Authors: Sam Sykes
The Mouth followed her finger. Zamanthras’ stone eyes stared at him blankly: no pity, no excuse, no plea for him not to do what he knew he must. He stared down at the vial in his hand.
Thick, viscous ooze swirled within. Mother’s Milk. The last mortal essence of Ulbecetonth, all that was needed to free Daga-Mer from a prison unjust. He looked to the pool, and as if in response, a faint heartbeat arose from some unseen depth within the massive circle of water.
A distant pulse, reminding him with its steady, drumlike beat.
He leaned closer, as if to peer within, to see what it was he was freeing. He saw only his reflection, his weak mortality distorted and dissipated as ripples coursed across the surface. Kasla, the girl, was drinking again, noisily slurping down the sacred waters of her city’s goddess.
The Mouth found himself taken aback slightly. It was just water, of course, but he had expected her to show more regard for that which her people revered.
But her people lay dying outside. No goddess answered their prayers, just as no goddess had answered hers. She drank as though every drop would be the last to touch her lips, as though she need not fear for anyone else. She was alone, without a people, without a holy man, without a goddess.
The humane thing to do would be to free them all, he told himself, to lift their sins of memory and ease the anguished burdens heaped upon them by a silent deity. To free them, he would free Daga-Mer, and be free himself. His own pain would be gone, his own memories lost, as would hers. And without anything to remember, they would be free, there would be nothing left, they would be …
Alone …
She looked up, panicked as he approached her. She backed away from the pool.
‘Get back!’ she hissed. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong! I was thirsty! The wells, they’re … the things were drinking from them. I needed water. I needed to survive.’
The Mouth paused before her. He extended a hand, palm bare of knife hilt.
‘Many people do.’
She stared at his hand suspiciously. He resisted the urge to pull it back, lest she see the faint webbing that had begun to grow between his fingers. He resisted the urge to turn to the pool and throw Mother’s Milk into it. They were there, the urges, the need to do them.
But he could not remember why he should leave her.
Kasla took his hand tentatively and he pulled her to her feet. She smiled at him. He did not smile back.
‘We both got here unseen,’ he said, turning towards the sundered doors of the temple. ‘We can help others get here, too, until the longfaces leave. There will be enough to drink.’
‘The waters are sacred. They would fear the wrath of Zamanthras.’
‘Zamanthras will do nothing.’
She followed him as he walked out the door into sheets of pouring rain and the impotent, smoking rage of fires extinguished.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked at last.
He paused before answering.
‘Hanth,’ he said. ‘My daughter’s name was Hanta.’
She grunted. Together, they continued into the city, searching the fallen for signs of life. Hanth stared at their chests, felt for their breath, for want of listening for groans and pleas. He could not hear anything anymore.
The heartbeat was thunder in his ears.
T
ogu stared from the shore. When he was smaller, at his father’s side, he recalled days of splendid sunsets, the sea transformed into a vast lake of glittering gold by the sun’s slow and steady descent. He had always been encouraged by such a view, seeing it as a glimpse into the future,
his
future as chief.
Those had been fine days.
But he had learned many things since the day his father died. Gold lost its lustre. Treasure could not be eaten. And the sun, he swore, had been progressively dimming its light just to spite him, so that he could never again look at the ocean without seeing the world in flames.
Fire, too, had once held a different meaning.
He glanced to the massive pyre burning only a few feet away and licked his eyes to keep them from drying out. Just last night, this fire was a beacon for revelry. His people had gathered about it, danced and sang and ate the gohmns that had come from it. Last night, he had stared into the fire and dared to smile a little.
Today, he could not bear to look at it any longer than a few deep, tired breaths.
He had lit it over two hours ago. Only now did he hear the steps of heavy feet upon the sand. By the time he had turned to face the sound, Yaike was already standing over him, arms crossed, his single eye fixed upon the diminutive lizardman.
‘You came,’ Togu muttered.
‘You lit the fire,’ Yaike replied, making a point to reply in their rasping, hissing tongue.
‘I did,’ Togu replied in kind, wincing. The language always felt so unnatural in his mouth since he had learned the human tongue. Perhaps that was the reason Yaike looked down on him with disdain now.
Or one of them, at least.
‘I was expecting Mahalar to come,’ Togu muttered, turning away.
‘Mahalar has concerns on Jaga.’
‘Shalake, then. Shalake used to come often.’
‘Shalake leads the defence of Jaga. Speak with me or speak to no one.’
‘I have spoken to no one for many years,’ Togu snapped back. ‘I have lit
many
fires.’
‘The nights are long and dangerous,’ Yaike said. ‘The longfaces prowl above the waves; the demons stalk below. The numbers of the Shen are limited, our time even more so. We do not need to make excuses to anyone.’ He narrowed his eye. ‘Let alone those who harbour outsiders.’
Togu turned toward the sea again, away from his scowl.
‘The outsiders are dead.’
He felt Yaike’s stare upon him like an arrow in his shoulder. He always had. That the Shen had only one eye did not diminish the ferocity of his scowl; it merely sharpened it to a fine, wounding edge.
‘All of them,’ Togu added.
‘How did they die?’
‘Most of them drowned,’ Togu replied. ‘But you already knew that. You sank the ship they were on.’
‘You said “most”.’
‘One of them crawled back to shore. She was exhausted.’ He turned back to face the Shen, his expression severe. ‘I cut her throat.’
‘She …’ Yaike whispered.
‘Yes. She.’
He was not used to seeing Yaike grin. It was unnerving. Even more so when the Shen scratched the corner of his missing eye.
‘Died swiftly?’ Yaike asked.
‘Messily.’
‘Is that all, then?’ the Shen asked.
‘No,’ Togu replied. ‘The tome …’
Instantly, Yaike’s expression soured, grin slipping into a frown, frown vanishing into his tattooed green flesh.
‘You don’t need to know about it.’
‘It came to
my
island. It drew the longfaces here. The demons were close enough to Teji’s shores they could have broken wind and I’d see the bubbles. I deserve to know. The Owauku deserve to know.’
‘There are no Owauku. There are no Gonwa. There are no Shen. There is only us and our oaths. Remember that, Togu, the next time you think such questions.’
‘Oaths?
Oaths?
’ He snarled at the taller creature, his size temporarily forgotten. ‘For who do we swear these oaths, Yaike?’
‘Our oath has always been to watch the gate, to wait for Ulbecetonth to—’
‘I said
for who do we swear these oaths, Yaike?
I am well aware of what the Shen says our oaths are. I am well aware that we Owauku and Gonwa have no choice in swearing them. What I want to know is who? For who do we kill outsiders and spill blood?’
Yaike’s eyelid twitched slightly.
‘Everyone.’
‘Including Owauku?’
‘Including Owauku.’
‘Including Gonwa?’
‘Including Gonwa. We protect everyone.’
‘Then tell me,’ Togu said, ‘why these oaths do not protect us. Tell me why the Gonwa are here on Teji and not on Komga? Tell me why their fathers and brothers die under the longfaces’ boots while the Shen do
nothing
?’
Yaike said nothing. Togu snarled, stepping forward.
‘Where were your oaths when the Owauku starved? Why did the Shen only come to Teji and kill the humans who would help us? Why did the Shen say nothing when I said my people could not eat oaths?’
Yaike said nothing. Togu stormed towards him, tiny hands clenched into tiny fists.
‘Why did
I
have to kill the outsiders, Yaike? Why did I have to barter them to the longfaces? Why didn’t
you
step in and protect us from the purple devils in the first place? Where were your oaths, then?’
Yaike said nothing. Togu searched his face and found nothing; no shame, no sorrow, no sympathy. And he sighed, turning away.
‘If you can give me nothing else, Yaike,’ he said, ‘tell me what will happen to the tome.’ At his silence, the Owauku trembled. ‘Please.’
The Shen spoke. It was the monotone, the deliberate, the pitiless speech born of duty. Togu hadn’t expected any great sympathy. But Togu hadn’t expected to shudder at the sheer chill of the Shen’s voice.
‘The tome will be ours,’ Yaike said. ‘It will return to Jaga. Mahalar will decide what to do with it. The oaths shall be fulfilled, with your cooperation or without.’
‘It is in Jaga now, then? In Shen hands?’
‘It is safe.’
Togu sighed, bowing his head as he heard Yaike turn and stride down the shore. He wasn’t certain how far the Shen had gone, if he would even hear him, when he muttered.
‘Is Teji safe, then?’
‘Honour your oaths, Togu,’ Yaike said. ‘We will do the same.’
The footsteps faded into nothingness, leaving behind a cold silence that even the roaring pyre could not diminish. Togu stared into the fire, sympathising. He had stared at it, once, thinking it the greatest force of nature in the world. The power of destruction, of creation, feeding off the earth and encouraging growth in its ashes. In its lapping tongues, he had seen himself.
He still did.
For now, he stared at something gaudy, easily controlled and impotent against the forces around it. He stared at a tool.
‘Did you hear all that you needed, then?’ he asked in the human tongue.
Lenk stared at him from the forest’s edge, nodding solemnly. He stepped out onto the shore, Kataria creeping out of the brush after him. She scowled down the beach, ears twitching.
‘He thought you slit
my
throat, didn’t he?’ she growled. ‘Did you see that smug grin on his face? Like he had done it himself …’
‘You took his eye,’ Lenk pointed out.
‘I would have taken the other one, too,’ she muttered, adjusting the bow on her back. ‘But
no. Someone
said we had to wait and listen.’ She gestured down the beach. ‘And for what?’
‘The Shen have the tome.’
‘And?’
‘We’re going after it.’
At that, both the shict and Owauku cast him the combined expressions of suspicion and resignation usually reserved for men who slather their unmentionables in goose grease and wander towards starving dogs with a gleam in their eye.
‘To Jaga?’ Togu said. ‘The home of the Shen has never been seen by anyone
not
Shen. Only they and the Akaneeds know how to get to it.’
‘That’s fine,’ Lenk said.
‘You will probably die.’
‘Also fine.’
‘But why?’ Kataria asked. ‘What about returning to the mainland?’
‘I have not seen any sign of Sebast or any rescue,’ Lenk said. ‘Have you?’
His gaze was expressionless, rid of any emotion, let alone accusation, yet Kataria squirmed all the same, rubbing her neck and glancing at the earth.
‘No,’ she said. ‘But the plan was to get a boat and return that way, wasn’t it?’
‘Demons in the water,’ Lenk replied.
‘But—’
‘Shen, Akaneed, longfaces, Deepshrieks …’ He shook his head. ‘Every time we seek comfort, every time we flee danger, it finds us.’ His hand brushed the hilt of his sword, lingered there for a moment too long to be considered casual. ‘This time, we go find it. We finish what we came to do.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘We kill those who try to stop us.’
She stared at him searchingly.
‘We?’
He turned to her, eyes hard.
‘We.’
He stared out over the sea, then glanced to Togu.
‘We’ll need a boat,’ he said. ‘Supplies, too, and as much information as you can give us about Jaga and the Shen.’
‘Asking a lot,’ Togu mused, ‘considering what I’ve already done for you.’
‘Considering what we could have done
to
you, it’s not unreasonable,’ Lenk replied, his stare harsh. ‘You betrayed us. We could have done worse.’