Authors: Sam Sykes
She was first.
She heard him approach, felt his breath on her neck, knew his presence; that was all so unimportant. She whirled about, the blade in her hand, the curse on her lips, the shield rising; that was just insignificant.
His own blade rose swiftly. He could see himself in its reflection, see the dead, pupilless eyes staring back at him. Then, he was gone, vanished in a bath of red. He couldn’t remember when the blade had found her neck. He couldn’t remember what he had said that made her look at him with such pain in her mouth, such fear in her eyes.
But he remembered this sensation, this strength. He had felt it in icy rivers and in dark dreams, in the absence of fever and the chill of wind. He remembered the voice that spoke to him now, as it melted and seeped out of his skull. He remembered its message. He heard it now.
‘
Strength wanes, bodies decay, faith fails, steel breaks
.’
‘Duty,’ he whispered, ‘persists.’
Life returned to him: warm, burning, feverish life. The body fell to the ground, the netherling gurgling and clutching at the gaping wound in her throat. The others whirled around, staring at her, then turning wide eyes up to Lenk.
‘
Shtehz
,’ one of them gasped, ‘the damn thing just turned grey ag—’
The ensuing cracking sound would have drowned out the remark, even if the netherling’s mouth wasn’t reduced to a bloody mess as a red claw seized her by the back of her head and smashed her skull against her companion’s.
Gariath stepped forward, regarded Lenk curiously for a moment. He snorted.
‘Still alive?’ he grunted.
‘Still alive,’ Lenk replied.
‘I thought
you’d
be.’ Gariath reached down and took one of the netherlings by her biceps. ‘The others are dead?’
‘Still alive,’ Lenk repeated. ‘For the moment, at least. There was another longface, Sheraptus, he took the women.’
‘A problem,’ Gariath replied as he placed a foot between the moaning female’s shoulder blades. ‘What do you want to do about it?’
‘They took them by boat, to a ship,’ Lenk replied, gesturing over the sea. ‘It can’t be far away.’ He quirked an eyebrow at the dragonman. ‘Why do you care, though?’
‘I killed two of these things earlier. Didn’t find any answers. I’ll give it a little more time.’
‘I see … Should I ask?’
Gariath didn’t reply. His muscles tensed as he drove his foot downward, pulling the netherlings’ arms farther behind her. She screamed, long and loud, but not nearly loud enough to disguise the sound of arms popping out of their sockets, not nearly long enough to drown out the deep cracking sound borne from her chest. She drew in several sharp, ragged breaths that quickly turned to gurgling, choking noises before collapsing into the sand.
‘I wouldn’t,’ Gariath grunted.
‘Fine … that’s
fine
.’ They both glanced to see the remaining netherling, staggering to her feet, growling as she raised her sword towards the two. ‘It doesn’t matter if I die here. It’s
never
mattered. It doesn’t mean you won’t still die; it doesn’t mean the Master won’t—’
In a flash of motion, a dark stripe appeared across her throat framed by two trembling fists. Her sword dropped, her eyes bulging out of their sockets as she reached up to grope helplessly at the garrotte’s thick, corded kiss. A grin appeared at her ear, brimming with far more malice than Lenk thought Denaos could ever have mustered.
‘It’s an ideal situation,’ the rogue explained to no one in particular. ‘The more you struggle, the tighter it goes, faster it’s over. Perfect for putting down animals. It’s all but useless against someone who just sits tight and thinks.’ He gave her a quick jerk, silencing her choked gurgling. ‘As I said, for the circumstances, ideal.’
She collapsed to her knees, but he refused to relinquish his grip on the garrotte, stalwartly absorbing each elbow she thrust behind her. It was a valiant effort, Lenk thought, awestruck by the rogue’s tenacity, though not enough to avoid a sudden thought.
Wait … where’d he get the rope?
The question lingered only as long as it took for the hate to leak out of the netherling’s eyes, whereupon Denaos loosed his grip and let her drop. Lenk stared down at the rope, recognising it as far too furry to be anything but what the man had been wearing moments ago.
It took a strong perception for Lenk to realise the imperative need to not look back up. It took a decidedly stronger resolve not to scream when he invariably did.
Denaos certainly didn’t help matters by placing his hands on his naked hips and setting a triumphant foot on the netherling’s back.
‘Take it all in, gentlemen,’ he replied, gesturing downward and tapping his foot. ‘What do you suppose? The biggest one here?’
Gariath stalked past him, casting a glance and offering a snort.
‘I’ve seen bigger.’
‘Well, this is all
highly
disturbing,’ came a shrill voice. They glanced over to see Dreadaeleon sitting upright, looking at them inquisitively. ‘I assume, once someone sees fit to untie me, we’ll be giving chase?’
‘Were you not dead a moment ago?’ Denaos asked.
‘Coma,’ Dreadaeleon replied, pausing only to sit still long enough for Gariath to shred his bonds and hoist him to his feet. ‘A momentary overwhelming of the senses, not unlike deeply inhaling a pot of mustard.’
‘Mustard doesn’t do
that
,’ Denaos pointed out.
‘Surprisingly enough, I use these childish metaphors for the benefit of your diminished comprehension,’ the boy spat back, ‘
not
so we can waste time. We have to go after the renegade … the longface.’
‘They’re out at sea,’ Lenk muttered. ‘We don’t know where.’
‘We will shortly,’ Denaos replied.
Before anyone could ask, the rogue slipped behind a nearby bone and returned, shoving what appeared to be a walking, bound, bruised melon before him. Togu did not raise his head, his yellow eyes cast down. Shame, Lenk thought, or perhaps just out of a sense of protection as Denaos drew his loincloth-turned-garrotte tightly between his hands and looked to Lenk for approval.
‘No,’ Lenk said, sighing. ‘We’ve got to find out what he knows first. The sea is a vast place, his ship could be anywhere and—’
‘Two leagues that way,’ Dreadaeleon interrupted, pointing out over the shore.
‘Huh?’
‘He leaks magic,’ the boy replied. ‘He’s a skunk in linens to me.’
‘Oh.’ Lenk glanced over at Denaos and shrugged. ‘Go nuts, then.’
‘
STOP!
’
The Gonwa chased his own voice, emerging from the gloom before Denaos’ wrists could even twitch. They regarded him as warily as he did they, though he seemed to be under no delusions that the sharpened stick in his hand was any match for the bloodied sword in Lenk’s. Still, his eyes carried a suspicious forthrightness that Lenk instantly recalled.
‘Hongwe,’ he muttered the creature’s name. ‘If you’re here to finish the betrayal …’
‘He’s not,’ Gariath grunted.
‘I’d believe that if
anyone
else had said it,’ Denaos replied.
‘What makes you so sure?’ Dreadaeleon asked, quirking a brow.
‘I know,’ the dragonman said.
‘The
Rhega
speaks the truth, cousins,’ Hongwe said softly. ‘I am no friend to the longface.’ He gestured to Togu. ‘And neither is Togu.’
‘He
sold
us to them,’ Denaos growled.
‘For survival,’ Hongwe replied sharply. ‘He had choices … He made the wrong one.’
‘How is this not reason enough to kill him again?’
‘Because I can’t watch him die,’ Hongwe replied, ‘and don’t ask me to look away. Togu saved the lives of me and my people. I trusted him, and if you want my help, I ask you to spare him.’
‘What help?’ Denaos asked, sneering. ‘We know where the ship is. We’ve now got our weapons back
as well
as our monster – no offence, Gariath – so the only thing lacking is a loose end which I’ve already tied up and am about to strangle with my loincloth.’
Hongwe shrugged. ‘You got no boat.’
‘He has a point,’ Dreadaeleon replied, eyeing Denaos. ‘What do you care, anyway? Death is nearly assured. Not really your ideal situation, is it?’
‘Prepubescent men in loincloths,’ Denaos replied, ‘are in a universally poor position to choose their help.’
‘
Post
pubescent.’
‘So you say.’
‘Shut up, shut up,
shut up
,’ Lenk snarled. He whirled a scowl upon Hongwe. ‘You can get us to the ship?’ At the Gonwa’s nod, he looked to Gariath. ‘You coming?’
‘People will die,’ Gariath replied.
‘They will.’
‘Then yes.’
‘Great, fantastic, good,’ Lenk muttered, waving an arm about in swift instruction. ‘Get the boat. Get ready. We sweep in, start killing, hopefully come out of this all right.’
‘That’s a plan?’ Denaos asked. ‘Not to prove the boy’s point, but a fire-leaking wizard
is
something to take a moment about in regards to how we’re going to attack this.’
‘Faith fades, steel shatters, bodies decay,’ Lenk replied, hurrying to the palanquin. ‘Duty remains.’
‘What does that even
mean?
’
‘Khetashe, I
don’t know
, you stupid protuberance! Just shut up and help me get my pants on,’ he snarled, tearing through the palanquin’s array. ‘If I’m about to go charging onto a ship brimming with purple psychopaths who worship someone who
leaks
fire, I’m not doing it with my balls hanging out.’
‘That’s a good first step, at least,’ Dreadaeleon replied. ‘What next?’
Lenk’s fingers brushed against something thick and soft. He plucked the severed head from the assorted tribute, holding it by its golden locks and staring into its almost serene, closed eyes.
‘I’ll think of something,’ he said softly.
A
ll shicts knew how to deal with predators.
It was a matter of instinct. Those who lived in the wilds shared them with predators; those who knew how to deal with them possessed the talent for doing so. Those who did not lacked the instinct, thus they had not been given the talent by Riffid, thus they were not shict.
Kataria was a shict.
She reminded herself of this. Her breathing was slow and steady, fear kept hidden deep, far away from her eyes. She sat up straight, resting on her knees, back rigid: Those with weak stances were easy prey; those who drew attention to themselves provoked sharp teeth. Her wrists were relaxed in their rawhide bonds: Struggle suggested weakness, weakness invited attention. She forced herself still, daring no movement beyond quick breaths and subtle darts of her eyes.
She glanced at Asper, kneeling beside her, similarly bound. The priestess had only ceased to struggle against her captors when she had been forced into the cabin, placed in the corner with Kataria. Without fury to hide it behind, fear had set in quickly. She cowered in her bonds, bowed her head, breathed quietly, choking back sobs.
‘Talanas protect me,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve doubted so much, I’ve feared for everything, I can’t take this anymore, you’ve denied me my whole life, please don’t let him do this, please, please, please …’
‘Stay calm,’ Kataria muttered, ‘stay still. Don’t speak.’
‘Shut up,’ Asper whimpered, ‘shut up, shut up, shut up. You don’t know what’s going to happen. You can’t know.’
Kataria narrowed her eyes, her ears folding over themselves. She tried to ignore the priestess’ fervent whispering, tried to ignore the truth of her words to no avail. For as much as she reminded herself that she was shict, that she knew how to deal with predators, she could not shut out the doubt, the fear entirely.
Nor could she ignore the sound of long purple fingers drumming on wood. Nor could she recall any predator she had seen whose eyes burned like flame.
Predators were creatures of simple motive: fear, hunger, anger all plain in their gazes. Nothing about Sheraptus was plain on him, least of all his eyes burning fire. Instinct told her to fear him, yet he had not so much as looked at them since ushering them aboard the great, black vessel. His power was obvious, but he had done nothing more than whisper quiet orders to his netherlings to prove it.
Of him, all she could be certain was that his stare, brimming with fire, was not on her. For that, she was thankful.
Sitting lazily in a massive, blackwood chair beside a matching table, he weighed the tome heavily in his hands, staring at it with varying levels of disinterest, drumming his fingers on the armrest contemplatively. Occasionally, he reached up and ran a finger along the crown of black iron upon his brow, relaxing as soon as he touched it, suitably convinced that it was still there.
The crown was his sole distraction, all he seemed to truly notice in the room. It shared his enthusiasm, its three crimson jewels glowing all the brighter at his touch, speaking in a wordless, glimmering language only he could understand. More often than not, Kataria noticed him grinning at the crown’s unheard jest, the wrinkles at his lips giving the impression that his mouth stretched far longer than any mouth could or should.