Adventure of Quorpeck.5

Quorpeck steps into the tunnel as the broken sigil’s light fades behind him. Black water creeps along the stone, and the heavy tread ahead keeps its slow, deliberate rhythm.

His blade’s hum matches the pulse in the walls. The water does not simply flow, it gathers in shallow runnels that point forward, as if the passage itself is guiding him toward the helm-bearer.

A pale reflection shivers across the black surface, and for an instant Quorpeck sees a helm-shaped silhouette far ahead, vanishing around a bend.

The path is clear now. The helm-bearer is using the flooded underpass to carry the curse deeper, and Quorpeck has the trail that can bring him to the source.

Quorpeck breaks into a hard run, boots striking wet stone as he cuts through the tunnel’s bend. The fleeing figure jerks at the sound, cloak whipping behind her in the black water light.

He closes the gap in a few powerful strides, one gauntleted hand snapping out to seize the trailing cloth.

The cloak tears free in his grip, and the runner stumbles half a step, her hood thrown back by the sudden pull.

For an instant, the tunnel seems to hold its breath. The black iron helm is not on her head, but its mark is clear in the runes she wears and the face Quorpeck now sees.

Ahead, the flooded channel bends tighter, water tugging at the runner’s ankles while the open sluice route shimmers with faint rune-glow.

Quorpeck surges in and clamps down on the runner before she can slip into the current. The strike jars her breath loose, and her resistance folds under the force of his grip.

He wrenches the helm-marked cloak away and strips free the outer layers that might hide a blade or sigil. Wet fabric drops into the black water at his boots.

Then he turns her wrists, draws her arms behind her back, and knots them fast with the torn cloth and what he can seize from her trailing gear. The runner is bound for questioning.

The tunnel narrows ahead, water tugging hard at the bend, while the faint rune-glow steadies along the floor and the black-marked sluice route waits beyond her shoulder.

Quorpeck eases the pressure just enough to make the choice plain, not painless. The helm-bearer’s shoulders hitch as he peels back the last layers of her disguise, and the black water shivers around their ankles.

Her defiance breaks by degrees, not all at once. She swallows, eyes cutting toward the hidden turn where the sluice route bends into darkness.

The warden’s voice hangs cold in the mist, but the helm-bearer keeps talking now, breath unsteady and honest in spite of herself.

At the name, the faint rune-glow along the floor seems to settle, and the dimming prophecy stone at Quorpeck’s belt gives a weak, tired pulse. The captive lifts her chin a fraction, waiting to see whether his questions sharpen further.

The threat lands cleanly. The helm-bearer goes still in Quorpeck's grip, her breath catching as the black water laps at her boots.

Her shoulders sag with the loss of her last lie. The prophecy stone at Quorpeck's belt gives another faint, tired pulse, and the tunnel's rune-glow holds steady instead of flickering.

Quorpeck yanks a loop of torn cloth free and knots it fast around the helm-bearer’s wrist, then feeds the end through his own gauntlet like a crude leash. She stumbles once, but stays upright.

He gives her no room to wriggle. The binding holds, and her balance shifts into his control as he turns her toward the dark runnel beyond the tunnel bend.

The prophecy stone at Quorpeck’s belt gives its tired pulse, faint as a dying ember, while the rune-glow on the wet stonework stays steady ahead of them.

Quorpeck hauls once, and she starts after him, forced into pace. The black-marked sluice door waits farther on, and the current’s whisper from beyond it grows louder with every step.

Quorpeck surges forward, dragging the helm-bearer with him before the current can steal her from his grasp. The tunnel opens in a slick bend, and the black-marked sluice door stands plainly ahead.

He answers by closing the last stretch in a hard, controlled rush. The door dominates the passage now, its mark wet and dark against the stone, while the prophecy stone at his belt gives one thin, fading pulse.

Quorpeck reaches the door with the leash taut in his fist, and the helm-bearer jerks to a stop beside him. A cold rush breathes through the seam below the black mark, loud enough to drown the tunnel’s drip.

The dwarven warrior has the choice in hand now, at the black-marked sluice door, with the current pressing from beyond and the trail held under his grip.