Love and Bounty

Chapter Sixteen: Shifting Corridors

Tunnels like these could make men go mad.

With only torchlight and their own footsteps to accompany Hrolf, Iscraah, and the Blackbloods under their command, they descended further into the sprawling network of cisterns and tunnels that seemingly had no end. Each one was the same as the last, save the grim reminders of what could be lurking so far down in these sewers.

They found weapons—strange and intricate golden ones, as well as ones composed of a dark metal, but it wasn't ebony. With the dagger his mother made for him, Hrolf would recognize ebony metal anywhere, but the dark blades and axes they found were different—too gray in color and nowhere near as hardy. Still, it couldn't hurt to have an extra weapon in case the worst came to pass. Hrolf took a war axe with a sleek and serpentine design, and Iscraah indulged in scrounging for as many arrows as her quiver could carry.

Before long, though, they began finding bodies, mangled and charred beyond recognition, their cracked and hardened leathers bound to blackened flesh. Iscraah inspected the bodies closely, her keen dark eyes absorbing every detail, and without the first expression of disgust or unease crossing her face, she reported that their deaths were recent. The bodies lacked the uniform leather armor of the Blackbloods. They must have been the rival band of outlaws.

Someone—or something—was guarding this place.

Stepping over the occasional burned corpse, the contingent pressed on until, beyond the next bend and down the corridor, something was groaning with long and whimpering breaths. So the Blackbloods lied in wait. They quelled their torchlight to the basest flicker, crouched low to the floor, and leaned their ears as far as they could toward the bend in the tunnel without sticking their heads out like pheasants waiting for an arrow. The groans coalesced into... speech. Manic, desperate speech.

"In the roots," the ragged voice of a broken man cried. "In the roots! Crawling in the bones of the earth... He's going to find me here and KILL me like the others!"

Poor bastard. It could have been a Blackblood, for all Hrolf knew—or a member of the rival band. Either way, he knew something they didn't, and that information could save lives.

"How are we doing this?" Hrolf whispered to Iscraah.

The Bosmer peeked at him from the corner of her eye. "Slowly. We will kill him, if we must, but spare him if we can."

"He might have information on what burned those people back there," Hrolf said. "Unless we want to meet the same fate, I say we try to question him."

Iscraah smiled, her teeth glinting in the low light. "A cunning plan," she murmured. "You think like a thief."

Hrolf cocked his brow. Should he have been offended?

The antlered elf frowned. "That was a compliment."

"I'll... take it, then."

They crept around the bend, a small cistern was at the end of the corridor. The raving man was nowhere in sight, so the contingent pressed on until—

"Wait," one Blackblood began, "I... think that might be my cousin."

All eyes in the group fell on him with a bewildered expression.

"I recognize the voice!" he whispered. "If I can calm him down, we can get our answers."

"Your cousin is one of our rivals?" a second Blackblood muttered. "How in Oblivion did that happen?"

"It's a long damn story," the first snapped. "Can I give it a go or what?"

"I will cover you," Iscraah uttered as she drew an arrow from her quiver. "Be fast, and be quiet."