Callis & Toll: The Silver Shard

by Nick Horth

  ‘Nothing,’ came a voice above Callis. He looked up to see Shev, their prisoner, up in the crow’s nest. She was scanning the waters around them. ‘Maybe it dived?’

  Oscus laughed.

  ‘We’ve barely scratched its hide. And ghyresharks do not abandon a kill. She’s coming back, mark my words.’

  Seconds stretched on into minutes. The tension was worse, if anything, than fighting the damned thing. They nervously hefted their javelins, every muscle poised for action.

  One of the aelves inched over to the rail, peering over the side into the murky depths.

  ‘I think it’s gone,’ he said. ‘I can’t–’

  There was a deafening smash of timbers. The Thrice Lucky was lifted almost vertically by the impact, sending them rolling and tumbling across the deck. Callis struck the aft cabin wall with bone-jarring force, and something heavy slammed into him. A groaning corsair writhed with one arm twisted at a sickening, unnatural angle. Then, with awful inevitability, the front of the vessel dropped, slamming into the water, which rushed up eagerly to swamp the deck. A flailing, screaming body was sent hurtling over the port rail, grasping helplessly for a handhold. Callis staggered upright amidst the chaos and, with a score of remaining aelves, staggered to the side of the ship. There was the monster, sweeping around the Thrice Lucky, its barbed hide bristled with harpoons and javelins, pouring black-brown blood into the foaming surge. Its great eye was fixed on them, a hate-filled gaze that seemed almost human in its intensity. It pulled alongside them, its great bulk parallel to the Thrice Lucky.

  ‘Down!’ yelled Oscus. Callis was too slow, still dazed from the fall. Someone barrelled into him from the side, and sent him tumbling to the floor. He saw a tangle of auburn hair, and realised it was the Arclis girl who had pushed him to the deck.

  In that same moment, the monster’s hide undulated strangely before it spat forth a hail of barbs, each as long as a spear. They whickered across the water and slammed into the hull of the Thrice Lucky with a rhythmic series of thuds, digging deep into the wood. An aelf next to Callis was struck through the eye by a shaft. More went down as those too slow to react were riddled like pincushions. Oscus stood, sighted and hurled his javelin. It soared out and struck the beast in the eye. The creature thrashed, unleashing a horrible, gurgling groan, driven to a mindless frenzy by the agonising wound. Callis hurled his own javelin, which fell just short, sinking into the depths.

  The Thrice Lucky cut sharply ahead of the floundering ghyreshark, circling its great bulk as it drifted and thrashed in the bloody waters. Its enormous head was covered in lacerations and seeping gashes, and the eye that Oscus had pierced was little more than a ruptured crater. As they came around to face the beast broadside on, Callis found himself staring into the creature’s one undamaged, hate-filled orb.

  ‘Loose!’ came the command from the gunnery deck. A dozen missiles whipped out across the churning sea, each striking home across its ruined maw. With one last, shuddering twitch, the beast rolled over, exposing a grey-white belly riddled with ancient scars.

  The cheering only grew louder. Someone clapped Callis on the back. He leaned against the gunwale, and let out a heavy sigh.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Shev staggered to her feet. Her head was bleeding. She’d struck it painfully on the deck while pushing Callis out of the path of the ghyreshark’s razor-barbs. The organic missiles were buried all about the deck, or sunk deep into the corpses of nearby corsairs. The surviving crew seemed to pay little mind to their fallen kin. More aelves were swarming onto the deck, wielding an intimidating array of cleavers, long, hooked poles and other instruments of butchery.

  And so the butchery begins, said Occlesius. It’s remarkable, Miss Arclis, how little the practice has changed in all the years since my demise.

  ‘You don’t strike me as the type who did a lot of privateering,’ she muttered under her breath.

  Indeed, no, but I was given the rare honour of accompanying the King of Carsinnian upon one of his famous scythagor hunts, on the occasion of his forty-first marriage. I do believe that he died on that very trip, eaten by the very creatures he sought to bring back to his feast tables. A tragic case.

  She rolled her eyes.

  Several of the landing craft that were stowed on the deck of the ship had been smashed to kindling, but the remainder were being attached to thick ropes and lowered overboard. Captain Zenthe’s voice rang out over them, loud and clear.

  ‘We move fast,’ she bellowed. ‘There’s an open banquet out there, inviting every ur-kraken, gavrocha and razorjaw shoal from here to Excelsis to fill their guts, and I’ve no wish to be stuck in the heart of a feeding frenzy. We take the teeth, the liver, the eye, and as much hide as you can peel. Go earn our coin.’

  The crew roared in triumph, and as many as could fit packed themselves into the shore boats. Shev went over to the rail, where a thoroughly soaked and blooded Callis was leaning, panting heavily.

  ‘Hell of a catch,’ he muttered weakly.

  The sea was already churning with hundreds of ravenous predators, from swarms of diamond-shaped fish with vicious-looking fangs, to many-tentacled jellyfish that wrapped barbed tendrils around the corpse of the great beast, flensing flesh and feasting on the black blood that poured free.

  ‘Not going out there to claim a trophy yourself?’ Shev asked Callis, flashing the soldier a grin.

  ‘I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you,’ he replied. ‘I value all my limbs. Thanks for… what you did.’

  Shev shrugged, meeting the human’s gaze for a moment before looking away.

  ‘They start stripping this creature before even checking their fallen,’ Callis said, and there was a clear tone of disapproval in his voice.

  ‘There’s no time for sentimentality out on the high seas,’ Shev replied. ‘In minutes, every beast within a dozen leagues will descend upon this carcass. Trust me, I’ve seen a dying deepstalker stripped of flesh within a few moments, and those things are larger than even this monster.’

  The butchery that followed was indeed fascinating, if more than a touch disgusting. The aelves latched grapples to the mountain of dead flesh and swarmed across the corpse like insects, hacking and tearing, stripping skin and digging deep into the beast’s cavernous innards. Long, forked poles were inserted into the gory cavern, and an enormous purple and black muscle was extracted. Aelves armed with saw-bladed halberds hacked and carved at thick strands of sinew and muscle until the organ came free. Then they bound it in leather and rope, poured a clear white liquid over it, and massaged the substance deep into the flesh.

  Some sort of preservative, mused Occlesius. The battle against the creature had fascinated the Realms-Walker. I believe in my day the sea-hunters used a blend of stalk-crystal sap and greatwhale tallow. I still recall the stench. Horrible stuff, but it keeps the rot away for many months.

  Callis had turned a rich sea-green, and was leaning even more heavily against the rail, shaking his head.

  ‘I thought you were a Freeguild man,’ said Shev, enjoying his obvious discomfort. ‘Aren’t you soldiers meant to be well-versed in spilling blood?’

  ‘Don’t worry yourself with me,’ he snapped, before staggering over to the rail and vomiting loudly and repeatedly into the ocean.

  Seasickness is one aspect of mortality that I do not miss at all, said Occlesius, with a hint of pity in his voice.

  ‘Fourteen souls back to the deep,’ said Oscus. ‘Four arbalests damaged beyond repair, at least until we make port, and several breaches in the hull, thankfully above the water line. I’ve got a crew working on it, but we need to find calmer waters.’

  ‘All in all, a profitable venture,’ said Captain Zenthe, cheerfully. ‘When we’re done here we’ll make for the Singing Isles, find a quiet bay and make repairs before we head to Bilgeport.’

  ‘Another delay,’ said Toll. ‘I
believe you said that we would be finished here and back on our way within a day.’

  ‘Oh lighten up, Toll,’ sighed Zenthe. ‘It’s a half day’s sail to the Isles, at most.’

  ‘And another day at least to fix up the Thrice Lucky,’ said Toll, not in any mood to be patronised. ‘Don’t take me for a fool. We’re damned lucky the hull wasn’t breached. You were reckless, and we very nearly paid for it with our lives. No more, you understand?’

  Zenthe’s eyes narrowed, and she stepped towards Toll. She loomed over him, all the humour drained from her face in an instant. His hand twitched towards his blade instinctively, but he held firm, meeting her gaze.

  ‘Don’t second guess me, Toll,’ she said, softly, every syllable dripping with menace. ‘Not ever. I alone command the Thrice Lucky. Your Order means nothing to me. Less than nothing. I am not some weak-hearted human for you to order around. I’ve been hunting on the open sea since before you were born.’

  ‘We had a deal,’ said Toll. He was uncomfortably aware of Oscus circling calmly behind his back, no doubt ready to sink a blade between his shoulder blades the moment Zenthe gave him a signal. ‘Once Vermyre is dead I’ll be gone from your sight. Until then I expect you to honour your word.’

  Zenthe’s eyes were more pitiless and threatening than the ghyreshark’s.

  ‘Do you know what I did to the last fool who questioned my honour?’ she whispered.

  ‘Something creatively appalling, no doubt. Would you kindly tell your first mate that if he takes one step closer to me it will be his last?’

  Zenthe’s expression remained stony for a few tense moments, but then her thin lips creased into a smile, showing her brilliant white teeth.

  ‘That’s what I like about you, Toll,’ she said, suddenly full of cheer. ‘You’re a stubborn one.’

  She clapped him on the shoulder, and Oscus stepped back, leaning casually against the rail, his eyes still fixed on Toll. The tension had not entirely broken.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Zenthe. ‘We’ll be back on the trail in no time. And look on the bright side. We made enough on this kill to hire the sky runts to take us all the way to Azyr itself, if we please.’

  With that, the captain was away, bellowing orders at the aelven crewmembers who were hauling the stripped trophies from the ghyreshark carcass up onto the deck.

  Oscus stared at him for a while, expressionless, then returned to cleaning grime from beneath his nails with his flensing knife. Toll met his gaze for a few moments and then walked away. His heart was thumping in his chest. That had almost been the moment, he was sure. Ever since he had met Zenthe, a confrontation with the mercurial corsair had seemed inevitable. She was beyond doubt a useful ally, who had saved his life more than once. But he could never trust her, and today was a firm reminder of that. She cared for nothing beyond her own desires. He had been foolish to question her command so openly, he knew. To the corsairs, that was little short of mutiny. He’d heard of Fleetmasters who had flayed their lieutenants alive for less. He had let his frustration get the better of him, and not for the first time in recent days. Picking a fight with Zenthe aboard her own ship was akin to slicing your arms bloody and leaping into shark infested waters.

  ‘What was all that about?’ said Callis, approaching, his clothes soaked in blood and grime. He looked as battered as Toll felt, but his eyes were furrowed in concern.

  ‘Nothing,’ Toll said, not feeling in the mood to elaborate. ‘Where’s the girl?’

  ‘She’s helping them carve up the prize,’ said Callis, smirking and shaking his head. ‘She’s only been out of her cage a half day, and already the crew’s got more respect for her than either of us.’

  ‘They don’t trust my kind,’ said Toll. ‘And they care even less for Freeguild soldiers. You can bet Zenthe’s mixed up in a dozen rackets for which I’d be obligated to summarily execute her and her entire crew, and they know it.’

  ‘Well that’s comforting,’ said Callis. ‘I’ll expect a knife in the back any day now.’

  ‘There’s no danger as long as Zenthe’s kept happy,’ said Toll. ‘I’ve already paid her a lord’s ransom to take us after Vermyre, as well as a dozen other favours that damned near drained every resource and contact I have in Excelsis.’

  ‘All that for one man…’ muttered Callis.

  ‘A price I pay gladly,’ snapped Toll. ‘I would think that having yourself witnessed what that man is capable of, you would agree.’

  ‘I want him dead, sure enough. I’d just rather not sell my own life in the process.’

  ‘Then perhaps you are not cut out for this line of work after all,’ said Toll, and strode away towards his cabin.

  Chapter Fourteen

  He was close. He could feel it. Magic had seeped into this place like spilled oil, saturating every inch of it. The ancient trees had curled and warped into impossible shapes, binding themselves around one another like the coils of some great serpentine beast. Time stalled. He walked for an hour, only to glance behind and see the same cluster of calcified wood spearing up from the forest floor. He tripped and lost his footing, tumbling down a steep slope of crooked deadwood branches that tore at his robes and scratched bloody lines across his flesh. When he stood, he was in a place he did not recognise at all, a shallow grotto filled with pools of bubbling quicksilver. Looking up, he saw bodies nailed to the trees around him. Gleaming skeletons, encased in metal, leered down at him. He fell to his knees, and a ragged, joyless laugh escaped his parched-dry lips. It turned into another coughing fit. Lightning bolts of agony wracked his malformed face, and he felt something writhe and hiss beneath his mask. Caustic black bile seeped out from under the golden rim, dribbling down his chin. That only made him laugh harder.

  Ortam Vermyre, former High Arbiter of Excelsis and loyal servant of Tzeentch, reduced to this.

  Seeing Hanniver Toll again had brought many unpleasant memories rushing back. The day the conquest of Excelsis, planned since before the city’s birth, had failed. The day he had failed. His transformation had started soon after. At first, it was an itch beneath his skin, one that could not be satisfied. Then, he had awoken amongst bloody sheets and scraps of skin in some lice-infested hellhole, and he could not feel his face at all. He remembered the purity of horror he had experienced as he raised one trembling finger to his cheek, and felt…

  To know that you had disappointed a god. It was quite the humbling feeling.

  Vermyre had exhausted his vast reserves of money and influence in the search for some way to fix his malformed body. He had trawled through libraries full of ancient lore. He had spoken to wise men and healers, wizards of the Celestial College and agents of the Dark Gods. He had known, of course, that it was useless. No mortal could cure the corruption seeping into his body. He had seen the same thing happen to others many times, when he served the will of the God of Sorcery. But the certainty of his damnation only made his search for absolution more frantic. With no more resources to call upon, he had turned to desperate measures. Like a creature of the night, he had slipped back into the city of Excelsis.

  Where once he had ruled this city – perhaps its most powerful and influential figure – now he was reduced to a misshapen shadow, crawling through sewers and alleyways, terrified of showing his face. He had broken into the city’s College of Magic, travelling via secret passages he had been shown by the traitorous former Archmage, Velorius Kryn. The man had been slain in the battle for the city, but the Order of Azyr had not found all of Kryn’s hidden repositories of forbidden texts. It was in the pages of the old mage’s journals that Vermyre had first learned of the Silver Shard, an item that Kryn had researched in great detail. Indeed, the wizard had been laying the groundwork for an expedition to Quatzhymos before his death.

  This was his chance to be rid of the curse that afflicted him, and to take his revenge upon the city that had defied his will. And once Ortam Vermyr
e had a goal, there was nothing in the realms that could bar his path.

  The undergrowth rustled, very slightly. Vermyre staggered to his feet, and stared off into the surrounding gloom. He knew when he was being watched.

  ‘Come out,’ he hissed, in a language older than time. ‘I command you.’

  ‘You command?’ came a voice from the shadows. ‘You are weak. Dying. A pitiful human. You command nothing from us.’

  ‘Come out of the shadows!’ he bellowed. His words reverberated strangely in the claustrophobic confines of the grotto.

  For a moment, nothing moved. There was no birdsong, no hiss or click of insects. This place was deathly quiet. He could hear nothing but the arrhythmic beating of his own heart.

  Then they came, drifting out of the gloom like whispers of smoke. Tall figures on bent-back legs, their skin a pale azure. They were bedecked with gems, tattoos and all manner of gewgaws, and each carried a gleaming spear of silver. Tzaangors. The smallest stepped in front of him. Its avian face was concealed by a silver mask shaped in the image of a roaring drake. Twin horns curled back from its skull, and in one hand it grasped a bleached wood staff tipped by a giant, blinking eye.

  ‘This is a forbidden place, human,’ it said in its strange, lilting voice. There seemed no way that such a bestial creature could speak so softly. ‘We would have taken your flesh long past, but I smell the touch of the Changemaker on you. Speak. Why do you come to the Shal’kol’ma?’

  ‘In search of allies,’ Vermyre hissed. There was only silence in return. ‘I seek an artefact of formidable power. The Silver Shard. It lies in a hidden city, far to the north. I would claim it in the name of great Tzeentch. But there are others–’

  ‘The hunter. The soldier. The corsair. The seeker,’ said the creature. ‘We know of them. We saw them in your dreams.’

  ‘Then you know they are enemies,’ Vermyre hissed. ‘They would claim this artefact for themselves. For their God-King.’