Authors: Sam Sykes
It was not just fear that hindered the boy.
‘
He is weak
,’ the voice hissed inside Lenk’s head. ‘
Your folly was in staying with them for this long
.’
‘Shut up,’ Lenk muttered in return.
‘
Do you think we’ll die from this? Rest easy. They die. You don’t
.’
‘Shut up!’
‘
I won’t let you
.’
‘Shut—’
There was the sound of shrieking, of cracking. Dreadaeleon staggered backward, as if struck, his hand twisted into a claw and his face twisted into a mask of pain and shame. The reason did not become apparent until they looked down at his shaking knees and saw the growing dark spot upon his breeches.
‘Dread,’ Asper gasped.
‘
Now?
’ Denaos asked, cringing. ‘Of all times?’
‘T-too much.’ The electricity on Dreadaeleon’s finger fizzled as he clutched his head. ‘The strain … it’s just … the cost is too—’
Like a lash, the rest of the creature hurled itself from the sea. Its long, snaking tail swung high over the heads of the companions, striking Dreadaeleon squarely in the chest. His shriek was a whisper on the wind, his coat fluttering as he sailed through the air and plummeted into the water with a faint splash.
The companions watched the waters ripple and re-form over him, hastily disguising the fact that the boy had ever even existed as the rain carelessly pounded the sea. They blinked, staring at the spot until it finally was still.
‘Well.’ Denaos coughed. ‘Now what?’
‘I don’t know,’ Lenk replied. ‘Die horribly, I guess.’
As though it were a request to be answered, the Akaneed complied. Mist bursting from its mouth, it hurled itself over the boat, its head kicking up a great wave as it crashed into the waters on the other side. The companions, all save Gariath, flung themselves to the deck and stared as the creature’s long, sinewy body replaced the sky over them, as vast and eternal. It continued for an age, its body finally disappearing beneath the water as a great black smear under the waves.
‘It was going to leave us alone,’ Kataria gasped, staring at the vanishing shape, then at Gariath. ‘It was going to go away! Why did you do that?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Denaos snarled, sliding his dagger out. ‘He wanted this. He
wanted
to kill us. It’s only fair that we return the favour before that thing eats us.’
‘Gariath … why?’ was all Asper could squeak out, a look of pure, baffled horror painting her expression.
The dragonman only smiled and spoke. ‘It’s not like you’re the last humans.’
Lenk had no words, his attentions still fixed upon the Akaneed’s dark, sinewy shape beneath the surface. He watched it intently, sword in hand, as it swept about in a great semicircle and turned, narrowing its glowing yellow eye upon the vessel.
‘It’s going to ram us!’ he shouted over the roar of thunder as the rain intensified overhead.
‘The head!’ Kataria shrieked. ‘Use the head!’
He wasted no time in hurling himself to the deck, jamming his hand into their stowed equipment. He searched, wrapped fingers about thick locks of hair and pulled free a burlap sack. Holding it like a beacon before him, he outstretched his hand, pulled the sack free.
The Deepshriek’s head dangled in the wind, eyes shut, mouth pursed tightly. It regarded the approaching Akaneed impassively, not caring that it was about to be lost with every other piece of flesh on board.
In fact
, Lenk had the presence of mind to think,
it’s probably enjoying this
.
No time for thought, barely enough time for one word.
‘Scream,’ he whispered.
And was obeyed.
The head’s jaws parted, stretching open impossibly wide as its eyelids fluttered open to expose a gaze golden with malevolence. There was the faint sound of air whistling for but a moment before the thunder that followed.
The head screamed, sent the air fleeing before its vocal fury, ripped the waves apart as the sky rippled and threatened to become unseamed. The blast of sound met the Akaneed head-on, and the yellow gaze flickered beneath the water. The dark, sinewy shape grew fainter, its agonised growl an echo carried on bubbles as it retreated below the water.
‘I got it,’ Lenk whispered excitedly. ‘I got it!’ He laughed hysterically, holding the head above his own. ‘
I win!
’
The water split open; a writhing tail lashed out and spitefully slapped the hull of the boat. His arms swung wildly as he fought to hold onto his balance, and when he looked up, the Deepshriek’s head was gone from his grasp.
‘Oh …’
The eyes appeared again, far away at the other side of the boat, bright with eager hatred. The sea churned around it as it growled beneath the surface, coiled into a shadowy spring, then hurled itself through the waves. Lenk cursed, then screamed.
‘Down!
Down!
’
He spared no words for Gariath, who stood with arms hanging limply at his side, snout tilted into the air. The dragonman’s eyes closed, his wings folded behind his back, as he raised his hands to the sky. Though he could spare but a moment of observation before panic seized his senses once more, Lenk noted this as the only time he had ever seen the dragonman smile pleasantly, almost as though he were at peace.
He was still smiling when the Akaneed struck.
Its roar split the sea in half as it came crashing out of the waves, its skull smashing against the boat’s meagre hull. The world was consumed in a horrific cracking sound as splinters hurled themselves through the gushing froth. The companions themselves seemed so meagre, so insignificant amongst the flying wreckage, their shapes fleeting shadows lost in the night as they flew through the sky.
Air
, Lenk told himself as he paddled toward the flashes of lightning above him.
Air. Air
. Instinct banished fear as fear had banished hate. He found himself thrashing, kicking as he scrambled for the surface. With a gasp that seared his lungs, he pulled himself free and hacked the stray streams out of his mouth.
A fervent, panicked glance brought no sign of his companions or the beast. The boat itself remained intact, though barely, bobbing upon the water in the wake of the mayhem with insulting calmness. The rations and tools it had carried floated around it, winking beneath the surface one by one.
‘
Get to it, fool
,’ the voice snarled. ‘
We can’t swim forever
.’
Unable to tell the difference between the cold presence in his head and his own voice of instinct, Lenk paddled until his heart threatened to burst. He drew closer and closer, searching for any sign of his companions: a gloved hand reaching out of the gloom, brown hair disappearing into the water.
Green eyes closing … one by one.
Later
, he told himself as he reached for the bobbing wooden corpse.
Survive now, worry later
. His inner voice became hysterical, a frenzied smile on his lips as he neared.
Just a little more. Just a little more!
The water erupted around him as a great blue pillar tore itself free from a liquid womb. It looked down at him, its feral disdain matching his horror. It wasn’t until several breathless moments had passed that Lenk noticed the fact that the beast now stared at him with two glittering yellow eyes, whole and unskewered.
‘Sweet Khetashe,’ he had not the breath to scream, ‘there’s two of them.’
The Akaneed’s answer was a roar that matched the heavens’ thunder as it reared back and hurled itself upon what remained of the boat. Its skull sent the timbers flying in reckless flocks. Lenk watched in horror, unable to act as a shattered plank struck him against the temple. Instinct, fear, hate … all gave way to darkness as his body went numb. His arms stopped thrashing, legs stopped kicking.
Unblinking as he slipped under the water, he stared up at the corpse of the ship, illuminated by the flicker of lightning, as it sank to its grave with him. Soon, that faded as his eyes forgot how to focus and his lungs forgot their need for air. He reached out, half-hearted, for the sword that descended alongside him.
When he grasped only water, he knew he was going to die.
‘
No
,’ the voice spoke, more threatening than comforting. ‘
No, you won’t
.’
The seawater flooded into his mouth and he found not the will to push it out. The world changed from blue to black as he drifted into darkness on a haunting echo.
‘
I won’t let you
.’
P
oets, she had often suspected, were supposed to have beautiful dreams: silhouettes of women behind silk, visions of gold that blinded their closed eyes, images of fires so bright they should take the poet’s breath away before she could put them to paper.
Anacha dreamt of cattle.
She dreamt of shovelling stalls and milking cows. She dreamt of wheat and of rice in shallow pools, dirty feet firmly planted in mud, ugly cotton breeches hiked up to knobby knees as grubby hands rooted around in filth. She dreamt of a time when she still wore such ugly clothing instead of the silks she wore now, when she covered herself in mud instead of perfume.
Those were the good dreams.
The nightmares had men clad in the rich robes of money-lenders, their brown faces red as they yelled at her father and waved debtor’s claims. They had her father helpless to resist as he signed his name on the scrolls and the men, with their soft and uncallused hands, helped her into a crate with silk walls. She would dream of her tears mingling with the bathwater as women, too old to be of any desire for clients, scrubbed the mud from her rough flesh and the calluses from her feet.
She used to have nightmares every night. She used to cry every night.
That was before Bralston.
Now she dreamed of him often, the night she met him, the first poem she ever read. It was painted upon her breasts and belly as she was ordered into her room to meet a new client, her tears threatening to make the dye run.
‘
Do
not
cry
,’ the older women had hissed, ‘
this is a member of the Venarium. A wizard. Do what you do, do it well. Wizards are as generous with their gold as they are with their fire and lightning
.’
She couldn’t help but cry the moment the door closed behind her and she faced him: broad-shouldered, slender of waist, with not a curl of hair upon his head. He had smiled at her, even as she cried, had taken her to the cushion they would sit upon for many years and had read the poetry on her skin. He would read for many days before he finally claimed what he paid for.
By then, he needn’t take it.
She began to yearn for him in her sleep, rolling over to find his warm brown flesh in her silk sheets. To find an empty space where he should be wasn’t something she was unused to; a strict schedule was required to keep his magic flowing correctly, as he often said. To find her fingers wrapping about a scrap of paper, however, was new.
Fearing that he had finally left her the farewell note she lived in perpetual terror of, she opened her eyes and unwrapped her trembling fingers from the parchment. Fear turned to surprise as she saw the slightly wrinkled form of a paper crane sitting in her palm, its crimson painted eyes glaring up at her, offended at her fingers wrinkling its paper wings. Without an apology for it, she looked around her room, and surprise turned to outright befuddlement.
In silent flocks, the cranes had perched everywhere: on her bookshelf, her nightstand, her washbasin, her mirror, all over her floors. They stared down at her with wary, blood-red eyes, their beaks folded up sharply in silent judgement.
So dense they were, she might never have found him amongst the flocks if not for the sound of his fingers diligently folding another. He straightened up from his squat on her balcony, casting a glower over his bare, brown back.
‘That wasn’t precisely easy to fold, you know,’ he said.
She started, suddenly realising she still held the wrinkled paper crane in her hand. Doing her best to carefully readjust the tiny creature, she couldn’t help but notice the unnatural smoothness to the parchment. Paper was supposed to have wrinkles, she knew, tiny little edges of roughness. That paper had character, eager to receive the poet’s brush.
This paper … seemed to resent her touching it.
‘None of these could have been easy to fold,’ Anacha said, placing the crane down carefully and pulling her hand away with a fearful swiftness that she suspected must have looked quite silly. ‘How long have you been up?’
‘Hours,’ Bralston replied.
She peered over his pate to the black sky beyond, just now beginning to turn blue.
‘It’s not yet dawn,’ she said. ‘You always get fussy if you don’t sleep enough.’
‘Anacha,’ he sighed, his shoulders sinking. ‘I am a hunter of heretic wizards. I enforce the law of Venarie through fire and frost, lightning and force. I do not get
fussy
.’
He smiled, paying little attention to the fact that she did not return the expression. She was incapable of smiling now, at least not in the way she had the first night she had met him.