CHAPTER 38: Subterranean Blood
The Serpent's Spine – Deep Underground, Moments After Discovery
The sudden, absolute darkness was a weapon. Theron Varkhale, his axe gripped tight, could feel the panic of the Imperial scouts before he heard it—a stifled gasp, the clatter of a dropped lantern. Their light, a distant glimmer moments ago, had vanished with their terror. Kael had asked for a dirtier game. This was it.
"Cold steel!" Theron rumbled, his voice a low growl that carried unnervingly in the suffocating black. "Silence! They don't know us. Let them know death!"
His Varkhale men, accustomed to ambushes in the deepest mountain passes, melted into the gloom with terrifying efficiency. They were wolves of the dark, their boots silent on the damp earth, their breath held. The Imperial scouts, expecting only empty tunnels or maybe the occasional beast, were blind and disoriented, their training useless in this lightless realm.
Galt, moving to the right flank, heard a frantic fumbling, then the sharp intake of breath as a man realized his torch was out. Galt's hand moved faster. A quick, brutal thrust of his short sword. A gurgle. The man slumped against the damp stone, his life draining silently into the earth. No screams. Just the wet thud of a body.
Joric, taking the left, found a man trying to light a new tinder. Joric didn't hesitate. His dagger found the soft spot between the man's ribs, twisting, then pulled free with a wet rip. The Imperial soldier slid down the wall, his last thought likely confusion.
The skirmish was less a battle and more a methodical dismantling. The Imperials, numbering perhaps a dozen, panicked. Their shouts echoed wildly, giving away their positions. The Varkhales, by contrast, struck with precision, each blow aimed for a vital point, each kill executed with grim, practiced efficiency. The air filled with the coppery tang of fresh blood, quickly absorbed by the thirsty earth, and the scent of human fear, raw and pungent in the confined space.
Theron found their leader, a young Imperial captain, frantically trying to rally his scattered men, his voice trembling even as he barked orders. He was a lion, trapped in a mole's tunnel. Theron did not speak. His axe, a dark blur in the minimal light, slammed into the captain's shield, shattering the wood and sending the impact up his arm. The captain roared, fear turning to desperate rage, and lunged with hisword.
Theron parried, the clash of steel echoing sharply, briefly blinding them both with sparks. He felt a shallow cut across his cheek, a warm trickle of blood. But the captain's thrust was too wild. Theron twisted, slammed his shoulder into the captain's chest, driving him back against the wall with a sickening crunch. The captain's breath left him in a ragged gasp. Theron's short sword found the weak point in the neck, twisting. The captain choked, eyes wide and unseeing in the fleeting lamplight from a distant Varkhale.
"How many?" Theron grated, yanking his blade free, the wet sound amplified by the tunnel.
"Nine, Lord Theron," Galt's voice was calm, emerging from the deep shadows. "All accounted for. None escaped."
Theron nodded, wiping his blade clean on the dead captain's tunic. "Good. Darok, secure the tunnel ahead. Joric, find their lanterns, their supplies. We need to know who sent them and how they found this path."
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The Imperial Intrusion – A Deeper Worry
They gathered the dead, a grim collection of Imperial scouts and two grim-faced Purifiers. The Purifiers' presence sent a cold knot into Theron's gut. The Church was involved. They weren't just looking for smugglers; they were looking for *heretics*. And they were thorough. They hadn't stumbled into this path by accident.
Darok, examining the Imperial's gear, found something. A small, sealed scroll, tucked into a scout's boot. It bore the mark of Lord Tervan, the Imperial Quartermaster General.
Theron broke the seal. The message was crisp, precise, and deeply troubling. It was a reconnaissance order for a "newly suspected subterranean network," detailing rough estimates of its length and potential northern exits. The Imperial intelligence was better than Kael had thought. They weren't just flailing in the dark. Someone had given them a lead.
"They knew," Darok muttered, seeing the scroll over Theron's shoulder. "Someone told them about this path."
Theron grunted. He thought of Nalen, the quiet spy. He thought of Virelle, playing her games of shadow and gold. Kael had called them his 'monstrous, beautiful machine.' But a machine could also break.
They pushed further, securing the section, extinguishing all traces of the fight. The Varkhales moved the bodies into a deep fissure and collapsed the rock behind them, burying the secret. No one would find them. No one would even know they were there.
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The First Step – Towards the Southern Valleys
The tunnels continued, sometimes vast, sometimes painfully narrow. They moved slower now, more cautiously, expecting another ambush. But the Empire seemed content with their initial probes. For now.
Days later, they broke through into a larger, well-maintained cavern. The air here was fresh, carrying the scent of pine and distant farmland. A trickle of sunlight pierced through a narrow opening high above, illuminating ancient carvings on the walls—not dwarven, but human, depicting scenes of trade and travel.
Darok pointed to a faint glow ahead. "Surface, Lord Theron. The southern exit. It's narrow, almost hidden, but it leads right into the old trade routes."
Theron felt a surge of grim satisfaction. They had done it. They had secured the first true path through the Serpent's Spine. The blood of his men, the chilling silence of the tunnels, the brutal kills—it had all been for this.
He sent a small team to clear the entrance and scout the immediate area. Soon, the first Varkhale banners, small and crude, would mark the southern valleys, symbols of Kael's reaching hand.
He thought of the starving children in Ravencair, of Kael's promise to bleed the Empire dry. This tunnel was the vein. And they had just found the way to make it bleed for them.
He knew the Empire would learn of this path eventually. They would find the hidden exits, or capture one of Kael's supply trains. But by then, it would be too late. The supplies would have flowed. The refugees might have moved. The serpent would have already swallowed its prey.
Theron looked down at his axe, its edge reflecting the faint light. The weight of it was familiar, comforting. This was just the beginning. The subterranean war had officially opened a new, brutal front. And the Varkhales, true to their nature, were ready to dig deep.