Chapters (51)
- Dedication
- Contents
- PREVIOUSLY …
- PART I
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- PART II
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- PART III
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- PART IV
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- About the Author
- ALSO BY DAVID WRAGG
- About the Publisher
‘Stay up there, friend, I might need a hand up in a moment. Anyway,’ he looked down at the gore that coated him, ‘could use a little cleansing splash.’
Foss reached the gates, dark sheets of stone in the murk. Chel and Lemon peered down from the grate, watching anxiously as he waggled an experimental grip beneath the first. The confessors were almost below them now, their chanting clear and rowdy, confident in their ascension.
Foss crouched before one of the gates, jammed his fingers against the water’s oozing flow, and with a roar began to stand. For a moment, nothing budged, then with a screech of protesting stone the gate began to lift, the dribble thickening to a pour, then a steady rush. Already water was coursing along the passage floor, frothing beneath where Chel and Lemon perched and away into the darkness. Was that an interruption in the chanting that he heard?
Foss roared again, and drove the gate higher, thumping it against its stop. Water rushed between his legs, hard and black, driving him back from the sluice. He seemed happy to follow, the water pouring dark and cold beyond his knees, and he began to wade toward the grate. From below the chanting faltered, obscured by the rush of the flood, those beneath it shouting in surprise and alarm.
Chel saw it from the corner of his eye as Foss waded back to them, a twitch of the black stone gate, a spasm. The water gushed in fury from beneath it, pursuing the big man like vengeance. Then the gate rocked and squeaked, as jets of white foam sprayed from the wall around it. The side of the reservoir was collapsing.
Lemon saw it too. ‘Fossy! Run!’
He was turning, slow, ponderous, sapped by the greedy river at his thighs. Foss watched the gate crack and tear free, great chunks of stone wall in its wake, the wall of white-capped water surging down the passageway toward him. Lemon’s hand was outstretched, Chel’s with it, crying for him to stumble on, to reach up and leap for safety.
Foss looked up, his eyes tired, arms hanging loose and wearied. A slow smile formed on his bloodied lips.
‘Peace,’ he mouthed, his eyes closing, then the torrent took him.
The waters raged for longer than Chel thought possible, as both he and Lemon thrust numbed arms into the foaming spray, again and again until they were soaked and weeping. When finally the deluge passed, the last of the gurgling waters fading into the darkness, the passage beneath lay stark, slick, and empty but for Lemon’s hoarse and echoing screams.