The Emperor's Edge 3: Deadly Games

The Emperor's Edge 3: Chapter 16 Part 1

There was water in Amaranthe’s boot. With every step, her toes sloshed about in it. At least she could take steps. The size and heft of the suit on dry land had worried her, but the air inside her pack and helmet made her surprisingly light as she walked—sloshed—down the lake’s steep slope. Indeed, the suits required weights to keep one from floating to the surface.

Maldynado, Books, and Akstyr strode at her side. Well, it wasn’t “striding” exactly. Between the swords belted at their waists and the harpoon launchers in their arms, they were not the most agile creatures moving about in the lake. Books carried his keg instead of a launcher, but that was just as awkward, and he had already stumbled twice. Each time somebody slipped, Amaranthe’s heart jumped into her throat. If anybody cut themselves on the harpoon tips, the poison would kill them as quickly as it would kill a kraken—much more quickly in fact.

The helmets made it difficult to speak to each other—though sometimes a muffled curse reached her ears as someone slipped on the seaweed-slick lake bottom—but they were managing with Basilard’s hand signs.

When they reached the cliff, Amaranthe crept to the edge. A dark expanse yawned below. She had little feel for how far the viewer had dropped, but no hint of the orange glow she remembered seeped up from below. Since these suits were self-contained, there was no tube connecting them to the surface, and the idea of stepping off and falling a hundred feet or more made her hesitate.

Four hundred feet, Books signed.

To the bottom of the lake? Amaranthe asked.

It’s a thousand at its deepest, but this first ledge has been measured as a three- to four-hundred-foot drop, depending on where you step down. He tilted his head. We’ll be fine, but we should go slowly to acclimate our bodies to the pressure change.

I was more worried about coming back up, Amaranthe signed.

Just remove the weights when it’s time, and you’ll float up.

If there wasn’t a kraken waiting in the middle to eat her.

Amaranthe took a deep breath and stepped off the ledge. She kept her gloved fingers near the cliff, using the rough stone to slow her descent.

Time trickled past, measured in the soft inhalations that echoed in her ears. Fresh air whispered into the helmet, brushing her cheek, while her used air escaped through an exhaust vent, creating tiny bubbles that floated away. Her ears popped, and pressure built in her sinuses. Had this been a trip for mere fun or adventure, she would have turned back.

An orange glow grew visible below, and she exhaled in relief. They were getting close.

She touched down in a bed of silt, stirring a cloud of fine dust. The strange, two-story fortress waited some twenty-five meters away. Translucent fish still swam about the perimeter, but Amaranthe did not see the kraken. With luck, it and the crew of the vessel had turned their focus toward the Saberfist.

Something ticked against the back of her helmet. Maldynado. He pointed overhead.

She tensed, expecting the kraken, and flexed her finger on the trigger of the harpoon launcher. No tentacles waved in the distance though; Maldynado was pointing to divers descending. Six of them. Two carried waterproof lanterns and wore swords. Two others bore weapons she could not name—they had the appearance of arm-sized cannons, but black powder would be useless down here. The final two carried harpoon launchers.

Did they believe us and come expecting trouble? Amaranthe signed. The nearby illumination provided enough light for the hand gestures.

They’re marines, Maldynado responded. I bet that’s their typical underwater exploration gear.