The Deepcombers

Chapter Four

"Get a shroud for the body," a voice spoke in Common and for a moment Lon could see life on deck. His eyes became connected, but just for a flash; he got a glimpse of real life. It was a still-picture, a test for his eye-brain connection. In that instant he perceived a chilling vision.

Minister Horne stood below and stared-up at him, face to face. The young lad saw pure hatred in the priest's beady black eyes. If he wasn't dead already, he would be soon. Horne fumed with anger and spoke Crolean and Lon heard the clacking words in his ears.

The inquisitors, the sailors, and all the captives stared at the mutant sacrifice that'd survived and which had become True Pattern before their eyes. The melancholy audience sat in silence as though attending a macabre theater. 

Lon was blind again. Darkness. Memories. He recalled the printed broadsheet posted in the supply yard he'd read before boarding the Annabelle. The billboard was a puff-piece written in Common for the captives and it shared information on Crolean conquests and acquisitions. Beyond the braggadocios accounts of battles and enduring victories were listed the names of freshly promoted heroes . The paper extended military honours to Grand High Minister Surilus Horne as overall commander of a voyage to the Port of Ligne. That's what the printed page had said; a Voyage to the Port of Ligne!

These typed words on the crude poster reminded the youth of more popular prints that were highly prized story-vehicles back home. Years ago, just after he'd learned how to read, he'd consumed all manner of printed material and now it all marshaled together on top of his memory. Thick pressed papers, yellow with age were shown to readers for a penny a page all over Tokal and none were more popular than deepcomber broadsheets.

Deepcombers' sheets were half-century old adventure stories printed using photo-luminescent ink. The substance had the blood of a rare marine animal in the mix which made the font glow-in-the-dark so the papers could be read by moonlit. That wasn't a selling feature so much as a mark of authenticity.

The Deepcombers were professional soldiers of fortune who used Warden's Keys to enter Oub through the Great Door. Once inside they fought to stay alive and plunder the vast preserve. Their stories and sketches were shared afterwards on these coarse paper sheets filled with text and woodcut prints. Their tales were mostly true, Lon believed; he'd never doubted their escapades or questioned their achievements, despite their incredulous claims.

Each broadsheet told the story of one descent and the fate of six specialists. The heroes would pool their resources and combine their skills to survive underground. Told in series over the length of their careers, each page chronicled one crew's raid and the mayhem they'd made in the land of monsters beyond the wall. The adventurers battled the terrors they encountered below with steel blades and Varget.

The deepcombers' quest was to plumb the monsters' nests for weapons, gems, gold and silver objects mined and refined in the depths of their dark realm. Then the explorers would ascend to safety and recover their health in luxury spas. They'd grow rich as the plunder they'd raised was sold at auction with the world's wealthiest sovereigns among the buyers. It was dangerous work and not every company returned, but the rewards were spectacular. Just one Tokgorin axe could fetch over five hundred gold pieces and such a sum would buy three houses in Dundae. Why were these items so coveted? Supply and demand. The metal blades made in Oub were incredibly sharp, especially the half-moon axes. They could sever feigor armour with one blow, and so every warlord in the world above desperately wanted tokgor weapons forged below.

Nothing that dangerous is sustainable and the heroes themselves were shooting stars. One by one the key companies were killed or disappeared. They were all gone now. Fifty years later none of the Warden Keys' whereabouts were known. The broadsheets never described how the heroes died as there were no survivors to relay the tale and no scribes could hear their cries. When a deepcomber squad disappeared underground they left no trace. No commemorative papers were issued and their demise went unnoticed, except at the auctions where prices rose ever higher.