with you to the surface, and inhabit these lands you have journeyed through," Perros said. "Yet not without aid. We know little of farming save for whatever we can remember of our elders speaking of, for much of what we ate comes from mushrooms, fish, cave creatures and what pigs yet survive on that same kind of food."
"You have pigs?" the Kingsguard asked, sounding a bit shocked.
"Yes, but tales speak of other animals we once had, goats and sheep, though I admit I don't know what they look like. To simply come to the surface would not help us, indeed it could kill us if we were without help."
"I could send those who could aid in your settling, as well as ensure enough supplies to see you achieve some semblance of sustainment," the prince said. "Would these terms suffice?"
"He doesn't speak for us all," Old Wyllam muttered.
"Yet even were we united, we could simply not stand to fight you over such useless silver, gold and other things," Perros said, frowning at Wyllam. "What use is gold to us down here?"
"It would be of use to you once you reach the surface, but as you said, you can't hope to emerge above the Undersand and simply continue on with your lives; you will need aid. As a prince of the realm, I would make it an oath to see you and yours to safety above and ensure your care until you are able to care for yourselves once again." The prince rose from the table, along with the rest of his companions. "We shall give you two hours to respond, at the end of which we shall sound a horn."
Perros was silent as he left the table with his fellows, praying to the names of old gods that he had heard his elders refer to, perhaps for the first time since his wife had passed, that this was the right course of action. Above the land, they would no longer need their god, for the dragons were gone, and thus his protection, and the terrible price he extracted for it, would no longer be needed. It would make him angry, very angry indeed, but by the time he returned to Darkwell for another sacrifice, they would be long gone from here. It was a gamble, even one made with good intentions, but it was a gamble nonetheless. Yet for all the risk, Perros knew he would not let his people die here, alone in the dark while knowing there was a means of their salvation. Salvation that was wrought by the hands of a young prince whose family had originally driven their ancestors down here in the first place.
Yet he could find no fault in the prince for the actions of his ancestors, nor the lad's own, and perhaps this was a gift from gods he had never truly known for a chance at reconciliation, and the healing of old, old wounds. It would do well for the last true scion of the water mages of the Rhoynar to make such an attempt.
That fool Perros! His age had robbed him of his senses, and now he thought to spit in the face of their true god? The one that their ancestors had created, that had sheltered them in their times of need, silently helped Nymeria's descendants unite and hold together a land as divided as Dorne, and demanded so little from them in return? Wyllam would spit at the thought of such heresy, were it not for the attention it would attract from the back of the crowd. Even now, as that horn sounded, he watched, sullen and silent, as the people of Darkwell abandoned their homes and followed Perros, like lost hoglets following their mother to another pen. No matter his pleas, concerns, or calls for some sort of council, too many heeded the words of his once brother in faith and followed him away from Darkwell, the others joining too once they realized this new reality. With them they took all they had, little it was, and led whatever hogs remained away from their pens.
Not he, for while they moved on, he trailed further and further behind, until he ducked behind the stone slab serving as the walls of his house. He was no mindless fool, to trust the words of outsiders, let alone the descendants of those that had driven them underground. Yes, he was a Wyl, though distant and unfit for that great name, but he was also a great many other things, courtesy of his family lines. One such line, much like Perros' own, could trace itself back to the home their god would once take them to, once it left this domain after the dragons were gone.
Now that they were extinct, according to that Valyrian princeling, then the time was nigh to return to the Rhoyne, bathed in glory and to reclaim what was once lost. Though his own skills were likely naught but a shadow compared to the water mages of old, he had learned more than a few skills from his father and grandfather before him. Slinking through his doorway, he moved to the back, past the stone and pigskin leather trappings of his home. Deep in the rock, carved by the first of his ancestors to dwell in this place, he moved a pair of stone slabs, small but sturdy enough to easily pass for simply part of the wall.
If only they knew.
Reaching deep within, Wyllam withdrew a small bowl, ancient before his ancestors had fled underground and as sacred to his family line as their true god was. Carved from turtle bone that predated the rise of Old Valyria, it was a treasure his water witch ancestor had carried with her when she had fled with Nymeria upon her ten thousand ships. It had been passed down, generation upon generation, finding purchase with his own family high in the hills beneath the shadows of the cursed Vulture's Roost.
It was good he had ensured that little brat Perros had been sacrificed to their god, lest those dreams of his become a reality, and their god bring down his wrath upon them.
Into this bowl he poured the contents of his flask, water taken from Darkwell, and with a prick of his thumb, three drops of blood. His voice low as he held the bowl before him, he set it upon the slab of rock he used for his table, and uttered the words, lost to time and remembered by so few as to be truly extinct. The bowl trembled as old letters along its surface glowed a color reminiscent of rivers that flowed from Darkwell, for while the presence of his god was great, Darkwell itself was far, far older than either of them, heralding from a time when men first set foot upon these lands, and thus was immune to the blessings their god left wherever he swam and crawled. It had flowed through the underground of Dorne long before any of them had arrived and would continue to do so long after they had returned to Mother Rhoyne.
Within the bowl, the bloodied water swirled, waxing and waning between darker than oil and brighter than a torch, until at last, the water turned an opaque, sickly shade of green.
"My god," Wyllam muttered, reverence and fear as one in his voice. "I bring grave news, for your loyal have been tempted by others, and seek to leave Darkwell beind."
The water within the bowl shuddered and rippled with every syllable that passed through it.
"The time for sssacrifice hasss not drawn near, ssservant. Why do you tempt my attention with meaninglesss wordsss? Thossse foolsss have nowhere they can go beneath the Undersssand that I will not find and visssit upon them my wrath."
"Others have arrived, outsiders from the Undersand who bring tall tales to your faithful. They are laying claim to the gold we have declared yours, and the treasures therein that great hoard."
"Outsssidersss? It wasss bound to happen. Leave them be if you mussst, ssservant, or if they number too few, capture them for me. I hunger for new meat."
"They are too many to prevent the loss of your treasures, but they spoke of dreams reaching them, dreams as the ones you have shown me all my life. They saw them as nightmares, but I know your true purpose with them, as do all your faithful."
There was silence from the bowl, before a growling hiss made the bowl nearly spill as it trembled. "A mere coincidence, it mussst be. There isss no meansss by which they could come to the Anvil where the Hammer wasss unleashed upon the Arm…"
"One claiming to be a Targaryen prince leads them my god, he spoke of it and the war above-,"
The water exploded from the bowl in a shower of baleful light, and as the droplets froze in the air, Wyllam could not resist as his face, and his entire being, was pulled to the bottom of the bowl with the rest of the water. He tried to scream in surprise as he fell into sudden deep water, pulled through an opening far too small for his body, bones cracking and breaking far too rapidly for him to even feel, and in an instant, the two great, tower eyes of his god were staring into his own, the rest shrouded in watery shadow. His mind could not bear the pain of his limbs nor the direct sight of his god, and memories were pulled directly through his head, from his ears and eyes, from his nose and mouth, blood and viscera and other, fouler things leaking as they did into the water and flowing directly into the terrifying eyes of his god.
"You ssspeak true then, and they have found it, againssst all oddsss, againssst all the obssstaclesss I placed in their path, and all that fought back againssst me. Yet with their wordsss, I now know my hopesss to be true, for now there are none above, no winged beassstsss of fire that may oppossse me. Then my time hasss come; I ssshall return to my rightful home acrosss the sssea, and they ssshall not leave thisss place alive!"
A gaunt face, old and weathered yet pulsing with sickly water floated past his own, and in his breaking eyes, Wyllam saw figures emerge from around his god, sickly and twisted, filled with water and hatred and an essence that saw them tied to the will of their creator. Armed and armored with anything and everything under the sun, remnants of those the god took into his embrace willingly or not over the centuries, they gathered as a great swarm of silent sentries. Sickly green eyes filled the water around him as so many small torches, and as one great mass they quickly began to move upstream, headed to the only home he had ever known. Then, his master moved upriver, slower yet methodical, churning the surface until foam descended into the water where his great back breached the surface and left naught but waves in its wake. His strength gone, his body broken, and water rushing within his torn lungs, Wyllam felt little else but silent awe as darkness consumed him, as did his god, in a great crunch of beak upon bone.
Far away in Darkwell, the old bowl fell from the table and broke in twain, leaving behind only foamy bloodied water and the faint echoes of a gurgling hiss.