Chapter 60: On the Shores of Darkwell, Part I
Mid 158 AC
Baelor could barely contain his excitement as he cradled his helmet under his arm. Here, upon the shores of this unknown Darkwell, stood the great treasure hoard of Ulwyck the Blackadder, and everything the Wyls after him had brought with them during the First Dornish War. The discovery of long-lost Dornish dwelling in the depths of this land was a surprise to be sure, but it was just another part of a legacy he was looking to overcome despite the actions of his brother and those that came before. These people… their lives were but a pale shadow of what they should be, eking out a mere existence beneath lands that would see them far better fed and far healthier than the scraggly forms they had now.
Had his ancestors known about the fleeing Wyls trying to keep this great treasure from them? If so, had they simply not told anyone of it, or assumed it lost after they caved in the entrance and melted it into slag behind those original Dornish? Or had the Wyls kept it enough of a secret so that none knew of its existence, and any that did had perished in that war before the knowledge could be passed on? Whatever the case, as the people of Darkwell mingled in the far camp across the bridge, with medics tending to old wounds and ensuring the smallfolk slowly partook in the foods from his own stores, he wandered amongst the great ruins that had once held the treasure, both men and carts all around him loading up whatever intact chests they could find.
He had given strict orders that no chests be opened until they had reached the surface, lest their contents be spilled or 'lost' in transit. Many were of fine old cedar, and others even bore exotic mahogany and ebony woods, meaning their contents had a much higher chance of remaining unspoiled within their confines. The chests that had rotted or broken as the original structure had collapsed had scattered their contents, of which some were sadly too far decayed to identify. Yet here and there, something was uncovered that gave him a bit more hope that everything he had suffered on this journey was worth it in the end, the latest being carved ivory from either distant Essosi elephants or mammoths from the North.
Watching as most of his men mingled amidst the ruins or tended to carts and crates, a nearby pair turned over an old piece of what may have been ceiling planks. Underneath, he noticed what looked like some sort of crate, one they were not loading. It was long, but not very wide, at least compared to others they had found thus far, and the wood seemed to be rotting, yet was not entirely ruined.
"This one will have to wait," one of the men said, looking to Baelor. "No more room on the last cart, my prince. We'll have to bring them all topside before returning with whatever the empty ones we still have." Indeed, there were still a few chests, some emptier than others, and more than a few piles of coin not yet packed up in their own crates.
"Very well," Baelor replied, turning to his friend. They were in no real haste yet, best they be thorough rather than leave behind anything of value. "It is good you brought additional carts, Lord Wytch. They have certainly been a boon to our efforts, even if we are several short to be done once and for all."
"Aye, and with this treasure in hand, I do believe you'll be very busy for the foreseeable future, my prince," Casper replied. "Yet a treasure perhaps even greater than this one also lies in this place, one I'd never thought possible when traveling through the lands above us."
"What do you mean?"
The Stormlord gestured to the great Darkwell. "A spring this large, to have been pumping water from bedrock and below for so long, is an untapped lake of veritable gold for the lands of Dorne. From what we can tell, this water may flow to countless wells under this portion of Dorne, the full extent of which I doubt we'd ever truly know."
Baelor gazed out over the churning waters. "Water is indeed the greatest treasure in all of Dorne," he muttered. "Tapping this well and diverting whatever water we can, without detracting too much from what already flows, could greatly improve our hold over the eastern Dornish lands, especially those formerly of House Wyl. With it there could be more farms, orchards, vineyards and more, and clean water for people that have little. Yet with such a vast addition to their water supply, the lands under whichever future house assumes control over the former Wyl lands will become as a great power in the realm of Dorne."
"Until that day comes, the Stormlands and thus the Iron Throne will maintain control over this source of water. Before a new house does arise, it will be up to the governor to ensure that peace remains in these lands until they are properly integrated," Casper replied. "How would you go about it, come your own time as governor?"
Baelor tapped his chin in thought, staring out as waves crested from a distant river into the great lake. "With this water, building some means of growing more food will be greatly expected. One would not just find a source of water this vast or continuous and simply leave it be, after all. Yet even should we find the means of diverting the water without lessening where it already flows… I would say farms would be the first task required of it. Dorne is not self-sufficient for growing its own food at times, and better the smallfolk are fed well than relying on their lords selling cash crops to import grain."
"Yet that would increase the likelihood of the Dornish lords rebelling, if they can secure their own food supply, rather than rely on the imports we blocked with the Royal Navy," Casper replied, following the prince's gaze. "What of the reservoirs, as I have done with mine own lands? Finding low valleys in which to pump water than can then irrigate the surrounding countryside and serve as a means of water for goatherds and where fish might be reared?"
"A good idea, especially as I noticed the lands around your filling reservoir felt warmer whilst we marched past them, despite the chill of the early winter," Baelor said. "I wonder if greater bodies of such water affect how warm or cool a land might become? Water can reflect the rays of the suns as surely as Myrish glass, and perhaps this cools the land, or keeps it warmer longer should the winter grow colder?"
"An idea to be certain, but I'm afraid I don't know how we would try and determine that," Casper said, as more waves, larger this time, crested from the far river into the great lake. "My prince, what do you mean to do with the refugees?"
"The smallfolk of Darkwell?"
"Aye, your oath with old Perros would see them safe up in the valley beneath the Vulture's Roost. We may not have enough supplies to see them established before we return to our own lands with the treasure."
"I sent word to Lord Baratheon, and as governor he will no doubt see to their safety as I would," the prince replied, as a group of their men marched across the bridge, passing the last of their wagons loaded with treasure. "But enough of that, Casper, our journey is nearly at an end, and I'd rather speak of simpler things. What will you do upon returning to Stormhall?"
"When I return home, I'll be awaiting the birth of my first child, and I pray the birth is a good one. Mylenda and I are both new to this, and though my own mother has told me of it, there's no telling how we can expect to react once the time arrives."
Baelor nodded. "Any hopes besides a safe delivery? A son of your own?"
"I pray the child will be healthy, and that my wife need not suffer more than necessary," Casper replied, picking up a small stone and skipping it across the waters, whereupon it disappeared into errant waves. "Whether the child is a son or daughter, I'm not entirely sure if I have a preference. Either will be of great importance to me and thus my house, and should I have one over the other, I can always try for more."
"Surely Lady Wytch would wish for sons, no? So that the second might inherit the Windhill name?"
"Perhaps, but should we have only one son, if I understand it correctly, his second son would inherit the Windhall name instead. What about you, my prince? Any hopes for you when it comes to a future marriage?"
Baelor hid his grimace. He knew Daena and he would marry, but before that was announced, it would likely not take long for lords to start parading their daughters before he and his brother alike. Some might even push them as he had heard the old Hightower had before the Dance with his own daughter. While marrying outside of the family would do wonders for securing alliances with powerful vassals, considering the future he had seen in his nightmares...
When I marry, I will do right by my wife," he said, picking up a similar stone and trying to skip it. Damn, only two skips, Casper made it seem effortless. "But I don't know what that means, Casper. I just turned four and ten, and for all that I've done these past few years, there are times where I feel little else but overwhelmed by what all lays before me."
"Take it one step at a time if you must, my prince, you'll be no good to anyone, least of all yourself, if you become overwhelmed and break your spirit. As for marriage, while I've only been married a touch over a year, I can give some insight. Do not dishonor her by deeds nor words, I'd say. Never let yourself become besotted with another woman or task, no matter how great or attractive it may be, lest it drive you temptations that would harm everyone involved. Your cousin Aegon, rumor has it he is not a faithful man."
"I know enough to not ever be like Aegon, no matter how much others enjoy his company," the prince muttered. His dreams had shown only a glimpse of the damage his cousin could cause and keeping him far from the throne would mitigate the worst of it, or so he hoped. "Naerys wrote to me of what you did for her bastard nieces and their mother. You have my thanks for such kindness."
"The young are innocent of any crime surrounding their birth, no matter what the Seven may preach of bastards," Casper replied. "My grandfather may have been one, but the touch of bastardry does not define someone for their life unless they allow it to. His sacrifice in the end earned my father the foundation for what I now have. What Aegon's daughters will do with their lives now will be up to them and those caring for them. Ser Gerold is a good man, I have no doubt he'll raise them right. But as for life, so is marriage. Be kind but strong, stern yet moral, and above all else, develop a good relationship with them. Find hobbies that the both of you enjoy, or tag along to something she enjoys if she is willing to do the same for you, should you not have prior business to attend to."
There was a thought. Daena did not seem likely to grow out of her mannish tendencies, so taking to riding with her, and practicing with the bow, those might be of value. "What of the treasure, then? What do you plan to do with your share?" Baelor asked, trying to skip another stone before giving up on it. The waves had grown rougher, and some seemed unusually green compared to the rest of Darkwell.
"As glad as I am to be receiving some, I will likely invest it in some other project of mine, Seven know I've almost more of them than I can keep track of," the Stormlord said with a chuckle. "Besides the plans I have for an academy of learning and experimenting with new ideas, rebuilding Storm Hollow will take a great deal of coin, but as of now coin is not what I need. Smallfolk tending to the fields and working the mills are what I need most of, and scribes I guess, but those are all becoming rarer and rarer in my lands these days. Despite more smallfolk moving in looking for work, religious ties or simply because they hear how well my people are fed, I'm beginning to outgrow the pool of labor I already have, and I'll not be accused of poaching smallfolk simply to grow my own coffers."
"A shame that so many poor folks in Kings Landing would be better put to use in fields, pastures and mills, yet paying them to do so in the midst of winter, without any knowledge or useful skills relating to those jobs, it would as surely be a death sentence as simply tossing them outside the walls would be," Baelor replied. "Were I to rejuvenate Kings Landing into the greatness I know it could be, I would do so modeled after Lowhill or another one of your towns, my friend. Remove cramped alleys and build places where families may live without practically sleeping atop of one another, widen the roads, rebuild the sewer systems, develop the surrounding countryside to better support the city itself…"
"Good ambitions to have, but something to think about for the future, my prince," Casper said, ruffling the prince's hair.
It was a shame his own father was not as affectionate as Casper. Baelor smoothed his braids back as the men, their sigils mismatched between those under his command and that of other lords, stopped before them. "Yes?" he asked.
"My prince, the old man wishes to speak with you," the captain said, his sigil that of House Galewood.
"Very well, let him forward," Baelor said, retreating from the water's edge with Casper and replacing his helmet. From the ranks emerged old Perros, a rather… concerning look on his withered features, one that did not fill Baelor or Casper with much ease.
"Prince Baelor, I do not wish to alarm you, but I am growing uneasy as time passes by," the man said. "What few guards that stood with your medics are now escorting my people away, but among them I could not find one particular man."
"Which one?" Casper asked. "There can't be too many to account for, judging by how many we were tending to already."
"Old Wyllam, the one who was a touch too adamant we should not leave with you," the Darkwell elder said as more men crossed the bridge. "I thought he submitted to our will and joined our group to leave Darkwell behind us, but none have seen him since your people looked to mine's injuries and illnesses. I've checked our group more than once, and by now I'm not sure he ever crossed the old bridge."
"Well, if he wants to stay here, on his own, then I say let him," the captain said, amidst distant splashes along the shoreline. "Once the treasure's gone, we won't be coming back."
"That may not be entirely true, captain, but should we return, it won't be as soldiers, but as builders I should hope, and not for some time," Baelor said, turning back to Perros. "The waters of this place could go a long way to helping your people establish themselves, but this Old Wyllam, might he be trouble for us?"
"Not with a weapon, no, his joints are worse than mine are, and it's not as if he'd be able to pull a dagger on anyone quickly. With his worship of our dark god, however, it is unlikely he will simply leave us be. I dread to think of what terrible magicks he might have attempted if too many of us wished to stay here, to 'convince' the rest of us to join him in his cause."
"Magicks?" Baelor asked, mirrored by Casper. "He knew of magic?"
"Many of us did when we first retreated beneath the Undersand, usually at least one for every community," Perros replied. "The line of water witches from the time of Nymeria was never a large number, as most of our most powerful warlocks perished at the hands of the Freehold, in battle or during sieges, usually to dragonfire and Valyrian steel. Those that fled and survived the journey to Dorne were often scattered, tending to wherever they were needed and could make themselves useful without growing complacent. Even with our magic aimed towards helped those in our new home, religious fear and rumors often saw the more open of us… punished."
"Yet you endured centuries in Dorne, long enough to still be practicing such magic when the Conqueror came and drove you underground."
"Aye, as scattered as we were, the tales say it was easier for us in those early years beneath the land, down here in the Undersand. Yet while much of that old knowledge from the Rhoynar refugees was lost over the centuries, some small pockets yet remained, including ours before our venture beneath these lands. That I still know near as much as my elders did is truly remarkable, but I fear that in time, it will all vanish."
"You know magic," Casper said, somehow calm and collected at such a revelation, much to the surprise of his companions. "Water magic, to be precise."
"Aye, I do," Perros said. "Some of my fellows know it as well, but everything I know, they do as well. All I ever knew and thus taught was what I had learned in my youth, and when you're not tending to the fields or hogs, it is hard to try and learn anything new or recreate something lost from ages before."
"What exactly can you do?" Baelor asked. He had seen the fyrestorm he had brought upon the Dornish and knew there to be magic in the world somewhere. Yet to stand before what may have been a mere myth to many was oddly… comforting. It meant that which he did not understand might still be useful, rather than something to be feared entirely.
"Oh, some small things, nothing too extravagant if the old legends are to go by. I cannot summon a fog so thick as to fill the lungs of mine enemies to drown them, but I can prevent water from drying up for a good while. I can use small streams to cut away stone if needed, and perhaps pull water up to shield myself from some blow, but not much else I am afraid."
"What of ensuring crops are irrigated?" Baelor asked, an idea slowly forming. "Pushing a large amount of water uphill when needed, say, to a flat field or a fortress cistern?"
"I suppose I could do that; we've done it here but not for those reasons, merely for watering our pigs," Perros replied.
"Could old Wyllam do all of these?"
"That and more, but he did not want to teach anyone else what he knew, though we aren't sure how he learned those dark magicks in the first place. My teachers didn't know them, but if one did and kept it secret, it was likely better for us all that such knowledge died with them. A jealous, spiteful man Old Wyllam could be at times, hence why he didn't want any of us to leave. But with your offers and oath, Prince Baelor, none thought there to be a better choice than the one you offered. A life finally above the Undersand, far from Darkwell and our god? All too many, I believe, are relieved to no longer be dreading the chance they would be chosen, or that a loved one would be chosen in their place."
"Chosen?" Casper asked, just as shouts began to echo in Baelor's ears from the far side of their forces along the shore.
"For sacrifice," the old man said, his head slowly turning to the even-more turbulent waters. "To sate the hunger of our god…"
More screams and shouts began to grow over the sound of rushing water, and in the distance, Baelor saw the water bursting as figures emerged. The clang of steel began to sound, as did horrible shrieks, garbled and unholy as men ran back to their lines as best they could, pursued by figures that nipped at their heels the entire way.
"My prince?" one of the men said, only for a shout to erupt nearer their own position, and Baelor turned in time to see a man drag his fellow away from the water's edge with some difficulty. Only they were not alone, for something was clutched to his fellow's leg, some bloated, glistening mass that glowed eerily from within its body, and it only retreated when its victim stabbed at it with a dagger from his belt.
"No," Perros said, a frightful terror overtaking his features. "By your Seven, he didn't… he didn't! Wyllam, you old, deluded fool! Quick, tell your men to get back!"
"From what?" Casper asked, even as he motioned for them to do so, instinct swiftly overtaking confusion and sudden apprehension.
"From the water! Get away from the water!" Perros cried, and as most heeded his words, Baelor felt a chill run down his spine as the waves stilled for a moment, and from their depths emerged… things. Twisted, bloated, deformed, any number of these words did little justice to the creatures that came before them onto the shoreline.
They were perhaps men and women once, but their bodies were bloated and swollen with water and horrid foam, a sickly green light emanating from the sunken hollows of their eyes. Yet the more that emerged, the sicker Baelor felt, for some bore no eyes, nor face, nor even skin. The film that surrounded their forms bulged and rippled as waves upon the ocean, swelling and pulsating with sickly noise with every step they took. Some, larger than the others, were little more than a milky film stretched over limbs filled with bones and dark seaweed, with only a floating skull, shimmering within its bulbous excuse for a head, stared at them with glowing eyeless sockets. Several were fused into some horrid monstrosity, the skulls broken and forced together in jagged, uneven pieces within a body that bore too many arms and too many bulbous legs to have been just one man.
Casper raised his arm as a great deal of men brought to bear their bows, arrows already nocked. "Loose!" he cried, and the twang of their bows, for a moment, overtook the sounds of the water and the monsters emerging from Darkwell's depths. They soared straight and true… only to pass through the beasts with nary an effort, tiny rivulets of water spraying from the wounds, only to quickly seal up. If the creatures noticed, they seemed to make no fuss over it, continuing their advance. Another volley flew through the crowd of creatures, but sailed through or deflected off the barnacles, rocks and other growths covering many of the creatures. One, Baelor saw, stuck itself into the eyeless socket of a creature, but with no effort or haste, it simply pulled it out and continued its march towards them.
"Shield wall! Stand fast!" Lord Wytch cried out, and their men surrounded them, directing shield and spear towards the horde of creatures. As the second line of defense, Baelor drew his sword, as did everyone around him, as one of these creatures moved ahead of the others, the sigil upon its pulsating body an old yet somehow legible golden rose upon a green field. It peered around, searching, chittering sounds spilling from its bony maw amidst a gargling vomit of sickly glowing slime, and then its gaze fell directly upon Baelor and his assorted men. With some horrid amalgamation of a drowning gurgle and a hissing screech, it raised a rusted barnacle-covered sword and charged, as did its fellows behind it, moving as a great mass, a great wave, towards them all. Despite the wall of shields and spears, with swords and axes behind to aid, the jostling, bulbous monsters neither slowed nor diverted their charge. Nay, they were headed right for him, and more followed in their wake, growing ever-more grotesque and horrifying. Gods, what had once been children were among those horrid creatures…
The first wave struck them as a storm, and it nearly bowled over their line, only holding fast from the next rank supporting and refusing to let their fellows fall over. Spears lashed out against the foul monsters, their eyes bringing to Baelor a hint of a memory, of a cold land with colder people, with eyes in the dark glowing an eerie blue. Yet these figures, one whose arm he severed as it snaked around a man's shield, they were not of some distant dream, but here, now, and trying very hard to kill them all. A Greycairn man far to his right was grabbed by one of the larger amalgamations and pulled from their lines, thrown behind and to the water's edge just as Baelor had with his skipping stones. In a flash, from the water emerged smaller figures, former children whose legs had fused into monstrous tails, slithering before grabbing the screaming young man with their sharpened talons and dragging him into the water. Baelor saw Ser Thorne swing as the creature made to grab another man nearer them, and the monster shrieked as its arm fell away, the water spouting from its wound as would blood while it retreated.
"Go for their limbs or crush their heads!" he heard Casper cry, and saw his friend's flail annihilate the skull of one wielding an old rose banner, the body dropping and spilling its watery contents across the cold ground as it quickly fell apart. The water from others that fell and dissolved did not drain into the ground, but drew back towards them, creeping along as if a swarm of ants. Baelor turned, fearing it would try and cover them, but instead he saw Perros, his eyes closed, words of a foreign tongue gracing his old lips as the water pooled at his feet.
The front line broke as Baelor turned, the men being driven apart by the sheer mass of the second wave, and the third that followed immediately behind destroyed whatever cohesion may have been salvaged. Every man fought with his fellows at his side or back, but between these small groups, as a river surging around great crags of rock, their enemies flowed and struck at them with fury and horrid screeches. Baelor turned to see a man pulled from his group and his jaw forced open, only for the wretched thing holding him to vomit its horrid internal water into his screaming mouth. The poor soul stopped moving soon after, even as his fellows drove through their foes and bisected the monster. Baelor made and slammed his open palm onto the man's back, and an eruption of foul water sprayed the rest of them. Rasping gags and coughs returned, but Baelor could not turn his back for long, and returned to the fray as the others drew him deeper into their midst.
Other horrid abominations came about, trying to tear men apart or drown them as they had tried with the one Baelor saved. Yet for all their fury, bones and barnacles were little match for good castle steel, and countless limbs, heads, and torsos were scattered about the battlefield. Time and time again, Baelor swung his sword, his back to Ser Thorne as they slew every watery demon that came their way. Ser Thorne was as a blur to Baelor, every swing and stab never overextending, always precisely where it needed to be to redirect a blow, sever a monstrous limb, or shatter the fetid skull of these creatures.
Baelor turned after crushing a foe's skull with his pommel to be struck dead center by one of the larger creatures, sending him tumbling back into the old warehouse ruins. His armor was dented, and his breath torn from his lungs, but he was uninjured. The beast advanced upon him swiftly, knocking other men aside with gurgling roars as its fellows swarmed around them. A man tried to stand between them, an older one in Greycairn livery, but he was smashed to the side, sailing off amidst screams into the water far beyond, whose unholy denizens immediately dragged the poor bastard beneath the waves.
"Ser Thorne!" he cried, narrowly avoiding being trampled by men being pushed back by another wave of the beasts. His white sword slick with the foulness of the monsters, the Kingsguard swept through the press of foes between him and his prince, his blade but a blur, but there were too many, their numbers too great, for him to reach Baelor in time. Baelor saw this, even as Casper's flail crushed through monstrous bone and broke apart foul barnacled weapons, trying to reach him as well, and tried to rise to his feet to meet the coming beast. It raised a great arm, through which jagged shards of rock moved as if ships upon and river, and with a wrathful cry those same shards erupted from its end, forming what could only be claws meant to kill in one swipe. Hope drained from Baelor as he struggled to rise, the ground far too slippery to gain a good foothold.
Only for a shadow of something to fly over him and strike the monster dead center, slicing through it as a sword through soft butter, and the screeching beast fell in twain, the wash of its innards inundating the battlefield around it. Men and monster alike staggered from the small wall of water radiating out, but the soldiers recovered quicker, their movements sharper than their foes from the training they had endured and returned to the fray. Their numbers were fewer than these monsters, but their courage was great, their steel sharp, and for all the terror of their foes, they would not break under this wave nor any other. He had served alongside these men in the war for Dorne, and they were of the Stormlands, born of the storm, and they would hold!
Baelor turned to see old Perros make a motion that impossibly drew a ball of water from the veritable pond around them into the air, shimmering in the light of the cavern and distant torches. Stunned, Baelor barely reacted to a barnacled sword aiming for his head, dodging enough for the blow to glance off his shoulder. Knowing it would bruise but not caring at all, he drove his sword through the creature's skull, cracking it like an egg, before kicking it back just before it fell apart. Yet he could not help but turn back, torn between the battle before him and something impossible beside him. With a wave of his hands, Perros flung the ball of water as it elongated into a facsimile of a scythe, the edge looking sharper than Baelor's own sword. It flew straight and true, striking another larger conglomeration, severing both of its arms as it raised them to attack another group of soldiers. Suddenly weaponless, it fell to their blades, losing the legs that held it aloft, and then one man smashed apart its skull with a stomp of his steel boot.
No wonder the dragons had needed to strike the Rhoynar in great numbers in every war. Even one such warlock, in the right place, could cut down any number of men with little more than a large jar of water. To think of how to defeat such an enemy if they were along a river as mighty as the Rhoyne…
Ser Thorne appeared by his side as a gaggle of monstrous children appeared, clambering over the broken remains of their fallen brethren towards the survivors. "My prince!" the Kingsguard cried, bleeding from several cuts wherever his armor was thinnest, including a shallow gash across his face. "Are you injured?"
"No, but I have Perros to thank for that," he said, just as the old warlock launched another ball of water. This one narrowed to a point and skewered three of those monstrous children straight through their skulls, two of which had been dragging a man in Wytch livery towards the water. One of his companions grabbed him and dragged him back, even as their lines condensed once more, and the number of foul creatures continued to lessen.
"By your oath… my people will be safe… it was the least I could do," the old man wheezed, falling to his hands and knees in a splash of what water was left. "Though I'm not sure… there is much more… I can do, prince. I've not needed… to use my magic like that… for many seasons. I was told in my youth… it was much easier... and I think it was. Perhaps magic is fading… from the world…"
"That, or you are simply not as young as you once were. Ser Thorne," Baelor said, quickly swinging his sword through the neck of what was once a little girl, her spindly spider-like legs of bone and barnacle nearly skewering the legs of the old water mage by his side. "We need to regroup and make for the bridge, there is no telling if the others have fared as we have if they were attacked."
"Their numbers are thinning, we might just have our chance," the Kingsguard said, the flat of his blade crushing the skull of a small boy whose limbs were erupting with jagged rocks and barnacles. "Men! Drive them back, for the prince! With Fire and Blood!"
As one, whomever still stood surged forward, their numbers now greater than that of the abominations. Baelor was among them, swinging his sword despite the ache of his shoulders and the weakness in his hands from gripping his weapon. Sidestep, swing, behead, then twirl, cleave, kick, a pattern of death that took him around the battlefield. His armor continued to receive more blows than he could count, and his helmet deflected more jagged talons than he wanted to remember, but still he and the others carried on this butcher's work. More than once he rushed upon a creature trying to drag a wounded man to water, crushing the tattered skull beneath booted foot or severing the horrid appendages trying to savage the weak spots of struggling men.
He did not know how long they had been fighting, none of them could in a place where time was merely relative. Yet as the last of the monstrous beasts fell, the skull exploding as Casper's flail struck it from behind, Baelor found his legs barely holding him aloft. With a groan, he slumped against the remnants of the old warehouse, surveying the scene of carnage before him. The blood and water mixed into a sickly, foul concoction across the ground. Many men yet standing were near to exhaustion, their breathing as ragged as Baelor's own. Those not bloodied bore dented armor and chipped arms, and more than a few puked, either water they had been forced to swallow or from the stench of the foul beast's bodies. Indeed, they smelled of stagnant water and rotting weeds, of a foulness that seemed to seep into Baelor's very skin.
Gods, he needed a good shower, as hot as could be and with as much soap as Casper could bring him. This foulness, it was a taint upon the living, and if Perros was correct, some horrid presence brought upon by their dark god beneath these lands. They needed to leave as soon as possible. They could come back later for the rest of this gold, as paltry as it was compared to the rest of the hoard, or leave it for others for all that Baelor now cared. "Get a party across the bridge, see if our allies need our aid," he said, and those with the fewest wounds soon departed, crossing over. Perhaps it was over, for Baelor could hear no sounds of clashing steel, and the waters of the Darkwell seemed still, calmer than they had ever been before.
Dozens upon dozens of men lay across the battlefield, some in piles where they had fallen, others alone and surrounded by the remains of monsters they had taken with them. The men yet standing were tending to whomever they could, resuscitating their comrades where possible and trying to expel water from the lungs of those who laid still. Every so often, a man would splutter and cough, to a cheer from his comrades. Far too many, however, did not rise, despite their best efforts. Those too wounded to move of their own accord were brought further from the shore, settling themselves in what remained of their old camp near the bridge's entrance.
Casper roughly sat down beside Baelor, their faces mirroring grief and exhaustion. Baelor lay his sword beside his friend's flail, both dripping with horrid slime and the residue from the creatures they had slain.
"This place is cursed," Baelor muttered, picking up an old Rhonyish coin and absentmindedly looking it over. To think that so much death and suffering, so much evil, had erupted in so short a time, and for what? For a pile of treasure he had wished to do great things with? He grimaced as old words from nightmares and sermons alike mingled in his mind. Was this a punishment for his folly, or for his denial of that dark presence in his sleep?
"Not the place, but the ones who lord over it, perhaps," Casper replied, looking out over the calmer waters. "It would be no different if we were to go to any other far-flung region of the world, where people claim darkness and despair lie in wait, my prince. The lands are not evil, the resources within them are not evil, it is those who claim dominion without the right or the intention that cause such places to be as they are. In time, Darkwell will be a place of great importance. Whatever this god of theirs is, it is truly evil."
"But was I right to come here? Or to linger, in trying to acquire as much of the treasure as possible?"
The young lord shrugged. "Whether or not if was the right thing to do, it was what you did. The why, in this instance, is more important, and you should remember that, Baelor. Do you remember what that little book I gave you said of times like these?"
"That I should not be troubled by them, for such things come to all men," Baelor recalled, wishing he had that book at that moment, laying beneath a tree amid summer, a light breeze ruffling his hair and the grasses around him. Those words were not the exact ones, but close enough, he supposed. "That it is by my strength of mind and body that I will endure and build something to last."
"Aye, that you will, that you will," Casper said, his tone a touch too… mysterious for Baelor to ignore. It intrigued him, but he was too tired to care at this point, now that their battle had finished, and the dead were being collected. Perhaps some other time, he would ask his friend about such matters. "What now?"
"Now?" Casper echoed, grunting as he rose to his feet and offered the prince his hand. "We tend to the wounded and ensure they are evacuated, gather the dead, and then we leave this place. After that? Go find ourselves something to eat on the surface."
"After we see the medics."
"Aye, that we will."
Baelor accepted and dragged himself from the ground, wincing as he glanced over at the remaining crates and piles of gold. He could not in good conscience leave this, not after the men who had died after they had retrieved so much of it already. "One more cart," he said, turning to Ser Thorne and Casper. "One more cart for the rest of this treasure, and then there will be none left."
"You are certain, my prince? You should go with the others-,"
"I will not depart until every fucking coin and other treasure we journeyed, fought, and died for has been loaded up. Whatever remains will be divided and evenly distributed to the families of those who died here, on my honor as a prince of the realm and a son of House Targaryen. Yet by that same honor, I cannot in good conscience put this gold over our men. Bring carts for the wounded first, send whoever still has the energy to run," the prince said with a scowl.
The men wordlessly nodded, and as he rested, his strength slowly returning, Baelor could not help but muse on how this would be perceived by the world above. His brother the king might find the entire thing ludicrous or voice some wish that he had been there to battle such monstrous foes. Many men, especially maesters, would deny it without having seen it, citing it as some malaise brought on their minds as they fought other underground dwellers or some such nonsense. His uncle? Perhaps he would believe him, he was old enough to have known magic was real before he lost his dragon during the Dance. His cousins might believe him, though Aegon, that wretch, he'd likely use it against him in some manner, making it seem as if he brought this upon his own men and give him some foolish nickname again to remind him.
As for Daena? Might she believe it and think him a fool for bringing men to their deaths over such treasure? Or would she think him brave for doing so, and for fighting back horrors beyond her nightmares?
He sighed, rising to his feet once again as the last of the wounded disappeared over the bridge and into the distance, a newer cart returning freshly emptied and with a fresh group of men, armed and wary, joining those yet fit enough to fight. Not that there should be a fight, Seven willing, he had seen enough of this dark place for now, and not a single creature had shown its wretched face since the fighting had ceased. One of the returning men even spoke of Baratheon banners being seen approaching the camp, which meant more supplies, more men, and hopefully more food.
Baelor warily turned to the great lake as the waves of Darkwell resumed their former turbulence, the last vestiges of the horrid creatures being broken and tossed about by his men. Yet nothing emerged from the waters, thank the gods, and as the cart reached them, he breathed a sigh of relief. It was almost over, and if he never had to set foot in this place again, then he would be a content prince. Then there was a shout, and he turned to see a large wave moving upriver, up the same river that the foul creatures had most likely arrived from. Waves should not move upstream, uphill, especially not ones that large. Unless…
Oh gods, no. Large, scattered spines trailed above the water, attached to whatever lay beneath its watery deluge as it moved towards them.
"Quick!" Baelor cried, his voice catching the attention of the men, even as more shouts erupted at the sight of the massive crest of water and what jutted out from it. "Leave the cart, and get across the bridge!"
"You heard the prince, move it!" Casper cried, the uninjured and somewhat rested men rallying and needing little encouragement. As orderly as they could, dropping whatever few treasures they had been packing, every man began to cross as quick as he could. Baelor, with Ser Thorne and Perros close by his side, watched with growing terror as the large wave, upon entering Darkwell, turned and began to barrel down straight towards them. No, not towards them, towards the bridge!
"Faster men!" he cried, his order echoed by captains and lords alike. "Faster!"
The wave drew closer, and from within, that same eerie light began to glow, atop two pinpricks beneath the waves that steadily grew as the wave drew closer. Eyes, those had to be eyes, but what terrible creature in the Undersand could this be? It was not another army of whatever those former humans had been, but were they merely a prelude to something greater and more terrible? Was it an even greater monster than they could imagine summoned by Old Wyllam, wherever he was? Or was it something even worse than that, something Baelor could not even put to words?
The wave vanished not far from the bridge, the water resuming their usual turbulence, and while their pace did not falter, for a moment, Baelor hoped it had been nothing more than some rare yet natural event of this underground world. Then a massive, hideous claw, larger than a horse and more jagged than the rocks of broken mountains, erupted from the water in a fountain of foul hissing and sickly foam, the smell of which immediately brought to Baelor the memory of a dream, of a great dark shape that hissed and tortured him, of the smell that always lingered when he awoke and of the terror that gripped his heart…
With a might crash, as the rest of the gargantuan creature the massive claw was a part of erupted from the water, it slammed the claw into the bridge, men and stone alike flying in every direction. The horrid beast, with another swipe, broke the bridge in twain, sending more rocks and men into the turbulent waters below. Those who had made it across began to pelt it with whatever arrows they had, but the massive creature simply ignored them, their steel tips simply bouncing off its massive, spiky shell. Men across the bridge began to scream at the sight of it, unable to accept that such a thing was in their midst, and many more drew their weapons even as they began to turn tail and retreat to the shores of Darkwell, Baelor among them only by virtue of Casper grabbing him by the arm and pulling the stunned prince along. Behind them, the bridge began to crumble, slowly falling in pieces into the water as they ran.
Their escape route was destroyed. The foul creature, horrid eyes upon stalks erupting from the armored head belonging to a beast from Essosi waters, turned to them, cancerous slime and growths across its armored frame giving off a pale, unholy glow. Upon far too many legs with far too many segments, it began to move towards them, almost leisurely, errant blows from another claw sending more and more of the bridge crumbling into the waters below. From its horrid beak, what could only be a hissing laughechoed over them, one Baelor knew in an instant as one he had heard far too many times when he lay down to sleep.
They were trapped.
The dark god of the people of Darkwell was here, one whom demanded flesh for its protection. Those great eyes upon those armored stalks swiveled, and somehow, even amidst the crowd of men running back to the far shore, Baelor felt those horrid pupils focus on him, and the beast's laugh grew even louder, echoing as it continued after them, the ground beneath them shaking as it did so.
They were trapped… and it was coming for him.