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The Last Voyage of Elissa Harrow – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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The Last Voyage of Elissa Harrow

by Denny Flowers

The raft drifting through the toxic waters was a humble construction, little more than a dozen barrels lashed together with bindweed Its sole occupant, stationed at the rear of the vessel, stood awkwardly, favouring her front leg and clasping the oar tightly in both hands. Though her right arm had strength enough to ferry the raft, her left barely clung to the oar, the flesh pallid and blistered.

Elissa Harrow did not acknowledge the damaged limb any more than she heeded the pain running from hip to forehead or the absence of sight in her left eye. Her gaze was fixed forward, as though intent on some distant shore that was a mere dozen strokes further.

She did not look back, nor did she dwell on the thing at the raft’s stern – the shadow that clung to the vessel. The past was dead and she could only go forward.

The sump was featureless, an ever-changing tide of effluence and toxins wreathed in smog. Still she sought a pattern in the shifting colours – signs of an outflow pipe or a drainage valve, anything that could suggest a reprieve from the endless waters.

You’re rowing in circles, a voice whispered from behind her.

Her grip tightened on the oar.

It wasn’t real, she reminded herself, merely a manifestation of thirst and hunger, just like the tawny eyes she swore were watching her from the shadows. It was to be expected, and there was no shame in being so afflicted, but she was a noble of House Harrow, above the petty superstitions of the underhive, and she would not tolerate the delusion.

Still, the delusion had a point. She knew not the currents of the sump, and with her left arm near worthless there was little chance she was rowing straight. Most likely, she circled the lake’s centre, slowly squandering the last of her strength in yet another a futile gesture.

Her gaze slid to her left wrist. She tried not to look at the twisted fingers, or the pallid skin sloughing from her forearm, focusing solely on the vambrace she wore. The metal was surprisingly untouched by the filth of the underhive, and the House symbol was still visible: a golden dagger on a field of blood. With shaking fingers she tapped a sequence across the smooth surface.

‘Can you hear me?’ she whispered, barely recognising the croak that was her voice. ‘Lady Harrow?’

The device had once been her link to the world above. The holo-matrix projected a facsimile of home and provided a means of communicating with her kin. But the sump had taken even this from her, and she was quite alone. Still, even if she could make contact with House Harrow, they would not provide salvation. Her stepmother had offered the occasional guidance during her quest – a scrap of information, the location of a rest hole – but even that would have been frowned upon by some of her more puritanical relatives. Until her vow was fulfilled, direct intervention was expressly forbidden. Her family would prefer she died in agony than consider something as crass as cheating.

She had almost died once already, suffocating in the bowels of the underhive, her father’s killer just out of reach, his mocking smile hidden beneath a respirator. With the last of her strength, she had seized him and primed a grenade, intending the explosion to claim them both. But he had slipped from her grasp, causing the explosive to tumble from her hand. The blast had opened a path for the sump waters, and she had been borne away by the toxic tide.

A ripple passed through the water and the raft swayed beneath her feet. She shifted her weight, wincing as pain flared in her left ankle. She suspected it was broken, shattered against the bedrock. She hadn’t felt it at the time, the pain meaningless against the searing agony from her burnt flesh. Darkness had crept in then, and she had welcomed it, until her body was violently expelled through a water pipe and she broke the surface scum of the lake.

Perhaps the flood had claimed the life of her father’s killer too. She knew she was dying – few survived untreated exposure to the sump – but there would be solace in finding his body floating face down in the waters. At least then she would die with her honour intact.

The thought of his corpse reminded her of the shadow at the vessel’s stern.

She coughed and tasted blood on her lip. If she were home in the marble halls of House Harrow then perhaps something could be done – her blood cleansed, her flesh rejuvenated – but there was little time left.

Her remaining eye glanced at the festering waters. She shivered. There was no doubt they would claim her, but she still had a choice in her passing. A true daughter of House Harrow would choose to die on her feet, so she would continue to row until she dropped. It was all she had left.

Just let go.

The whisper came from just below the waterline. She shook her head slowly, her eye fixed on the unseen shore ahead.

It won’t burn so much this time. It won’t hurt as bad.

A sound bubbled from her throat, a pathetic whimper like a babe in arms. Anger flared, the last embers of a rage that set her on this path, that convinced her she could avenge her father and claim her birthright as the Head of House. She was not this trembling creature charting a blind course through the sump. She was Elissa Harrow. The only thing she feared was failing to uphold the honour of her House. Death was a far kinder fate.

But as quickly as her ire rose it faded, a spark swallowed by a deluge. Because she knew the truth. It was no longer honour that kept her standing, for there was now something she feared far more than shame.

Her gaze slipped back to the waters.

If there had been another way she would have taken it. If she still had her knife the voyage would long be over. But the blade was lost, buried in the murderer’s shoulder. Perhaps it was there still. That gave small comfort.

You don’t need a weapon to take a life.

‘I had no choice,’ she whispered, before cursing herself for responding. It was all in her head, the words creeping from snatches of half-sleep. It was a pity; she would have preferred a quieter end.

There was another ripple in the water. She anticipated it this time, using the oar to balance, her weight resting on her good leg. There was a wet thump as something collided with the rear of the raft. Elissa didn’t look back, she didn’t have to. She could picture the trawler’s body in the waters, his skin blanched a sickly yellow by the sump. She’d assumed death would have separated him from the vessel, but a thin chain bound his wrist to the craft’s stern. She could not break it, so it seemed he would accompany her for the last leg of her journey. Perhaps that was her final penance.

There had been no choice. She was almost sure of that.

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A Black Library Publication

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

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ISBN: 978-1-78999-277-9

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