Vargoth Ember's Arc

Chapter 3 of 7

The green stain settled over the hoard, but it thinned by morning. The poison sank into the silt and stopped spreading. Vargoth saw gold glint again through the murk. The path was his. Yet the treasure lay deep, buried under wrecks, and the water fought him at every dive. His claws could not grip stone underwater. He could not carry a heavy load up through the churn. The gold stayed on the bottom, and he stayed hungry. He hauled himself onto the rocks and looked along the shore. A ruined lighthouse leaned over the bay, its bricks cracked and peeling, its lamp long dead. It stood high above the very spot where the hoard lay. Vargoth climbed it and tested the old stone floor. It held his weight. From up here, a line dropped straight into the deep. He could raise the treasure from this tower, if he had a way to lift it. He found the tool tangled in the rocks below. A vast fishing net of knotted rope, thick as his own leg, half buried in weed. It was old and strong. He dragged it up the tower and tied one end to the iron rail. The other end he weighted with stone and sank into the water. Now he needed hands to fill it. His own were too large for coins and cups. He called into the shallows, low and coaxing. Two otters answered. They shot from a gap in the rocks, sleek and quick, their bright eyes fixed on him without fear. They circled his net and chirped at each other. Vargoth pointed down at the sunken gold. "Fill it," he said. "Every piece you can carry." The pair dove together. They worked fast and worked as one. One otter loosened coins from the silt while the other ferried them up to the net. They packed cups, chains, and plates into the ropes, load after load. Vargoth watched from the tower and felt the net grow heavy. When it bulged full, he set his claws to the rail and hauled. The rope groaned. The net rose dripping from the deep, gold spilling water as it climbed. Vargoth dragged it over the rail and onto the tower floor. Coins poured out in a bright heap. The otters surfaced below and slapped the water, pleased with themselves. He had done it. He had lifted the hoard. But the sound carried. The old tower rang like a bell as the gold struck stone. Vargoth froze. On the northern cliffs, torches sparked to life one by one. The mercenaries had heard. Shapes moved along the ridge, pointing at his lit tower and the gold heaped in plain view. He had raised the treasure. Now the whole camp knew exactly where it was, and they were already coming down the cliff.