Jack of Ravens

11

Freezing water numbed Will’s face and body in one shocking instant, and then he was engulfed in complete darkness. Using his hands for eyes, he felt for the dogleg Tom had described. It took an effort to twist his body around the sharp bend, and he knew then how difficult it would be to repeat the manoeuvre in reverse.

The tunnel was barely wide enough to contain his shoulders. His head bumped against the stone repeatedly and his elbows and knees dragged; only a hair’s breadth separated him from becoming jammed in the restrictive space.

He could hold his breath for at least the count of ninety, the result of childhood days swimming in the sea off Kent. But if he continued to forty-five, would he not retreat at a much slower rate? What, then, should he set as his target, for his life depended on it? The first edge of panic increased its pressure on his mind.

Dragging himself forward, feeling ahead in the numb blackness, the water pressed as hard around him as an iron coffin. An ache began in his lungs. Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one. How much longer? He must have covered half the distance between the rear wall of the chamber and the treasure, locked under the stone on which they had walked. He dragged himself on. Thirty-nine, forty, forty-one. It was time to turn back or he would die there, horribly, fighting to hold on and hold on and hold on, until he could do so no longer, and then he would suck the icy water into his lungs, thrashing, unable to move backwards or forwards, wedged …

His fingers closed on a protrusion on the wall: a handle of some sort. Will grasped it and yanked down. At first it didn’t move. He increased the pressure and it shifted slightly. Manoeuvring himself to gain leverage against the walls, he used both hands and all his strength.

The lever came down. Instantly, Will was driving himself backwards, the insane panic close to breaking through despite his best efforts. Fifty-three, fifty-four, fifty-five. He pulled himself along with the toes of his boots and his elbows, moving too slowly, barely moving at all.

His lungs were on fire, his throat as thin as a taper. Stars flashed across the dark inside his eyes. He was inching back. When he reached ninety he stopped counting.

His boot heels came up hard against something and at first he thought he’d gone insane, until he realised he had reached the upward shaft to the treasure chamber. But he had no more air left, and the urge to open his mouth and breathe in was almost overwhelming.

He tried to twist his legs around, could not. He forced himself, became jammed in the turn. He started to flail. He began to open his mouth to gasp.

Hands grabbed his ankles and yanked him upwards with such force that his flesh was torn against the stone. He smashed his head, blacked out momentarily, and then he was dragged out roughly onto the flags, where he sucked in burning air in huge mouthfuls. Finally, the darkness lifted from his eyes.

‘Bloody hell. I thought you were done for,’ Church said.

It took another moment before Will could pull enough rational thoughts together to speak. ‘A little swim. ’Twas nothing.’ He steadied himself and forced a smile. ‘But I thank you for your aid, Master Churchill. You caught a fine fish today.’

Will accepted Church’s hand to help him to his feet, and he tried to contain the shivering that came as much from the shock as the cold. Yet as he glanced towards the treasure he saw the ordeal had been worthwhile. The gate was raised; the crystal skull beckoned.