The entrance to the ancient aqueduct was a perfect, seamless arch carved into the base of a black stone cliff, a testament to a forgotten and impossible geometry. It was half-choked with sand, a dark maw that promised both shelter from the desert and the cold embrace of a tomb. For Finnian, a man used to the wide, open expanse of the sea and the sky, the thought of descending into the earth was a special kind of dread.
Commander Eva gave the final signal. Malik and his team had already melted into the darkness, making their way toward the eastern palisade to begin their diversion. Now, it was their turn.
"Lights to a minimum," Eva whispered, her voice sharp in the desert quiet. "Joric, you take point. Finnian, you're behind him. Praxus, Hanna, stay between us. Move."
They entered the aqueduct one by one, and the world changed. The faint desert wind vanished, replaced by a stale, cold air that smelled of dust and deep stone. The soft crunch of sand underfoot gave way to the sharp scrape of their boots on a floor so smooth it felt unnatural. The moment the last of them was inside, the vastness of the desert was gone, and they were enveloped in an absolute, suffocating darkness and silence.
Joric ignited a small, hooded lantern, its weak flame casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to claw at the edges of the tunnel. Finnian's eyes, accustomed to the dark of a ship's hold, adjusted quickly. The tunnel was a perfect, ten-foot-high cylinder, stretching into the darkness ahead. The walls were not rough-hewn, but polished to a near-perfect sheen, covered in faint, interlocking geometric patterns that seemed to shift and writhe in the flickering light.
"Progenitor work," Praxus breathed, his voice a mixture of academic awe and pure terror as he ran a trembling hand over the strange carvings. "No tool of man could create this."
They moved forward, a small knot of nervous life in a vast, dead artery. Finnian took the lead from Joric, his natural instincts as a pathfinder taking over. He moved with a quiet, ground-eating stride, his eyes scanning for tripwires or pressure plates, his ears straining against the oppressive silence. The only sounds were the soft scrape of their own boots and the frantic, hammering beat of his own heart.
The journey was a nerve-shredding crawl through the veins of the ancient prison. They navigated a partial collapse, scrambling over a mound of giant, shattered stone blocks that seemed to have been broken by an impossible, internal force. They crossed a narrow, thousand-year-old ledge over a chasm so deep their lantern light could not find the bottom. All the while, the faint, rhythmic sound of dripping water grew steadily louder, a slow, maddening drumbeat pulling them deeper into the earth.
It was Finnian who saw the first sign of the enemy. A crude, iron torch bracket, hammered brutally into the seamless Progenitor wall, a sacrilegious wound on the ancient stone. A few paces later, Joric found a discarded piece of dried meat.
"They know about this path," Eva stated, her voice a low, grim whisper. The entire company froze. Their secret route, their one great advantage, was no secret at all. They were not infiltrators. They were walking down a baited hallway.
"Weapons ready," Eva commanded. "Assume every shadow is an enemy. We move forward. Malik is counting on us."
The tension thickened, every sense straining. They moved slower now, a tight, defensive formation. The sound of the dripping water was loud, echoing from a larger chamber just ahead. They could see a faint, flickering light reflecting off the wet stone walls. They were close.
As they rounded the final bend, they entered a large, circular junction where three tunnels converged. And the trap was sprung.
From the darkness ahead, and from the tunnel behind them, black-robed figures emerged, their faces hidden by shadows, their crude swords and axes held at the ready. There were at least a dozen of them. They had been waiting.
"For the God of Bargains!" one of them shrieked, and they charged.
The battle was a swirling chaos of close-quarters combat. The narrow tunnel became a meat grinder of flashing steel and desperate grunts. Eva and Joric fought back-to-back, a seamless unit of disciplined death, their swords weaving a protective web around the others. A Covenanter broke through, his axe swinging for Praxus's head. Eva spun, parrying the blow with a shower of sparks, while Finnian drove his belaying pin into the man's ribs.
They were better fighters, better trained and better armed. But they were desperately outnumbered.
Another fanatic, larger than the rest, charged directly at Eva, his face a mask of zeal. Joric, seeing the threat, moved to intercept. He blocked the man's heavy axe with his shield, the impact sending a shudder through his entire body. He thrust his sword forward, ending the attacker, but in that split second, another Covenanter struck from Joric's blind spot. A crude, rusty pickaxe drove deep into the gap between his breastplate and his pauldron.
Joric let out a sharp, pained grunt, but his training held. He spun, his sword lashing out and cutting down his attacker before collapsing to one knee, his hand clamped over the grievous wound.
"Joric!" Eva screamed, her professional calm shattering for a single, horrifying moment.
Just then, a low, distant BOOM echoed from the surface, a tremor running through the stone beneath their feet. Malik. The diversion had begun.
The Covenanters faltered, distracted by the chaos above. It was the opening they needed.
"Back!" Eva roared, pulling Joric to his feet. "Fall back, now!"
She slung his arm over her shoulder, trying to drag him along as the others began a fighting retreat down the central tunnel. But Joric stumbled, his breath coming in ragged, wet gasps. The wound was mortal. They both knew it.
"Commander…" he gasped, shoving her away. "Go. The mission."
"I don't leave my men!" Eva snarled, trying to grab him again.
He pushed her back with the last of his strength, his expression one of absolute, painful clarity. "A commander does not carry the dead. Your words." He drew his dagger with his good hand and stood, planting his feet, a lone, bleeding rock against the tide of fanatics who were now regrouping.
"They will not pass," he promised her. His face, which had been a mask of pain, softened into a final, loyal smile. "It was my honor… to serve."
Eva stared at him, her heart a block of ice in her chest. She saw his loyalty, his sacrifice, and the terrible, necessary choice he was forcing upon her. She gave him a single, sharp, grief-stricken nod. It was the hardest order she had ever followed.
"Praxus, Hanna, Finnian, with me!" she commanded, her voice breaking.
She turned and ran, not daring to look back. The three of them followed, a desperate, heartbroken flight towards the Nexus.
The last thing they heard from the tunnel behind them was not a scream of pain, but a single, defiant, joyous war cry, the sound of a good soldier spending his last breath in service to his commander and his world.
---
The Chronicle of the Fallen
Time Period Covered: Day 191 of the Age of Fear
Victims of The Reaping: 0
Victims of the Covenant: 2
Deaths from Civil Unrest: 14 (Includes casualties from the initial diversion at Qar-Teth and the battle in the aqueducts)
Total Lives Lost: 16
Of Note Among the Fallen:
— Royal Guard soldiers under the command of Lieutenant Joric, slain in the aqueducts beneath Qar-Teth.
— A Covenanter pilgrim in Zahram, who made a bargain for the strength to complete his journey, dying upon arrival at Qar-Teth.