by Sam Sykes
Where was the reason? Where was the logic?
By the time the longface stood over her, all teeth and fire, she had no answer and Dreadaeleon was still dead.
‘Do not think this to be unkind, little pinkling.’ He extended his hand, the fire engulfing it from tip to wrist. ‘It is the way of things, you find, as all others shall. We are netherling. We are Arkklan Kaharn.’ He narrowed his eyes, glowing red. ‘Ours is the right to take.’
There was no cry from her, no protest as he eyed her arm hungrily. She barely had eyes for him and his wicked fire. Her gaze was upon Dreadaeleon, her lips quivering as they sought the words to offer his limp body.
You shouldn’t have bothered, she thought. It’s better this way. . you didn’t have to die, Dread. I did. You shouldn’t have become involved.
‘Forgive me,’ was all she whispered.
All that she heard, however, was the throaty, ragged breath from above. Longface and priestess looked up as one, seeing the massive, red chest that rose and fell with each red-flecked burst of air. They looked up further, past the massive, winged shoulders and into the narrowed, black eyes that stared down contemptuously upon them.
‘Oh. . my. .’ The longface swallowed hard at the sight of rows of white, glistening teeth bared at him.
Gariath’s jaws flashed open, his roar sending the male’s white hair whipping across his purple face. The netherling responded swiftly, hands up like torches against the night, mouth straining not to fumble in fear as he uttered the words that caused the flames to leap from his palms and into the gaping maw of this new aggressor.
The dragonman vanished behind the curtain of fire for but a moment before emerging, flesh smeared black, blood boiling in the crevasses of his scowl, eyes painted a ferocious orange by the flame. His hands rose, pressing against the fire, containing it within his claws until he reached down to seize the netherling’s own digits with an extinguishing hiss and a sputter of smoke.
The longface’s shriek was louder than the sound of his fingers snapping, the tears streaming from his eyes thicker than the blood coating his foe’s face. He staggered backwards as Gariath released him, his appendages hanging limply at his sides, oozing liquid that sizzled as it spattered upon the ground.
‘You. . you dare!’ the longface tried to roar, but could only whimper as he fought to scowl through his sobs. ‘It is futile, beast! Your whole fleeting life is nothing but a sigh on the wind before Sheraptus finds you! Both of you! ALL OF YOU!’
Gariath ignored him, stalking towards the netherling with claws flexing.
‘We are netherling!’ the longface continued to shriek. ‘We come from nothing! We return to nothing! And nothing you do can change-’
‘Stop.’
Gariath interrupted the longface, sliding the tips of his claws between delicate teeth. He hooked another two digits under his prey’s upper jaw. The skin of the netherling’s mouth gave one groan of protest, choked on the man’s terrified sob.
‘Talking.’
Asper was jolted by the sound. The sudden rip, the shudder of the longface’s body as it twitched, then hung in Gariath’s grasp for a moment. When the body hit the floor, when Gariath stood, breathing heavily, streaked with blood and black, something purple, white and glistening clenched in his hand, she realised.
I’m still alive.
For all the death that surrounded her, all the ash pervading the air, all the blood on the stones, the only person who should have died was still alive. Her, she realised, and Gariath.
But Dread. .
‘Dread,’ she said suddenly, clambering to her feet. She looked to Gariath with desperation. ‘He’s-’
‘Still alive,’ the dragonman grunted, tossing the glistening object of purple and white over his shoulder to clatter and bounce across the floor.
‘He. . is?’
He is. She could see it, the faint stir of his body as he pulled himself out of the salt water, only to collapse again.
‘He is! He’s still alive.’
‘I am still alive.’
Asper looked up, took a step back as Gariath staggered forwards. The murder in his eyes had not dissipated, the red did not coat his hands entirely. His teeth were bared at her, his body shuddering with every haggard step he took towards her.
‘Still alive,’ he repeated, ‘because of you.’
‘Because of. .’ She glanced over his body, saw the gaping wounds, the chunks of missing flesh, the countless bruises. ‘Gariath, you need help.’
‘You already helped me,’ he snarled, taking another step forwards. ‘You fought that one longface, left me with three others.’ His wings twitched and his lip curled. ‘Does it look like three could kill me?’
At that moment, it looked like a half-blind, incontinent kitten could kill him, but she chose to say something more sympathetic.
‘I can tend to you, Gariath. I can-’
‘What can you do?’ he roared and his body trembled with the effort. ‘You cannot kill. You cannot let me be killed. You can’t do anything!’ She recoiled, not at his bared teeth, but at the tears that glistened in his eyes. ‘I should be dead! I should be with my ancestors! I should be with my family!’ He levelled a finger at her. ‘And all I have now. . is you.’
‘I. . didn’t-’
‘And you won’t.’ He drew his arm back. ‘Ever again.’
The blow came fiercely, but slowly. Asper instinctively darted away from it, but it did not stop. His great red fist became a falling comet, dragging the rest of him to the floor where he struck with a crash. She remained tense, even as he dragged himself towards her, extended a quivering hand and uttered two words.
‘Hate. . you. .’
And he fell. Still breathing, she noted, but not moving, like Dreadaeleon, like the rest of Irontide. Whatever it had been before, before it was taken by pirates, before it was taken by demons, it was truly forsaken now.
Bodies lay everywhere, the salt choked with blood, the stones littered with flesh, the air tainted by ash. Whatever netherlings had escaped were gone now, their snarling cries absent in the silence as smoke and water poured out of Irontide’s jagged hole. Death drew a merry ring about the hall, haphazard bodies scattered artistically in a ritual circle at the centre of which stood Asper, still alive, still breathing.
Still cursed.
‘Why,’ she asked as she collapsed to her knees, ‘why am I still alive?’
‘Good question.’
Denaos did not look entirely out of place, standing nearby, hands on hips as he surveyed the carnage. Clad in black, his flesh purple in places from bruising, he looked the very spectre of Gevrauch, come to reap a bloody harvest from the white and purple fields. The rogue merely scratched his chin, then looked to her and smiled.
‘Still alive, I see.’ His eyes drifted to Gariath and Dreadaeleon. ‘And them?’
‘Yes,’ she replied.
‘Not by much, it looks like,’ he said, wincing. Quietly, he stepped forwards. ‘Netherlings gone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Demons dead?’
‘Yes.’
She felt his shadow, cool against the heat of the flames. She felt his hand on her shoulder, strong against the softness of her aching body. She felt his eyes on hers, hard and real, full of questions and answers.
‘Asper,’ he asked, ‘are you all right?’
She bit her lower lip, wishing more than anything that she had tears left to weep with. Instead, she collapsed forwards, pressing her face against his shoulder as she whispered.
‘Yes.’
Thirty
MORE PERSONABLE COMPANY
Lenk held his hand before his face, turning it over.
‘That’s odd,’ he muttered.
‘Hm?’ someone within replied.
‘My skin. . I don’t remember it being grey.’
‘An issue worthy of concern.’
‘And my head. . it feels heavy.’
‘Moderately distressing.’
&n
bsp; ‘Only moderately?’
‘In comparison to the fact that we’re still alive, I should have added. Apologies.’
‘It’s fine.’ He blinked, lowered his hand to feel the cold rock beneath him. ‘I am still alive, aren’t I?’
‘We are, yes.’
‘Apologies. I forgot you were there.’
‘Think nothing of it.’
‘I thank you. .’ Lenk furrowed his brow. ‘You know, I don’t ever recall you being quite so chatty. Usually, it’s all “kill, kill” with you.’
‘You haven’t really cared to hear what I have to say,’ the voice replied. ‘When one speaks to closed ears, one places a priority on available words.’
‘Point taken.’ He let the silence hang inside his head for a moment. ‘Who are you?’
‘Pardon?’
‘We’ve never been properly introduced.’
‘Is that really necessary at this point?’
‘I suppose not. . but I feel I should know who you are if you’re going to do what you did back in the water.’
‘Excuse that intervention. Things were looking quite grim.’
‘I suppose they were. But there are no worries now.’ He smiled at the familiarity of the satchel beneath his head, the tome safe and supportive within. ‘We have the book. The Deepshriek is gone. It’s over.’
‘It is not.’
The voice was painfully clear and crisp now, as though it was hissing in his ear. He could almost feel its icy breath upon his water-slick skin. And yet, he did not so much as shiver. The chill felt almost natural, as did the presence that settled all around him, within him. It felt familiar, comforting.
And cold.
‘I. . beg to differ,’ he replied. ‘We’re alive. We’ve got a tome and a sword. What else do you need?’
‘Duty. Purpose. Death.’
‘There you go with the “death” thing again-’
‘You think it wise to leave the Deepshriek alive?’
‘No, but I-’
‘You chopped off a head. It has three.’
‘That usually suffices with most people.’
‘That thing is not people.’
‘Point taken.’
‘What of the others? They are weak. . purposeless. Let us lie here if you wish them all to die.’
‘The Deepshriek said-’
‘Three mouths to lie with. . apologies, two now. We should have killed it when we had the chance.’
‘It ran.’
‘We could have pursued.’
‘Through water?’
‘Through anything. It fears us. It fears our blade.’
‘Our blade?’
‘The hand that wields it is nothing without the duty to guide it.’
‘I’m. . not quite up for philosophy at this point. How do we get to the others?’
‘Others?’
‘Kataria. . the others-’
‘Ah. That remains a problem.’
Lenk looked upwards. The stone slab loomed, impassable as ever despite the deep gash that had been rent in its face. A tiny fragment of grey broke off, tumbling down the depression to bounce off the ledge and strike Lenk’s forehead.
‘It’s mocking me,’ he growled.
‘It’s stone.’
‘Have you any idea how to get out?’
‘I do.’
Lenk waited a moment.
‘Well?’
The voice made no reply.
Water lapped against water, against stone. Fire that had shifted from unnatural emerald to vibrant, hissing orange sputtered and growled in the wall sconces. The waves made lonely mutters against the stone wall. Something heavy bumped against the outcropping.
Wait. .
He rolled over and stared into the water, into the golden eyes staring back up at him. He froze momentarily before realising the eyes did not blink, the mouth lay pursed, the golden hair wafted in the waters as the head bobbed up and down with the rhythm of the churning gloom.
Lenk grimaced. He was a moment from turning his gaze away when a hint of movement caught his eye. He leaned over, staring intently at the severed head. The eyes twitched, he felt his heart stop.
Is. . he thought to himself, is that thing. . still alive?
Fingers trembling, he reached down and poked it. It bobbed beneath the waves, then rose again, still staring. Swallowing his fear and his vomit, he seized it by its hair and pulled it out of the water. The eyes twitched, glanced every which way, as if seeking the shark it had been attached to. Its lips quivered, mouthing wordless threats to empty air.
‘Disgusting,’ he said, blanching. He caught an errant glance of himself in the void-like waters, then raised a brow. ‘That’s. . unusual. I don’t really ever recall having-’
‘Time is limited,’ the voice interrupted. ‘We must focus on this newfound gift the Deepshriek left us.’
‘I beg to differ.’
He was prepared to throw it back into the gloom, regardless of the answer, when he heard it. A faint, barely audible sound, as though someone whistled from miles away. Against all wisdom, he drew it closer to his ear.
Wordlessly, an almost-silent breath hissed between its teeth. He turned it over, glancing where its stalk-like neck had been attached. A blackened, bloodied hole stretched from hair to jaw beneath. Air murmured through it, emerging from the creature’s fanged mouth.
‘Sweet Khetashe,’ he fought bile to speak, ‘it is alive.’
‘It has a new duty now,’ the voice replied.
Lenk turned to the stone slab, watching another shard crumble and slide down like a drop of stone sweat. He smiled, rose to his feet, sheathed his sword and slung the tome’s satchel about his shoulder.
‘We have but to give it that duty,’ the voice said, and — how, he had not the faintest idea — Lenk knew what it meant.
He walked before the slab, dangled the decapitated head by its golden tresses and whispered a word.
‘Scream.’
Even over the explosion, the stone shattering and the hail of rock chips, Kataria could hear the shrieking. In fragments of sound, it had been painful, uncomfortable, but tolerable. Bared to its full vocal fury, it was agonising. And in response, she became a creature of folds: folding her ears over themselves, folding her hands over her ears and folding her body over itself.
Shards of grey bit at her bare back, the earth settled ominously under her feet, dust poured into her nostrils. None of that mattered, none of that pain needed to be felt. All she thought of was the hideous wail that defiled the air, and keeping it from turning her ears into flayed pieces of glistening bacon hanging from her head.
How long it lasted, Kataria did not know, and she did not care. When it finally ceased, it still echoed in the hall, reverberating off stones and ripples and breaths she took. After an eternity of darting eyes and nervous twitching, she took her hands away from her ears, breathed a word of thanks mingled with a curse, and turned around.
And then, the screaming suddenly didn’t seem so bad.
Two thin pinpricks of light, cold and blue, stared at her from behind a cloud of dust that, mercifully, showed no signs of dissipating. She swallowed hard, clenched her teeth.
‘Lenk,’ she said, rather than asked. There was no mistaking him or his stare.
The two tiny spheres flickered, a shadow moved behind the dust cloud. It shifted against the curtains of pulverised grey, as though agitated or confused.
‘I think. .’ a voice, faint and freezing, spoke, ‘she’s talking to you.’
The voice was familiar to her. She remembered it as well as she remembered Lenk’s own. And now they spoke in unison, each one with a crisp clarity that settled upon her skin like rime.
She could feel her heart sink. Whatever dwelt on the other side of the dust cloud was not completely Lenk. Perhaps, she thought, maybe not even Lenk at all.
‘What?’ When he spoke next, it was with his own voice, but it was frightened, shrill, like a small child’s. ‘No, I did
n’t mean. . stop. Don’t yell at me!’
This was it, she knew, the sign she had been waiting for. He was a disease within a disease now, completely lost to whatever plagued him. These were the moments she should be running instead of staring at his shadow through the veil of dust. These were the moments she should turn, leave this human — all humans — behind her and thank Riffid for giving her the clarity to be free of her shame.
‘Stop it. .’ he whimpered, his voice rising into a roar. ‘I said stop!’
He would never hear her footsteps as she walked away. She kept that in mind as she turned to the water, reassuring herself. He would think it all a dream in his fevered mind, he would think she was dead. He would never suspect that she had left him behind.
And still, she cursed herself. She should be braver, she should be able to stand before the human disease, the great sickness that plagued the world, and spit on him through a shictish curse. Her father would have wanted that. Her people would have wanted that.
For her part, Kataria merely wanted to fight back the urge to turn around.
‘Kat …’
Damn it, she muttered in her mind as she halted, damn it, damn it, damn it.
She turned, only to be greeted by another sign. The curtains of smoke parted, layer by layer, exposing the shadow behind in greater detail. Her blood froze at the sight, the distorted shape of the young man, the jaggedness of his outline and the bright, ominous blue with which his eyes shone.
He extended a hand to her, trembling, far too big to be his own and whispered.
‘Please. .’
This was the final sign, Riffid’s last mercy to her. She should turn, walk away, run away, leave this human and whatever he had become in the shadows behind her. Her ancestry demanded it. Her pride as a shict demanded it. Her own instincts demanded it.
Kataria listened carefully. And, in response, she drew in a sharp breath and walked into the cloud of dust.
‘I’m here,’ she said as she might speak to an injured puppy, her hands groping about blindly. ‘I’m here, Lenk.’