Callis & Toll: The Silver Shard

by Nick Horth

  Callis was surprised at that. Was it progress, he wondered? Or were they simply planning to stick a knife in him and leave him out there to rot?

  He nodded, and joined Oscus and six other crew members. They had ditched most of their armour and gear, and carried machetes to hack away the undergrowth. They stared at him expressionlessly. One spat a mouthful of black phlegm onto the sand. Callis returned the insult with an obscene gesture he had learned from one of the duardin gunsmiths back when he was in the Coldguard. That earned a snort of laughter from the others.

  ‘I’ll come too,’ said Shev, to his surprise. She was unarmed. Callis offered her his backup pistol, a snub-nosed little two-barrel piece he kept tucked in his belt, but she shook her head.

  ‘Guns are more trouble than they’re worth, in my experience. I’ll stick with my knife.’

  ‘Suit yourself. But stay close.’

  Sarcasm dripped from Shev’s tongue. ‘I feel safer already.’

  They filtered into the treeline, slow and careful. They walked for several minutes, padding through waist-high clumps of purple grass, crunching over scattered shards of coral as quietly as they could manage.

  ‘Your companion and Captain Zenthe have blades at each other’s throats again,’ said Shev, as they walked. ‘That’s going to come to a head, sooner or later.’

  ‘Zenthe’s losing interest in the chase,’ said Callis. ‘She never gave a damn for capturing Vermyre. What Toll promised her – beyond coin – I’ve no idea. But whatever it was, it’s not enough to keep her out here forever.’

  ‘I always imagined that a witch hunter would rely more on threats and brute force than bribery.’

  ‘I’ve never had dealings with any other agent of the Order,’ said Callis. ‘But Toll’s not the kind to throw his weight around unless the situation calls for it. He plays a long game, one that involves keeping our mercurial corsair content. Besides, there’s few who know the sea lanes better than Zenthe.’

  ‘Stop your mouths,’ hissed Oscus.

  The noxious smell was slowly getting worse. Callis had an unpleasant feeling that he knew the source of it. He had been around enough battlefields to know the scent of flesh left to rot in the sun. Eventually, they began to see flickers of blue through the trees, and a few minutes later they emerged on the far side of the island. Callis cursed softly.

  Ahead of them was a wide, rough expanse of dead coral, far larger than the beach on the opposite side of the island. It was littered with dead things. Mounds of skeletons and enormous, spiral shells as tall as the Thrice Lucky. Thin, cartilaginous racks of bone piled over thick slabs of rancid hide. A shapeless mass of flesh, long trails of winding tentacles rotting in the sun. There were more familiar corpses, too. Humanoid, lying shattered and broken, skulls removed. This close, the smell was overpowering. Emerging from amidst this carnage was a crude obelisk of piled stones lashed together with sinew. A single, sickening totem rested at its apex. Callis moved closer. Bile rose in his throat. The totem had been delicately carved from the splayed ribcage of a human. Atop this macabre sculpture sat the victim’s skull, mouth open in a silent scream. More skulls were piled high around the obelisk, which was stained a deep brown. The bones had been picked clean by scavengers, but they were still smeared with blood and patches of sticky brown gore.

  ‘Flesh Reavers,’ said Oscus. ‘Mortal tribes who hunt the seas,’ he added, noticing Callis’ blank expression.

  ‘Are they here? On the island?’ asked Shev.

  ‘I do not think so,’ said Oscus. ‘They raise these shrines to their sea gods across the Taloncoast. They hunt beasts, burn ships, raid the coasts. Then they bring their bounty of flesh to the nearest totem, offer the skulls to their gods. The rest they devour.’

  ‘If you knew about these savages, why did you bring us out here?’ said Callis.

  ‘We did not think they dwelled within these islands,’ Oscus replied. ‘Their home is north, beyond the Sea of Spines. But more of them come, with every passing season. As the God-King’s cities grow and grow, they sense fresh prey.’

  The aelf strode to the totem, stepping over picked-clean carcasses. Several long-tailed crustaceans that had been swarming over the yellowing bones scattered as he passed. He smashed the bone effigy with his blade, knocking it to the floor.

  ‘These kills were recent,’ he said, disgust clear in his voice. ‘Perhaps ten days old. Maybe less. They may still be close. We must not linger here.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Zollech sat alone in the dim light of his war tent, running the whetstone down the edge of his axe. The blade was already sharp enough to split skin at the merest touch, but the repetitive motion soothed him, quieted the throbbing in his skull, and so he continued.

  The tent parted, and Krom entered. The blood priest had to stoop, so tall and thin was he. His pale skin was smeared blue with dye made from crushed coral, and he had slicked his hair with blood. He carried his own weapon, a long-handled mace with a head fashioned from chipped obsidian.

  ‘It is time,’ said Krom.

  Zollech rose without a word and secured his horned barbute in place. It sat tightly over his skull, the long cheekguards cold against his skin. He hefted his axe, twirled it in his hands, feeling the reassuring weight and balance. It was a strong weapon, forged by city dwellers from good iron. He had claimed it long ago, on only his third raid. Zollech had killed many people, so many that he remembered few of their faces. But the old soldier whom he had taken this weapon from – he could picture every line of that one’s face. The weathered skin. The sad eyes, widening in pain and shock as the spear had slipped into his guts.

  ‘The clouds gather,’ said Krom. ‘And the seas churn red. Do not fail, my chieftain. Send him worthy souls, for it has been far too long since we honoured him, and his anger is rising like the tide.’

  Together, they strode out into the light. Zollech glanced out across the endless expanse of the ocean. The priest was right. Swirls of red trailed through the water, which churned and foamed with gore. A killing frenzy. The beasts of the sea were devouring each other. He could see arcing fins tearing through the chaos, bursts of bloody spray jetting into the air.

  ‘The Blood Kraken watches,’ said the priest.

  They walked along the jagged shoreline of broken, dead coral. Zollech’s men were crouched or slumped across the rocky outcroppings, their eyes fixed on their chieftain. Ahead, the dusty trail emerged in a great, wide circle, marked out with spears, swords and axes thrust into the ground. The dead reef formed a wall around the killing circle, and scores of warriors lined its length, bare flesh marked with war paint and old wounds. He could feel their eagerness, their longing to see spilled blood. They would not have to wait long. Three men waited in the arena. Two were small, lithe, armed respectively with serrated blades and barbed hooks. They were almost mirror images of one another. Zollech recognised them instantly as the twins, Foreg and Margos. The third was a giant of a man, taller even than Zollech. His skin was as white as the belly of a shark, and his body was a wall of muscle and scarred skin. He clutched a great glaive with a blade the length of his forearm. He smiled as they entered the circle, exposing a row of teeth filed to needle-sharp points. Dried blood stained the man’s throat and neck where fangs had pierced his own flesh.

  ‘We stand beneath the eye of the Blood Kraken,’ roared Krom, raising his hands above his head, brandishing his mace. ‘Witness to this offering. Too long has it been since we offered tribute. Since we sent an offering of worthy skulls down to his eternal throne beneath the waves. He is angered, my children. Greatly so. Eight daemon-ships have we lost since the last crimson moon. One hundred souls taken, and still his wrath is not satisfied.’

  There was a chorus of jeers from the crowd.

  Zollech grinned beneath his helm. A burst of harsh laughter escaped his lips, aching his throat where he had caught a bullet from a duardin
’s fire-pike many years past. He savoured the pain like an old friend, channelled it into anger. All would soon know what it was to challenge Zollech, captain of the Skull Taker.

  Krom waited, let the shouting die down. Then, he raised a hand.

  ‘Only those who prove worthy may claim the skull of a chieftain,’ he said, and though he spoke softly, his voice carried far upon the wind. ‘And so these warriors challenge for the right to lead us. Blood will be spilled today, worthy blood, for each man here has claimed a thousand skulls and more for the Blood Kraken.’

  He gestured to the twin warriors.

  ‘Foreg and Margos, of the Flayed Throat.’

  There was a roar from the twins’ crew, and a hail of javelins and thrown axes crashed to earth. Foreg and Margos neither spoke nor reacted to the shouts and bellowed oaths. Their eyes were on Zollech. He gave them a smile. They were nothing. Meat for his axe. It was solely for his other opponent that the chieftain cared.

  ‘And Muul, captain of the Zanthacra,’ shouted Krom. The response was greater by far than for the twin reavers as the pale giant stepped forward. Fully half of the gathered crowd howled the name.

  ‘Muul! Muul! Muul!’

  A fight broke out in the highest spires of the dead reef. A blade flashed in the sunlight, and there was an arc of crimson. A dead body toppled bonelessly down the mound of bleached coral, leaving a trail of smeared gore in its wake. Zollech could smell the iron tang of the blood. It soothed the throbbing in his skull.

  Muul stepped forward, eyes locked on Zollech. He was grinding his teeth, a sound like bones crunching under the weight of an axe. He had ever been an ambitious one. It was said he heard the words of the Blood Kraken in his skull when the red rage was upon him. He was the only warrior here whose tributes to the Blood Kraken rivalled Zollech’s own. He was also younger, stronger. Taller by far. Muul’s glaive was dripping with blood. It had already tasted death, this day. He paced back and forth, his face twitching, his eyes bloodshot.

  ‘The Blood Kraken must be appeased,’ said Krom. ‘And so these three warriors are chosen, the greatest amongst our number. They face Zollech of the Skull Taker!’

  Many voices rose to support their chieftain, though far fewer than there once would have been, even a few spans past. They had been too long without glory. A debt was due.

  Zollech stepped forward, not taking his eyes from Muul. As chieftain, it was his right to speak. He stood, still as a statue, and waited. Then he hefted his axe, and pointed it directly at the younger warrior silently. Words meant nothing, in the end. He’d heard every threat and hollow boast. No amount of bold talk had ever saved his foes from a bloody death.

  Muul laughed, a gurgling, bubbling sound, and began to circle him. That surprised Zollech. He had expected the rage-filled warrior to charge him with everything he had. Foreg and Margos approached, spinning their dual weapons with practised ease.

  Margos was small, compared to Zollech and Muul, but no less scarred by battle. One ear was little more than a ragged strip of flesh, and a red line carved down his face diagonally, turning his face into a permanent leer. In one hand he carried a barbed hook, with a handle grip that enclosed his fist. He raised the weapon and pointed at Zollech.

  ‘You have failed us, old man,’ he rasped. ‘Now it is–’

  Foreg’s sword hacked into his twin brother’s skull. Margos’ eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell to his knees. Foreg wrenched the blade free, and the dead man toppled forward bonelessly and lay still.

  Their audience brayed with laughter, pleased with this ruthless act. There were no rules in the circle. No bonds of honour or blood. Only one would emerge alive. Foreg’s cruel, pinched face was locked in a triumphant smirk.

  The throbbing in Zollech’s head turned his vision crimson, as crimson as the blood that spurted from the twitching corpse of Margos. He started to laugh, as he always did when the killing joy came upon him. Muul made his move, swiping forward with his glaive, using his formidable reach. Zollech smashed that blade aside contemptuously, following with a wide swipe of his axe that sent the gigantic man stumbling back. He recovered fast. As Zollech reversed the swing, hoping to club his foe’s brains out with the iron-wrapped haft of his axe, Muul snapped out a punch that connected with his nose, squashing it flat. He felt blood pouring from the wound, and reached his tongue out to taste the sweet-metal flavour. Foreg rushed in, hacking and thrusting at Muul. His blade tore a gash down the big man’s arm, but it was not deep enough. Muul smashed Foreg in the ribs with the haft of his glaive in return, and when the smaller man crumpled, he lashed out at his throat. Foreg only just scrambled out of the way, though his foe’s glaive carved a crimson arc across his back as he retreated.

  They were all bloodied now. There was the briefest moment of respite as they circled one another, searching for an opening.

  Muul ran a long, pink tongue down the side of his blade, savouring the gore that was smeared across it. Zollech had heard the stories. The master of the Zanthacra liked to consume raw flesh. Living flesh.

  Foreg struck at the pale giant’s ribs, but Muul was unthinkably fast, catching the blow on the haft of his glaive. The two exchanged a flurry of strikes. Foreg’s sword hacked deep into Muul’s shoulder, and the smaller warrior bellowed in triumph. Muul didn’t even scream. Instead he caught his opponent’s hand in one meaty fist, held it tight. Foreg slashed at the man’s side with his blade, but the pale man seemed oblivious. His head snapped forward, and Foreg screamed. Muul ripped a chunk of bloody meat from the man’s neck. His following roared in triumph. The giant chewed on the mouthful of gore a moment, then swallowed it whole. Foreg was gurgling on the floor, trying futilely to stem the torrents of blood gushing from his wound. Muul smiled a red smile.

  ‘I will taste your flesh, chieftain,’ he promised. ‘You have strong blood in you.’

  The smell, the scent of blood was overpowering. The rhythmic drumbeat in Zollech’s head was almost deafening, calling him to abandon his wits and surrender to the rising tide, to drown in carnage and gore, even if it was his own.

  He let himself fall into the crimson current.

  They rushed each other, caution abandoned in favour of the white-hot joy of battle. Their blades clashed. Zollech punched out, struck Muul’s jaw and felt teeth shatter. He received a head-butt in return, and his already broken nose crumpled with the sound of grinding cartilage. Muul’s arms were wrapped around him, tighter than a kraken’s embrace. He gasped for air, spat bloody drool into the pale giant’s eyes. Muul’s teeth snapped forward, bit into his cheek and tore a strip of flesh free. He could hear the man’s gurgling laughter, high-pitched, almost like that of a child. His vision swam as Muul rained punches into his side. A rib cracked. With all his strength, he dragged his axe free, tore a great gash across Muul’s belly. The giant stumbled back a step, and his iron grip relaxed for just a moment. Zollech’s body was a bloody ruin, but he felt no pain. He stepped forward and brought his axe down with a scream that tore at his throat. It split Muul’s glaive in two at the haft.

  Shrieking in outrage, Muul raised the jagged spike of the haft in two hands and drove it into Zollech’s shoulder. It struck deep, and ground on bone. The white-skinned giant slammed punches into his face, great hammer-blows that rattled his skull. Again and again his head shook, rattled by the ferocious assault. Somewhere he lost his grip on his axe, and sank to one knee. Still Muul continued to pound his heavy fists into Zollech’s face. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t hear. But he could smell the big man’s rancid, rotten breath. His hand scrabbled around in the dry earth, and his fingers closed on a hard shard of coral. In a single swift move, he rose and struck out with the makeshift weapon, trusting to the Blood Kraken to guide his arm. It struck home with a wet, tearing sound, and there was a choking gasp.

  Through a bleary storm of blood and black lights, Zollech glimpsed his foe. The shard had pierced through Muul’s th
roat. The giant staggered, eyes rolling back into his head. Zollech fell upon him, bearing him to the floor. He tore the coral shard free, and stabbed it down again and again. The spatter of blood that trailed through the air in front of him became the coils of the Blood Kraken. In each razor-bladed limb, it grasped a single skull, and within its immense form there gazed a single, furious eye, a cyclopean orb of blazing yellow fire that seared through his very being.

  The Blood Kraken had witnessed his bloody work, and it was content.

  When the haze began to clear, Zollech realised that he was hacking away at little more than a pulped and shapeless mound of flesh. His hearing returned with a painful ringing sound, and he heard the thunder of the watching warriors. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘It is done,’ said Krom, the blood priest.

  Zollech staggered to his feet. He was caked in gore from head to toe, but his wounds caused him no pain at all. Rain began to drizzle down, and he raised his head and let it clear the blood from his eyes.

  ‘None can deny that the Blood Kraken has chosen this man to lead us,’ Krom screamed. ‘Now we hunt, for flesh and for glory! We churn the seas red with the blood of our enemies, and make tribute of their skulls to the dweller in the deep. We sail!’

  The response was deafening. Even dead Muul’s crew joined the chorus, bellowing Zollech’s name.

  Through the noise cut another voice, an urgent call.

  ‘A sail! A black sail!’ shouted a warrior perched on the highest strata of the dead reef.

  Zollech bent to grasp his fallen axe and began to climb, hauling his battered body up the face of the cliff. Making it to the summit, he stared out over the wide expanse of the Singing Isles. The skies overhead were darkening, and the mist of rain made it hard to pick out the silhouette of a ship at first. Then he saw it, drifting out from the bay of a half-moon shaped island. A sleek three-master, gagger-like black sails and an angular hull that sat low to the water. A ship built for speed on the open ocean. Aelven, so he guessed. A gift from the Blood Kraken for their bloody sacrifice.