He only had one way out, and the four figures ahead were blocking it, so he went straight at them with all the speed he had, which was clearly more than they were expecting. He avoided their spears and bowled right through them, diving for the Drop.
He thought he was free when something hit him in the side, hard. He spun down to his right, but after a few yards something yanked him back and sent waves of agony through his ribs.
He looked back into a cloud of blood. His blood, pouring from where a harpoon was stuck in him. One of the men was lashing the other end of the line around a spike of coral.
With a harsh cry, Glim hurled himself back at them, but they were more ready for him this time, three of them setting their spears and the harpooner reloading his weapon, which looked a lot like a crossbow.
He jagged at the last moment, but one of the spearmen managed to shift his point so it hit him in the forehead. He screamed as the tip found his skull and deflected, slicing all the way to his ear. The pain was terrific, but it only seemed to make him stronger as he jerked his way down the shaft and buried his claws in the man’s throat. One of the others gripped him from behind, and then they all had him. He rolled and pitched furiously, smashing them into coral. Two let go, but the other managed to hold on by grabbing the harpoon, and this time his senses were shattered by the pain, and for a moment he wasn’t sure what was happening.
The next thing that came to him clearly was Oluth, trying to say something. Blood was coming from his mouth. A quick look showed his attackers all dead or too badly wounded to do anything.
“What?” he asked Oluth.
“I’m sorry,” the boy said. “We did it, the glimmers. We thought it was what you wanted.”
“What?” Glim demanded. “What did you do?”
“They were supposed to know, so they would do something about the vapors. We were proud, proud to be a part of-” He coughed, and a great gout of red poured from his mouth.
“We broke a tree-root feed,” he said. “We left our sign there, the sign of the vapors.”
“Sign of the vapors?”
“Right,” Oluth said weakly. “You wouldn’t have seen it. It’s on the door to the chamber. Four wriggling lines, in a spray.” He closed his eyes. Glim saw the wound now. The knife was still in it.
“Let’s get you fixed up,” he said.
“No,” Oluth said. “More coming. I’ll wait here for them.”
“I can’t let you, not alone.”
“Please,” Oluth said. “Please, for me? If you forgive me, please go.”
Glim cut the line to the harpoon and was trying to pull it free when several figures emerged from the cave entrance. Oluth launched himself forward.
“Go!” he screamed. Glim saw he had the harpoon gun.
More guards came out, seven now.
So he did as Oluth asked and swam deep.
When Glim had put some distance between himself and his pursuers, he found a crevice in the side of the sump, wedged the other end of the harpoon into it, and finally managed to yank the barbed head free. He almost passed out, and for several long breaths he couldn’t swim, but then he started stroking again, trailing more blood than ever.
He couldn’t get Oluth’s last words out of his head. Where had he gone wrong? Hadn’t he explained well enough? And what were they doing breaking a tree-root feed? That hadn’t even been one of the targets he had approved.
But it did give him an idea. He took a twisting course, past where a cluster of middens emptied into the sump, hoping the turbulence would disperse his blood trail, then swam toward the capillaries that drew water up to the Fringe Gyre. It took him a few minutes, but he found the one with the lines crudely etched into the stone above-the sign of the vapors. They had smashed the filter, so the capillary was pulling up debris that in time would choke the feed. Hoping it wasn’t blocked already, he went up it.
It was nearly too tight for him; he had to writhe up the thing for the first hundred feet or so, but finally it met a larger tube and he let himself drift for a moment before continuing on.
He’d never been in these passages before for the simple reason that none of the filters were ever broken. Older skraws who had made repairs said they formed a webwork that brought water to the roots of the Fringe Gyre. He hadn’t wanted to take his usual path up, because it would have been far too easy to track him. Now, as he passed dozens of branching tubes, many far too small to admit him, he wondered if he hadn’t merely managed to trap himself. If they found him here, his speed and maneuverability wouldn’t count for much.
Not that he had that much of either left anyway. He didn’t know how much blood he had lost; his wounds stanched themselves pretty quickly, but he was still bleeding.
Hoping he wouldn’t pass out before he found a way up, he swam on, through passages that became increasingly more dizzying and labyrinthine.
THREE
Attrebus fell, but before he could start a scream he crunched into something cold and wet. Gasping, he came to his hands and knees, swiping at the clotting stuff on his face, wondering what horrible Oblivion realm Malacath had banished them to. But then he understood that he’d landed in snow, and the air coming into his lungs was clean and filled with evergreen scent. When he looked up, the sky was blue and traced with high, thin clouds.
“He did it,” he said.
“So it would appear,” Sul replied. “This is not Oblivion, at least.”
“It’s cold.”
“If this is Solstheim, that makes sense.”
Like him, Sul was still naked; his dark skin stood in sharp contrast to the snow and spruce trees surrounding them. Near him lay a bundle, and the older man stepped over to it, discovering their clothing, weapons, and armor.
Everything was still torn, filthy, and blood-caked, but Attrebus felt warmer and more secure back in his gear.
“Which way now?” he asked. They were on a low ridge. Jagged peaks stood off in one direction. “I thought he would drop us right in front of-wherever we’re going.”
“That’s not always possible, even for a daedra prince,” Sul replied. “He probably put us as near as was convenient.” He looked around, and then jerked his chin toward the peaks. “I’ve no interest in climbing mountains just for sport. Downhill is likely more hospitable, and we’re more apt to find someone to ask directions of.”
“I won’t argue with that,” Attrebus said.
The land rolled up and down, but took them generally lower, until they came to a little valley with a small but enthusiastic river laughing over polished stones. They began following that downstream. It was about midday, and the sun was warmer, the ice turning to mush under their feet.
As the sky paled to slate and the outlines of the moon Secundus began to brighten, the snow began to crackle under their feet, and the inadequacy of their clothing became clear. They searched the valley wall for a rock shelter, but failing to find one, they stopped, gathered wood, and built a fire to huddle around.
“I thought we would find people sooner,” Attrebus said, watching the flames dance and trying to avoid the resinous smoke.
“Why?” Sul asked.
“Well, because so many Dark Elves came here after the red year-” He broke off, realizing he was in uncomfortable territory, but Sul clapped his hands together and rubbed them over the fire.
“I had many unpleasant surprises after returning from exile in Oblivion,” he said. “I knew that Vivec City was destroyed. Vuhon told me he had seen as much, when he was torturing me. But it wasn’t until I went there that I understood how badly my homeland had been ravaged, or how they had suffered from the Argonian invasion. Still, I had an idea. But that Skyrim had offered Solstheim as a haven for my people, after ages of enmity between our races-for that I was unprepared.”