CHAPTER 37: The Serpent's Crawl
The Serpent's Spine – Southern Edge of Gravenmarsh, Deep Underground
The air was thick and cold, smelling of damp earth, ancient rock, and something else—something long buried, a silence that felt heavier than the weight of the mountain above. Theron Varkhale, his scarred face grim beneath the flickering light of his oil lamp, pushed through a narrow fissure, the rough stone scraping against his leather armor. Behind him, the fifty Varkhale men, chosen for their grim resolve and familiarity with harsh terrain, moved in a single-file line, their lamps casting dancing shadows that stretched and swallowed each figure whole.
This was the Serpent's Spine, a legendary network of smuggling tunnels and forgotten passages that supposedly wove through the underbelly of the mountains, connecting the northern highlands to the fertile southern valleys. "Barely mapped," Myrren had said. "Dangerous," Kael had warned. Theron had only grunted. His house knew danger. They understood paths that defied the sun.
"Collapsed section ahead, Lord Theron!" came the muffled cry from Galt, a burly Varkhale scout, his voice echoing eerily in the confined space. A massive pile of rubble, centuries old, blocked the main passage. It looked impassable.
Theron clambered over fallen rocks, his lamp revealing ancient support beams, snapped like twigs. "Find a way around it," he rumbled, his gaze sweeping the damp walls. "These tunnels always have more than one vein. There's a smaller passage to the left, likely a miner's bypass. Test the air. Test the ground. Move."
For three days, they had delved deeper into the earth, following scraps of ancient maps provided by Kael, supplemented by their own Varkhale lore and instincts. The tunnels were a labyrinth of winding paths, some barely wide enough for a man to squeeze through, others opening into vast, echoing caverns that swallowed their lamplight. They found evidence of previous travelers: rusted tools, faded carvings of strange symbols, and the skeletal remains of men and beasts that had not found their way out. The constant drip of water, the occasional scuttling of unseen creatures, and the profound, isolating darkness began to wear on the men.
Corporal Joric, a younger Varkhale who had seen too much open sky, muttered, "This is worse than the Blackwood. At least there you could see the shadows coming."
Theron overheard him. "The shadows here are just as real, boy. They're just older. Keep your light steady. Keep your blade loose." He trusted his men, trusted their grim, frontier hardiness. But the mountain was a patient killer.
They encountered their first major challenge in a deep, echoing cavern. A subterranean river, black and swift, blocked their path. The water roared over unseen rocks, its sound filling the cavern with a terrifying din. Old, rotting ropes hung from stalactites, remnants of a long-dead crossing.
"We can bridge it, Lord Theron," offered Darok, the Varkhale's oldest and most experienced engineer, his grey beard streaked with grime. "But it'll take time. And a lot of timber."
Time. Kael needed supplies, Ravencair was starving. Every hour was a life. Theron stared into the black water. "No time for felling trees. Is there a way across? An old ledge? A submerged path?"
Darok shook his head. "Too treacherous, my lord. The currents…"
Theron didn't wait. He stripped off his heavy leather coat, revealing the scarred muscle beneath. He secured a rope around his waist, handing the other end to Galt. "I'll test the current. Find me a footing on the other side. If I go down, pull me back."
The water was shockingly cold, stealing his breath. The current tore at his limbs, pulling him into the unseen depths. He fought, muscles straining, his boots scraping for purchase on the slimy, uneven riverbed. He saw the dark, swirling eddies, strong enough to drag a man to his death. But Theron was a wolf of the broken march, used to impossible terrain and desperate gambits. After what felt like an eternity, he found a narrow ledge, half-submerged, barely wide enough for one foot. He pulled himself onto it, gasping for air, water streaming from his face.
"Clear!" he roared, his voice hoarse. "Send the rope!"
It took hours for the rest of the company to cross, one by one, battling the relentless current and the biting cold. They lost two men to the river's grasp, their bodies swallowed by the black water, their final cries swallowed by the cavern's echo. By the time the last man was across, shivering and exhausted, their resolve was grim, but unbroken.
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The Shadowed Depths – Unforeseen Eyes
They pushed on, the air growing warmer, promising proximity to the surface. They passed an ancient dwarven gate, long collapsed, its intricate carvings worn smooth by time. Theron knew they were nearing the true Serpent's Spine, the main artery connecting the southern valleys to the northern passes.
He stopped suddenly, raising a hand. The men behind him froze.
"What is it, Lord Theron?" Joric whispered.
Theron's gaze was fixed on a faint glimmer of light far ahead, not the steady glow of their oil lamps. It moved. Too fast. Too uniform. "Imperial," he rumbled, a cold certainty in his voice. "They're already here. Scouting. Or worse, setting up their own patrols."
He had expected to clear the route for Kael's supplies, to find a forgotten path. He had not expected the Empire to be waiting in the shadows. He had underestimated them. Lord Tervan, the meticulous Quartermaster General, was leaving no stone unturned, even below ground.
"Douse the lamps!" Theron barked, his voice low. The darkness swallowed them, absolute and suffocating. "Draw cold steel. Joric, take three men, flank right through that narrow passage. Galt, cover left. Move like ghosts. We will find them."
The Varkhale men, bred for skirmishes and brutal ambushes, shifted with grim anticipation. This was their territory now. The Empire might bring its legions, but in the dark, in the tight confines of the earth, the rules changed.
Theron felt a surge of grim satisfaction. Kael had asked for a path, a bite from below. The Empire was providing the opportunity. The Serpent's Spine would bleed Imperial blood long before it saw the sun.
He drew his own great axe, its worn handle familiar in his calloused hand, and melted into the deeper shadows, ready to fight for every inch of hidden ground. The long, dirty game had begun.