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The Harrowing Deep – Extract

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The Harrowing Deep

Miles A. Drake

Prince Cycladaean was surrounded by the unfamiliar. But then, he had been for many years. Ever since he’d parted ways with his Motlynian kin, he had roamed the seas. But he was no mere nomad that had lost his way. His exile had been calculated. It served an agenda. Wherever he went, he sought to remind his kin of their potential. Of the realms they’d fled from.

Were the idoneth not sculpted by a god of light and illumination? Why should they hide in the depths, ashamed of their very nature, when there was so much to reclaim?

Some enclaves, the Ionrach, the Nautilar and the Briomdar to name a few, had already taken their first steps towards unifying the idoneth. Towards proving to their creator that, regardless of their flaws, they were worthy of his blessing. Even if these steps had been taken unwittingly, out of pragmatism rather than an effort to redeem themselves in the eyes of Teclis, they had served Cycladaean’s goal. There was, as such, no need for him to guide those enclaves when there were others that were less enlightened…

And so he chose to seek the dismal, dark places where the idoneth clung to suspicion and cold pragmatism above all else. He could have gone to many places, for the majority of the enclaves were still mired in such ideology, but he had felt a calling to Ghur. To the Dhom-hain.

And so Rúndhar, the Dhom-hain city nestled deep in the darkness of the Black Trough, became Cycladaean’s home.

It was a dismal home, to be sure, for the Dhom-hain lacked much of the refinement of other enclaves. And that could be seen no more clearly than in the very structure of their royal court. The Maw Court, as it was aptly named, rested inside the skull of an ancient god-beast, long buried beneath aeons of siltfalls. Cycladaean moved past rows of colossal teeth that flanked the gloomy interior of the court, the buoyancy granted to him by the ethersea allowing him to drift between the sculpted coral forms growing across the chamber’s floor. The ethersea seemed cold and heavy, and though he had acclimated to the unsettling sensation, it served as a perpetual reminder that he did not belong.

But Rúndhar was full of such reminders.

In the dim ambiance, illuminated by clusters of glowing anemones and transient shoals of bioluminescent squid, he saw more akhelian enter the court. He couldn’t see their eyes in the gloom, but he could feel their cold stares. The mix of disdain, suspicion and predatory hostility served as an ever-present reminder that he was an outsider in a court that hated outsiders. But he showed no fear. If one cowered before a circling allopex, it would go for the throat, and the Dhom-hain were no different. They lived off the hunt. They lived for the hunt. And somewhere throughout their brutal history, they became the hunt.

Ignoring the glances, he took his customary place at the edge of the court, leaning back into one of the sculpted coral thrones, feeling its fanlike branches bend around him. His section of the court was meant for foreign envoys, and as such, he was alone.

As more akhelian filtered in, the presence of so many warriors bearing the colours of the Hunting Phalanxes gave Cycladaean a clear indication as to why the court had been summoned, though the presence of the Lasroch Host was certainly new. They were the Dhom-hain elite, the finest veterans of the Hunting, Raiding and Warden Phalanxes that the enclave could offer. If they had been called, then it was drawing nearer.

That, of course, presented an opportunity. If the Dhom-hain grew too desperate, then perhaps they would allow an outsider to join their sacred hunt, and in doing so, he could well earn their respect – a necessity if he was to have any success in swaying them to rejoin the assembrals.

But his musings were interrupted when three figures emerged from the gloomy tunnel disappearing into the throat of the god-beast. Even in shadow, they were as resplendent as any Dhom-hain akhelian could be, wielding serrated hunting glaives and clad in armour sculpted like organic waveforms, gleaming green in stark contrast to the dark mesh they wore beneath. At their head, King Akhamar, the royal consort and lord of the High Guard stood as the epitome of what it meant to be Dhom-hain. The gracefulness of his armour was offset by the tattered allopex-scale cloak hanging from his pauldrons, and the thin, spiny crown of fin bones jutting from his barbute helm like a crown of thorns.

The king panned his gaze over the gathering crowd, and thudded the butt of his glaive onto the coral dais that extended from the throat of the court. ‘All silence for the high queen!’ he roared, before bowing his head and stepping aside.

The rest of the court made gestures of respect as High Queen Mheáve emerged from the inky darkness behind him. She had all the grace and poise of an ancient statue, rugged and scarred, but no less beautiful for it. Armoured in an ornately sculpted breastplate and a surcoat of glittering scales, her arms were bare, marked by claw-marks and fang-scars. Winding eel tattoos coiled down from her shoulders, and an open-faced barbute helm crowned by the dagger-fangs of a lampmouth adorned her regal visage. The cloak of kelp-fibre streamers hanging from her fin-like pauldrons resembled the tentacles of an ochtar as it billowed behind her.

‘Court of Rúndhar, voice of Dhom-hain, I call this assembly once more to address that which plagues us.’ Her voice was sonorous, and easily captured the attention of any in the court. Cycladaean recognised the power that radiated from her, and had long reckoned that she was a descendant three, perhaps four generations removed from the ancient cythai. He knew such things, because that power was in his blood too.

‘It has been six tides since Prince Maghadrym led his hunters after the beast. That he has not returned can mean only one thing…’ she continued, eliciting a chorus of whispers from the crowd.

It was as Cycladaean had expected, then.

She waited for them to subside. ‘Further word from the dredger colonies speaks of the beast’s continued rampage. It goes unimpeded beyond the colonies of the Abyssal Rim. It draws nearer to the continental rise. To the Black Trough…’

The whispers became more hushed, and more tense. The beast’s marauding trail of slaughter was bringing it steadily closer to their city, and while Cycladaean doubted the Dhom-hain were truly afraid, he imagined the mere existence of a beast that defied them so would at least upset them. And that would work to his advantage.

The court grumbled, but soon enough, a scarred Lochian prince stood. He was a veteran hunter, given his heraldry.

‘Perhaps this is best suited for the Lasroch Host,’ he called. ‘If this beast knows the scent of idoneth blood, then it is only a matter of time before it decides to make a foray into the Black Trough. Rúndhar could be in danger.’

‘Are you a coward, Prince Achúlainn?’ another prince, bearing the heraldry of the Lasroch Host, interjected. ‘Are you shying away from hunting a beast that your hunters have thus far failed to slay?’

The scarred hunter turned to face his accuser, his features curled into an unsubtle snarl. ‘What I am saying is that if my hunters have been unable to fell this monster, then perhaps it is time we devote more resources to the problem. And yes, this insinuates I believe it to be beyond my phalanx’s capabilities. Better my humility and a dead beast than my pride and a living beast rampaging through the Bryozoan Groves!’

The rebuke was sharper than it sounded, for Cycladaean knew that Prince Mhazaer, the accuser, held the fertile outer Bryozoan Groves as his personal demesne.

The back and forth continued, and Cycladaean took a deep breath, tasting the thick salt suffusing the ethersea. There might never be a better opportunity. He stood, and at first, only the high queen and Akhamar noticed. The arguing continued, and Cycladaean saw Akhamar whisper something into the high queen’s ear, no doubt attempting to dissuade her from listening to whatever the outsider had to say. But eventually she brushed him off, and waved her hand to silence the court.

‘My brethren,’ Cycladaean began, taking a diplomatic tone, even if he knew most in the court would loathe him using that word to address them. ‘It is clear this monster presents a significant threat to Rúndhar, and the rest of the enclave. The mere fact that it has not only evaded but also killed multiple hunting parties belonging to the enclave boasting the finest hunters in all the seas is testament to its threat. And that it has done so without a single survivor returning to report should only emphasise that now is not the time for division. Now is the time that differe–’

‘The reason our hunters have failed…’ King Akhamar cut in, stepping forward to cast a withering glare at Cycladaean, ‘is that we have yet to send a party of our finest. Samarghainn led the first party, Cairweath the second, and now Maghadrym. All names of renown. But only one name per hunt. If we assemble a hunt comprising only our finest, then we can surely track down and slay this beast!’

Cycladaean was certain he could best any of them in single combat, but that accounted for nothing when he hadn’t had the chance to prove himself. He gave an exasperated sigh as Achúlainn countered.

‘Or perhaps we will be risking our best, when this is truly a matter that requires a more heavy-handed approach. If our hunters have failed three times, perhaps now is the moment to unleash the full might of the phalanxes.’

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A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Dave Gallagher.

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