The Skybound Sea

by Samuel Sykes

  He whirled around and glared at the assembled Shen.

  “We’re supposed to have the unholy amalgamations between men and animals. They’re cheating.”

  “They’re doing something,” Asper said from beside him, a hint of panic creeping into her voice. “They’re coming closer. Marching. They’re not charging. They charge, don’t they?”

  “Sheraptus is moving with them,” Dreadaeleon whispered. “The other male, too. I can’t see them, but I can sense them.”

  “So they’re making a push,” Lenk said as he pushed his way through the Shen to rejoin his companions, Kataria close behind. “Couldn’t expect them to be content with sending out warriors to get shot one by one forever.”

  “That system was working perfectly fine,” Denaos griped.

  “What do we do now, then?” Asper asked. “They’re coming closer. He’s going … they’re going to be on top of us in a moment. What’s the plan?”

  “Plan?”

  Shalake’s voice boomed with contempt as he strode to the front. His smile was so broad as to be visible even from beneath his skull headdress. He held his club up, flicking free a few lingering chunks of viscera that had been wedged between its teeth.

  “Kill them all, of course.”

  “Look, it’s not that I object to the conclusion,” Lenk said, rubbing his eyes, “just the logic behind it.”

  “And the crazy, murderous lizardman that tried to kill us posing it,” Kataria added.

  “Right, and the crazy, murderous lizardman that tried to kill us.”

  “Death needs no logic. Death needs nothing but us,” Shalake replied coolly.

  Lenk blinked. He turned to the Shen surrounding their leader. “So, do you guys just never tell him what he sounds like or …”

  “Enough of plans and cowering behind coral like fish,” Shalake spat. He held his club high above his head, the stray chunks of meat and bone spattering down upon his headdress. “We will charge. We will meet them upon the field. We will make them bleed and we will show our ancestors that we are worthy of the sacrifices they made!”

  The cheer that went up at his words was enthusiastic, if muted. Sensing this, Shalake turned to seek Gariath out in the crowd. One could rarely accuse the dragonman of trying to avoid detection, and one rarely did without detecting the dragonman’s fist in their face a moment later. But Gariath looked as though he attempted to shrink into the crowd, which would be impossible even if he weren’t tremendous and the color of blood. Shalake gestured to him with his club.

  “And with the Rhega leading us,” he crowed, “the first to spill blood, the last to die, we will honor all the dead! Attala Jaga! Attala Rhega! Shenko-sa!”

  “SHENKO-SA!” the Shen howled, vigorous and full of life they were desperate to spill.

  Gariath was silent.

  While it was difficult to read the face of a man who happened to have a snout instead of a nose and largely didn’t bother to convey emotions beyond rage, Lenk had known Gariath for some time. Lenk could see the shine in his eyes grow dull, the frown tug at the corners of his mouth, the tightness with which his earfrills were held.

  “Gariath,” Lenk said hesitantly, “do you … want that?”

  He looked at the young man, straight into his eyes. Possibly for the first time, Lenk thought. Because for the first time, in his brutish companion’s eyes, he could see the same doubt he had seen in Kataria’s eyes, the same doubt he felt in his own, the doubt he had thought Gariath simply didn’t feel.

  “I am …” Gariath began to speak.

  “Dead.”

  Not that it was entirely unwarranted, but everyone turned up to see Mahalar, hunched and stooped and breathing heavily amidst the lizardmen. There was a direness to his stare that burned straight through his cowl.

  “We are all dead.”

  “Well, not yet,” Lenk said, glancing over his shoulder. “They’re moving kind of slow and—”

  “And you have killed us.” He leveled a finger, half-sheathed in flesh, at Lenk. “You could have ended this. You could have saved us. You could have done something if only you had listened to me.”

  “I don’t—”

  “You didn’t,” Mahalar spat. “You didn’t and now it’s too late.” He pointed the finger at his temple. “Have you not heard it? Have you not felt it? She’s been calling to them this entire time.” The finger shifted overhead. “And now, he has come to answer.”

  They looked, as one, to the darkness broiling overhead. No longer stormclouds, they were ink stains oozing out upon a pure gray sky. Thunder groaned overhead. The clouds split open. A single drop fell from above.

  It plummeted to earth and splattered across Lenk’s face. Warm. Sticky. Red.

  “Blood?” he whispered.

  “Daga-Mer,” Mahalar said. “The consort comes to free his queen.”

  The world was a riot of sound and color. The dawn had fled at the first sign of trouble and taken its gray draining with it. Now remained the broken purple and green flesh, the bloodstained coral, the howls from the netherlings and the roars sent up to meet them.

  And through that, all the cacophonies and all the dizzying miasma, they could hear it in the echo of Mahalar’s words.

  Somewhere, not far away enough: a single heartbeat. Slow. Steady. Inevitable.

  “We must go,” Mahalar muttered, turning around to shuffle back up the stairs, “take the tome and—”

  They didn’t even hear the arrow flying before it caught Mahalar in the shoulder. The elder collapsed to his knees with a hiss as a trail of earthen substance began to leak from the wound.

  They turned and saw the line of netherlings bold and black and drawing closer. The crescents of their shields locked together defensively, the jagged heads of their spears pointed out like the legs of a great, shiny beetle.

  “TOH! TOH! TOH!” they chanted with every careful step, not a crack in their great, black carapace showing.

  Without breaking their march, two shields would occasionally pull apart. An archer would appear in the gap, fire off an arrow that flew noiselessly to send another Shen to the stones. The gap would slam shut as Shen arrows flew in retaliation.

  Shen archers assembled as warriors with shields fell back to protect them. Lenk ducked one such missile, hearing it curse his name as it sped past his ear.

  “Gods damn it, whose job was it to watch those things?”

  “Nevermind that,” Mahalar snarled, swatting away the aid of a nearby Shen as he staggered to his feet. “They are coming.”

  “They are here, you moron,” Kataria snarled, stringing an arrow.

  “Not them, not them,” Mahalar gasped, shambling up the stairs. “They are coming. He is coming.” He made a fervent gesture. “Quickly. We must take the tome away. You must protect it. Follow me.”

  “Follow you?” Lenk asked. “Up the mountain to the dead end? We stand a better chance here.”

  “Even if we did trust you,” Kataria added.

  “There’s more room to escape here,” Denaos said, nodding. “It doesn’t make sense to—”

  “Doesn’t make sense?” Mahalar whirled on them, his eyes bright with anger. “Doesn’t make sense? The sky is raining blood! There is a heartbeat in the storm! Are you so stupid as to think that the person with the least idea of what’s going on is the lizardman that bleeds earth?”

  The companions fell silent, exchanged brief, nervous looks.

  “I mean,” Lenk said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I think that’s a good point?”

  Another arrow hummed past, narrowly clipping Denaos’s shoulder. The rogue shrieked, clutched the grazing blow. “I’m for it.”

  “They’re here!” Asper cried out. “Go. Go!”

  They stole glimpses over their shoulders as they hurried up the stairs, the Shen closing in defensively behind them as Mahalar barked commands in their language. They could see the netherling line grinding to a halt. They could see one of the males suddenly break off and rush to the
edge of the ring. It was the flash of red flesh that caught their eyes collectively, though.

  “Gariath!” Lenk cried. “Come on!”

  The dragonman looked up over his shoulder. A forlorn gleam flashed in his eyes before it died, replaced by a dull, black acceptance.

  “His place is with us,” Shalake called back. “He dies with us as we died with him!”

  “Oh dear,” Denaos said, rolling his eyes. “The Shen are insane and Gariath’s decided to stay behind and be insane with them in an attempt to kill himself. This is so unexpected. Oh dear, oh no, oh Gods, oh well.”

  He took another ten steps before he was aware that his footsteps were the only ones he heard. He flashed an incredulous grimace at the companions standing stock-still upon the steps.

  “Oh, for the love of …” He sighed, seized Dreadaeleon by the shoulder and shoved him down the steps. “Go get him.”

  After the boy had staggered several steps, paused to cough violently, he glowered up at Denaos. “Why me?”

  “You’re the one that has the connection with him.”

  “Since when?”

  “Look, now’s not the time to argue. Just go get him.”

  Resentfully, Dreadaeleon wormed his way between the Shen down to Gariath at the barricade. A glance over green shoulders and he could see the netherling line halted. Their shields held fast, barely quivering under the hail of arrows sent from the Shen.

  Sheraptus was still there, somewhere behind the wall of shields. He could feel it in the burning of his brow, the chill in his veins, the great pressure bearing down on him. The mere hint of the longfaced male’s presence was enough to make him feel ill, enough to send the power in him spiking in response, a moth twitching around a burning flame.

  He tried to swallow the vomit roiling in his throat. He tried to ignore the fever burning behind his eyes. Wouldn’t do to break down now, start pissing fire and vomiting acid in front of the Shen and lose all this hard-earned respect he didn’t have.

  “Look, Gariath—”

  That was as far as he got, a meek whimper lost amidst the shriek of arrows and guttural howls. Gariath said something in response, something about this being the only way, about having nothing left. Dreadaeleon didn’t hear. His brow suddenly began to burn, the vomit clawed its way to his throat and he got the very distinct feeling that things were about to go very, very wrong.

  “NAK-AH! SHIE-EH-AH!”

  He couldn’t understand the Shen’s warning. He didn’t have to. He knew what was happening even before the magic started.

  At the far end of the ring, the other male spoke a word. Lightning flew from his hands, leaping out to gnaw angrily at the stone ankles of one of Ulbecetonth’s towering statues. It increased with each breath, its electric teeth pulverizing the granite and sending out clouds of powder. Stone snapped. The Kraken Queen let out a moan as she toppled forward.

  Another word, the air rippled, the statue was suspended above the male, smaller, less grand than Sheraptus. He visibly tensed, grunted as the invisible force from his hands kept it aloft. Dreadaeleon could sense the strain, the weight. But only for a moment. After that, another surge of power from somewhere distant coursed through him, sent bile spilling out his mouth and onto the stone.

  “Sheraptus,” he choked through vomit.

  This lesser male grunted, threw his hands and the statue. It flew through the air, was caught, hovered there. A great monolith the size of a spire hovering over the netherlings like a crown.

  It didn’t take an incredible amount of intelligence to know what was happening.

  “Shoot,” Dreadaeleon gasped. He pointed a trembling finger. “Shoot! He’s there! In there! SHOOT HIM!

  “Shoot!” Gariath roared to Shalake. “SHOOT HIM!”

  “KENKI-SHA! KENKI-SHA!”

  The command was carried on the scream of arrows, flying one after the other until there was not a space of bare air in the sky. Desperation in every shot, the arrows flew, shattering against the statue, shattering against the shields. The rare netherling went down, the others shuffled to fill in the bare space. In those moments, Dreadaeleon could see the white robes, the broad smile, the eyes burning bright and red.

  A gap in the firing. The arrows slowed for a moment. The netherlings seized their chance.

  They split apart, revealing him. His hands extended to either side in lazy benevolence, as though he were delivering some great truth instead of holding several tons of stone over his head with the burning heresy upon his brow. His smile was soft and easy, his eyes relaxed and calm despite the fire leaking out of them.

  His word was gentle.

  As he raised his hands and threw.

  The statue went flying through the air, rising up black against the storm clouds brewing overhead. It seemed to hang there for a moment.

  “Can you move that?” Gariath asked, looking up.

  “No,” Dreadaeleon said, wiping his mouth.

  “Huh. We should probably move, then.”

  “SCATTER! SCATTER!”

  “SHIGA-AH! ATTEKI MO-KI!”

  “NO! NOT LIKE THIS! NOT LIKE—”

  The statue fell.

  Their screams were eaten alive. Their wails disappeared into clouds of dust. The frantic struggle to escape, the clawing over each other, the desperate prayers to someone else, all had ended.

  Their bodies lay, as broken as the fragments of stone that rained from the sky.

  TWENTY-NINE

  THEM

  The world and he choked together. Blood and dust rose up around him in great curtains of red and black. It throttled vision, smothered sound, strangled him from within as he crawled across the earth. The shattered barricade lay amidst the bodies, cutting hands and feet of those who still ran in panicked confusion. He could hear the screaming only in hairs’ breadths, their voices lasting as long as they lingered near him.

  The sound of metal, however, he could have heard for miles.

  Without a noise beyond the rattle of their boots and the whisper of their spears sliding into flesh, the netherlings moved through the dust, their shadows black. Mechanically, they sought the survivors scrambling to flee, spared a killing thrust, and moved on.

  Maybe he was just too insignificant, crawling breathlessly on his hands and knees, for them to notice. Perhaps they were so focused on their goal, as they charged past him and toward the stairs—or where he thought he remembered the stairs were, it was hard to tell—that they simply couldn’t be bothered with him.

  Or maybe they see a guy in a dirty coat with a mouth stained with puke crawling around and trying not to piss himself and they just don’t have the heart to finish you off.

  Do not question good fortunes, lorekeeper.

  A cricket chirped in the back of his skull.

  Greenhair! Where the hell have you been?

  Watching, lorekeeper.

  Ah, was it a good show, then? Saw what just happened? Are all the broken and mangled corpses quite a sight?

  What horrors that man has wrought are nothing to what is coming, lorekeeper.

  Oh, good. I was getting really bored with the godlike, limitlessly powerful wizard hurling giant statues around.

  Cease your weeping, loreekeper. That thought came with a surge of agony, like someone screeching at him. I require a wizard, not a sarcastic worm. I need a hero.

  He had no thoughts for that. None that came with words, anyway. She didn’t seem to need them. Whatever it was that surged inside him, she sensed.

  Come to me.

  No words that he could hear in his ears. A song without language beckoned him, drew him to her. Weaving his way between the iron legs and the bodies falling around him, he followed the song.

  The curtains of dust thinned as he crawled out and clambered to his feet. Still more of the black-clad warriors brushed past him, charging into the fray. The screams of the dead and the wounded were fainter here, smothered beneath the gigantic statue of Ulbecetonth that lay, her smile spattered with crimso
n, upon the stone steps surrounded by sheets of dust and screaming.

  The bulk of the netherling force was still midring, as though waiting. Sheraptus was ambling back to them atop his sikkhun, back casually turned to the slaughter, as though it weren’t even remotely the most interesting mayhem he had seen.

  Of Greenhair, there was no sign. Nor thought.

  Or there might have been. It was hard to hear himself with all the thunder. The clouds were roiling, roaring, groaning. And amidst them, all he could hear was the slow and steady sound of something.

  A heartbeat?

  No, too fast. Footsteps. Feet? Many feet.

  Coming his way.

  The gibbering alerted him first, the slathering cackle that turned him about and then sent him lunging to the ground. The sikkhun came roaring past a moment later, its claws tearing up the earth and its wailing laughter cutting the air as it rushed past him.

  He looked up, met Xhai’s hateful glare for a moment. And a glare was all he got, spared the great blade in one of her hands and the thin, pale spear in her other. Those were weapons meant for a nastier job than whatever it would take to finish him off. And that job lay in the dust cloud as she charged after the black-clad warriors.

  And his job?

  Return to the fray?

  He glanced back at the dust and slaughter and quickly discounted that.

  Run away?

  He glanced at the surrounding kelp, netherlings, and aforementioned slaughter.

  Find Greenhair? No, she’ll just tell me to stop Sheraptus or something. Not that that wouldn’t be a bad thing to do.

  But with what, he wondered? He was weary, breathless, armed only with an apparently beneficial insignificance and a rather ominous inkling that he was about to explode out of one orifice.

  That might work. Position it just right and—no, no, no. Look, you’ve got something that can work here, right? You had one of their stones, didn’t you? If you could use that … no, it’s heresy.

  His fist found itself in his pocket, regardless. His body, apparently, was done waiting for his brain to decide if it was ready to live. He fished around, wrapped fingers around something firm and cold. The stone. The stone that would cure him, that would give him enough power to—