by Sam Sykes
‘Reciting. . what?’ the priestess asked, blanching.
‘The Talanic Verses. Parable four-and-thirty, if you would be so kind.’
‘“The Healer Addresses the Masses”? But. . whatever for?’
‘Allow me to ask the questions, please.’ He gestured towards the creature. ‘Simply recite.’
‘Er. . ah, very well.’ Asper cleared her throat, drawing the creature’s attention. Averting her gaze, she began to speak. ‘“And it was upon the sixth noon, the sixth dismemberment of the Healer, that he rose again, whole and unscarred. He looked over the people, who raised torch and sickle against him and demanded he be slain again.”’
The creature emitted a low hum, like a pigeon being strangled. Its feathers ruffled, teeth chattering a little more violently. Yellow feet plopping beneath it, it marched in place, as if preparing to charge.
‘Do not stop,’ Miron commanded, staring at the thing. ‘Speak, vermin. Where did your master go?’
‘“And he said to them, Do you fear miracles? Have you lost such confidence in the Gods?”’ Asper continued, breathing heavily. ‘“Then look upon me with fear, for in fear you will find the need for answers. And it is answers I give you.”’
The Omen shrieked suddenly, hurling itself against the cage. The brass rattled upon the wood, causing all to draw back, save Miron. The beast hissed, gnawing on the bars of its cage with yellowed teeth and blackened gums, straining to break free, to silence the prayers.
‘“Your suffering is not unknown to me, He said. And your dead are with me now, in a place of unending sun and peace. Weep not for them. I shall weep for you. For I say to you, life is sacred.”’
The creature battered itself against the bars, blood leaking from its head, white feathers stained red as it shrieked and made guttural whines. It gyrated, twisted, writhed upon the floor of its cage. Miron held up a hand to Asper, leaned close to the cage and whispered.
‘Where?’
‘North,’ it gasped, through its inner lips, ‘north.’
Miron nodded solemnly, then drew in a sharp breath and finished the prayer. ‘Hii lat Udun.’
‘And so is death,’ Asper translated, eyes going wide.
‘That’s. . Old Talanic. Old, Old Talanic. It’s never been used outside of hymnal verses-’
‘And not since humanity developed one sole language out of many,’ Miron said.
The creature twisted once, then lay still, its life escaping on a gurgling, choked sigh. The assembled could do nothing but stare as Miron slowly took up the cloth and draped it over the cage once more.
‘A demon’s true weakness is memory,’ he muttered. ‘It recalls the chants that led the House into battle, it fears them.’ He lifted the cage off the table and set it aside. ‘But more importantly, we have our answer. We know where they are heading.’
‘You can’t be serious,’ Denaos whispered.
‘Can I be anything but?’
‘You bring out a flying gopher-demon, do a few tricks and expect us to go chasing after the Abysmyth?’ The rogue made a flailing gesture. ‘All that convinces me of is that we shouldn’t be chasing demons! Lenk and Gariath couldn’t even scratch that thing! You’re sending us against something that can’t be hurt!’
‘It can’t be harmed by mortal creations, no,’ Miron replied quickly, ‘but there are weapons that even demons fear. Fire, you see, is their bane. The smallest heat source burns them unmercifully, and they cannot bear the presence of smoke.’
‘Dreadaeleon is a wizard,’ Asper said thoughtfully. ‘He can make fire.’
‘Well, thank goodness he did that when it was here earlier,’ Denaos sneered.
‘If I had known that then, maybe I’d-’ Dreadaeleon began.
‘Quiet,’ Lenk snapped.
‘Regardless,’ the priest continued with a sigh, ‘you are hired to me as adventurers. You are free to leave my company at any moment and free to make your own decisions.’ He held his hands up in resignation. ‘Man’s fate is his own to weave.’
Glances were exchanged, myriad emotions captured in every eye. Terror, excitement, purpose, anger, anxiety, all reflected in stares that slowly, one by one, turned to the silver-haired young man scratching his chin absently.
Despite everything said between them, despite their harsh words for each other, they looked to him for their answer, their uniting purpose. Whatever had been said in the name of duty and fury, every word and oath could be revoked in the blink of an eye.
All rested on what would emerge from his mouth.
‘We’ll do it.’
Kataria and Asper beamed with simultaneous smiles of pride as Dreadaeleon’s brow arched and Denaos’s head fell into his hands with a dramatic moan. Gariath’s fierce visage remained unchanged, save for a snort and a nod to Lenk. Argaol, meanwhile, stared at the young man with the same curiosity with which he would regard a fire-breathing tortoise.
‘For one thousand pieces of gold.’
Suddenly, smiles disappeared, brows went flat and the rogue’s head snapped up like a cat catching the scent of dead fish.
‘How dare you, Lenk?’ Asper was quick to hurl her voice brimming with scorn. ‘To ask any money for such a duty is a sin in itself, but to ask for such an exorbitant sum is-’
‘Done.’
‘Lord Emissary!’ Her wrath turned to shock as she whirled upon Miron. ‘The Church doesn’t have that kind of wealth to flaunt on a quest with no guarantee of success. ’
‘As well I know, child.’ Miron sighed. He looked to Lenk without judgement. ‘The money will come from my personal funds and will be paid in full upon return of the book.’
‘I can agree to that,’ Lenk replied, ‘assuming you pay for supplies we’ll need.’
‘Done.’
‘We have a deal, then.’
Miron’s only reply was an ominous hum as he rose from his chair like an ivory tower.
‘I suggest you retire shortly. The Abysmyth has a lead on you and you’ll be leaving at dawn if you’re to catch it.’ He glanced at Argaol across the table. ‘Captain, if you would kindly assist me in consulting the sea charts?’
‘Aye. . aye,’ Argaol muttered, rising on shaking legs. He wore an expression of disbelief, unwilling to comprehend what he had just heard, what he had just been a part of.
Quietly, on knocking knees, he followed the priest out of the cabin, pausing only long enough to look at Lenk and shake his head.
No sooner had the door slid shut before all eyes turned to the young man as he reclined in his seat, folding his hands behind his head as though he were at a picnic and not at negotiations regarding beings from hell.
‘So, then,’ Denaos began angrily, ‘will you give reason as to why you just signed all our deathscrolls?’
‘I gave you one thousand,’ he said smugly.
Asper shot him a vicious glare. ‘Perhaps then you’ll give a reason why you just extorted from my church like a street hawker?’
‘No.’
‘So why should we follow you on this expedition at all?’ the rogue demanded.
‘You probably shouldn’t,’ Lenk replied with a shrug. ‘I never asked any of you to follow me wherever I went and I won’t ask you now.’ He glanced to Asper. ‘If you object to what I just did, I’m sure Argaol will let you stay aboard until you reach Toha.’
Slowly, he leaned forwards, sweeping them with his piercing gaze.
‘I don’t know how far along I’ve figured this out,’ he said, ‘but I want to kill this thing. I don’t know how, or why, but I will.’ He turned to Asper. ‘And if I’m being sent to kill something that, up until this point, was simply legend, I deserve a bit of compensation.’ He leaned back again. ‘So, the way I figure, you can leave this table right now for whatever reason you may have. If I go alone, then I go alone. When I come back with the book, I’ll never have to work a day in my life again.’ He grinned broadly. ‘Man’s fate is his own to weave.’
Once more, the glances were exchange
d. The silence lasted but a moment.
‘I’ll go,’ Kataria said. ‘Demons and cleansing aside,’ she smirked slyly, ‘I happen to need a new set of leathers.’
‘I will, as well,’ Dreadaeleon piped up, the faintest hint of excitement in his voice. ‘There’s a lot to be learned here and I intend to be the one to find out what’s going on. The Venarium will need to know.’
‘Freak,’ Denaos muttered.
‘I’ll go.’ Asper spoke with some reluctance. ‘But only because it’s the right thing to do. I forego my share right now.’
‘And since everyone is intent on killing themselves,’ Denaos sighed, ‘I should come along to pick up the bodies.’ He immediately shot up a single finger. ‘If I get Asper’s share.’
‘Why, you disgusting-’ the priestess snarled.
‘You gave it up,’ the rogue interrupted.
‘And what about you, Gariath?’ Lenk spoke before Asper could start.
Eyes turned to the dragonman, knowing that, of all the companions, his answer couldn’t be predicted. He had stayed with them this long, Lenk reasoned, but it would hardly be surprising if he decided the time to leave was now.
‘I go,’ Gariath grunted. ‘Nothing, demon or otherwise, fights a Rhega and lives.’ He snorted. ‘No stupid, weak human will die if I’m there, either.’
‘So that’s that, then,’ Lenk said, rising from his chair. ‘Sleep on it. If you change your mind by morning, stay behind. I’ll use your share to buy myself new friends.’
‘Don’t count on me ducking out,’ Kataria was quick to snap, springing up. ‘I’ll put that gold to good use.’ She shot her silver-haired companion a glance and winked. ‘I wouldn’t want you to go spending my share on shoes that’ll make you look taller.’
‘Stop being stupid,’ Lenk grunted. ‘If we’re done here, I’m going to sleep. I don’t know when one rises to go demon-killing, but I’ll wager it’s early.’
‘Sleep well while you can,’ Denaos muttered morbidly as he rose. ‘When the Abysmyth eats our heads, you’ll hear the screaming in your dreams.’
‘By then I’ll be able to buy earmuffs.’
ACT TWO
Shores of White and Black
Interlogue
FLEETING NIGHT
The Departure
The Sea of Buradan
Summer, late
I don’t remember much about my father, save for the fact that he was a humble man. He made an honest living which, by his definition, was one that involved hacking dirt and killing nothing bigger than a pig as a wedding gift. He lived well, I think, and I try to think of him whenever I have the time, in the moments when I remember the scent of dirt and feel a deep-seated hunger for pork.
I don’t recall what he sounded like.
In the dawning hours, however, before the sun has risen, I think of my grandfather. In truth, I think of him quite often: whenever I’m about to be killed, whenever I’m about to make a mistake, whenever I’m ready to do something stupid. I hear his voice, even if it is distant. It’s his voice I hear as I clutch his sword, my sword.
Today, I can’t hear him. I can’t hear anyone. No one’s talking.
There’s been precious little sleep aboard the Riptide. The crew remains fearful, preferring to go without sleep as they patrol, ever-vigilant for the return of anything that might crawl out of the water. Miron has been locked up with Argaol, discussing whatever it is men discuss when they’re about to send people off to die. I should note that they’ve been avoiding Argaol’s cabin, preferring to do their discussing in the ship’s hold. I don’t know the reason, but I’m finding it difficult to trust the decision behind anything Miron does.
More than that, I’m finding it difficult to trust myself.
The Aeons’ Gate, the relic we’ve been hired to seek out, is named for demons. Not just demons, but arch-demons, demons supreme. Demons with actual titles: ‘Kraken Queens’ and ‘Mother Deeps’. Demon aristocracy, though I’m certain there’s a fouler term for their social class. These are the things I’ve been hired to chase down, these are the things I’ve been told will be the salvation of mankind, the bridge between heaven and earth.
Despite all the lies. . well, hold it, there’s only been one lie, really, but it was rather prominent. At any rate, despite that, I’ve still agreed to go off in search of the thing in exchange for one thousand pieces of gold.
It’s a respectable sum, to be certain, but there remains a tart taste around the knowledge that one’s soul, dignity and livelihood come at a price. For a while, I actually began to believe Asper when she told me that the human soul was beyond the weight of metal. I suppose I showed her.
There’s time to turn back, to reject Miron’s offer, to stay on board the ship and jump off at Toha and find the next priest, pirate or person who requires a sword arm and a lack of questions. For the life of me, however, I simply can’t go down there and tell him I quit. I suspect it’s because, as I’ve turned the possibilities over in my head, I continually fail to come up with a reason to turn back.
Dismemberment, death, decapitation, decay and drowning, on dry land or otherwise, are certainly deterrents. On the other hand. . one thousand coins, split evenly amongst five people, still exceed the number most people will ever see in their lifetime. Certainly sufficient to find more respectable work, perhaps opening a smithy or an apothecary, or investing in slaves in the cities where the fleshtrade is permitted. This is presuming that everyone comes back alive, a staggeringly unlikely estimate by even generous accounts; if someone dies, the shares increase.
I suspect this line of reasoning should strike me as considerably more horrifying than it does.
And yet, it’s not just about money, even though I know it ought to be. I suggest that whoever is reading this should season the next few lines with a bit of salt.
I want to find the demon. I want to find it and kill it. I want to find it and kill it and I don’t know why.
It’s far more likely that the thing will find and kill me first, I know, but all the same, there’s something inside me that makes me want to track down the beast and put my sword through it. I never got the chance to strike it directly, as something roiling around in my head reminds me often, and I have to know what will happen when I do. Between blinks, I know this is ridiculous logic: the thing took a spear through its belly and survived, likely my sword won’t do anything more than tickle it. And yet. . when I close my eyes, it all makes sense.
When I close my eyes, I hear a voice that is not my grandfather’s.
I suspect if I were to hear an actual voice, one of reason or even one threatening a stiff blow to the side of my head, I might be able to get these ideas out into the open and, upon hearing my own madness, be able to reject them. My companions haven’t been forthcoming, however, indicating that they’re either fine with the idea of chasing after demons or simply don’t want to talk to me.
It’s difficult to tell which.
Denaos slipped away shortly after our little meeting had concluded, citing the need for last indulgences while slinking off towards the cabin of one of the female passengers. Dreadaeleon, rife with ‘magic headaches’ or some manner of wizardly affliction decent people were never meant to know of, found some dark corner to sip tea in and pore over his book.
Asper, as far as I know, has been in various states of penance, meditation and prayer, tended to by Quillian. The Serrant clings to our priestess like a bloated tick; I suppose this isn’t unusual, given the symbiotic or parasitic relationship between their respective callings. All the same, I’m more than a little inclined, at times, to believe the rumours whispered about the Serrant, to give more than just a passing chuckle to the jokes Denaos makes about her.
Gariath, surprisingly, did deign to talk to me beyond grunted derisions of my race. He proved less than helpful in convincing me of the folly of chasing after demons, apparently sharing the sentiments of what may or may not be a symptom of insanity in my head. ‘If you’re scar
ed, go sleep on a bed of urine,’ he suggested. ‘Very warm, I hear.’
In truth, I had hoped to speak to Kataria. She was. . not forthcoming.
I don’t suppose I can blame her, really. Only an hour or two after the Abysmyth was driven off, I managed to not only convince her that I was utterly mad, but savagely attack her and then persuade her to follow me on a chase after the damned thing. If this were any other situation, I’m sure I’d marvel at my ability to turn such a circumstance to advantage.
More than that, I needed to talk to her. I needed to tell her I wasn’t mad, so that she would confirm that. If I tell myself I’m not mad, it’s not reliable, since it could be the madness talking. But if she tells me I’m not mad, then it’s clear that I’m not because she’s just a savage shict, not mad, even if the race itself is more than a bit mad.
And beyond even that, I needed to tell her something. I don’t know what it was, though. Whenever I close my eyes to think of it, I keep hearing the logic, the voice, the need to go after the demon and kill it. All I can think of to say to her is something about how sweaty she is.
In fact, I did try to tell her. Her response was a shrug, a roll onto her side and a profoundly decisive breaking of wind in my general direction. As one might imagine, negotiations were promptly concluded afterwards.
The sun is beginning to rise now. It strikes me that I should attempt to get at least an hour’s sleep. It strikes me as odd that I’m yearning for conversation. My grandfather used to tell me that the moments before an honest killing were tense, silent, no one able to talk, eat or sleep. Maybe I want to alleviate that tension by talking to someone, anyone. Maybe I want them to tell me I’m doing the right thing by going off to chase demons. Maybe I just want to hear something other than the waves.
Maybe I want to stop hearing voices when I close my eyes.
The crew is emerging on deck. Time is short. I’ll write later, presuming survival.