Something powerful is drawing Ward back to Devil's Island. Something he thought he had forgotten. He must evade vicious lighthouse keeper George Jaggles in order to rescue it, but Jaggles will soon be the least of his worries. Because an assassin is...
He set off at as fast a pace as his frozen limbs would allow. Soon his nerves began to jangle and sing, and sudden branches of pain shot up his legs, making him gasp.
Squelch, squelch. The sound of his wet shoes echoed through the tunnel.
He didn't dare stop to look at his surroundings, but the junk here seemed in better condition. Had it been deposited in later centuries? The smell of rot wasn't quite so bad either. Occasionally eyes glowed out at him from the darkness. More snokeys.
Always the same stretch of tunnel up ahead. It felt like he was going nowhere. Surely he must be out the other side of the city by now? Perhaps it was only his tiredness, but it did feel like the tunnel had been climbing slowly since he left the water.
A fear began to gnaw at him. That he would come to a door that he would not be able to get through, and would have to go back through the water. He had already made up his mind that he would not return to the Corpusant. It could stay there until he found the dice, perhaps even after that. He felt less sympathy for it now that it didn't look like a person. It was easy to imagine Leah was no longer there.
He still maintained a desperate hope that he would find the dice down here. Despite the powerful call of the skull under his arm his senses were open to other signals. But none came.
Squelch, squelch.
He was finally warm, but his clothes were still soaked through. They chafed him, on the insides of his thighs, behind his knees, under his arms. His nose ran continuously, like a leaking tap. There was no point wiping it. Occasionally he broke out into a fit of sneezing, but he never stopped moving forward. He kept his head down, eyes trained on the floor before him, like a sleepwalker. He only looked up when he noticed that the piles of junk had petered away to nothing.
Before him stood a mighty door.
It filled the tunnel. It was as black as night. He could see no hinges, no keyhole, no latch; its only feature was a great bronze wheel set in its centre.
He put the lanthorn down, reached out, and touched the door. Its surface was smooth and dull and cold. He put his ear to it and listened. Nothing. He took the wheel in both hands and wrenched it anti-tempuswise, but it didn't budge. He readjusted his grip, crouched for more leverage, and heaved at it until his palms were on fire and the muscles in his shoulders were as taut as sail ropes. Nothing.
He took his stinging hands off the wheel and stepped back. His mind was whirring. He could not fail here. He was so close. The door wasn't locked, and it was clearly designed to be opened from this side. All he had to do was turn the wheel.
He went back down the tunnel a short way, picking through the piles of junk until he found what he wanted. A spear with a stout wooden haft. It had a curiously-shaped head: a cruel hook extended from the base of it, and he shuddered to think what it would do to human flesh.
He brought the spear back to the door and inserted the handle through the gaps between the wheel's spokes. Then he began to press down on the shaft. The wheel didn't budge. He put more weight on it and the shaft began to bend. Still nothing.
He took a deep breath and threw all his weight onto the shaft. It bent alarmingly but didn't break. He heard a creak from the wheel and felt it rotate reluctantly. He pulled the spear out and reinserted it. He threw his weight on it again. This time it did snap; he fell to the ground with a startled cry and the spearhead clattered away into the darkness. He got up, brushed off his stinging hands, and pushed the broken butt of the spear back through the wheel. He grasped the haft at both ends and turned it. The wheel rotated easily now. His heart raced as he spun it. When it thunked to a stop he pulled the broken spear out of the wheel and threw it aside, then he put his shoulder to the door.
It was predictably weighty, and moved slowly at first, but its hinges were smooth and silent. He stopped pushing as its momentum took over and carried it all the way open. It thudded gently against a wall.
Three Brothers were waiting there for him.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
