Black Halo (Aeons Gate 2)

by Sam Sykes

  ‘Why is it not an insect, then?’

  ‘Its identity is its own, I suppose.’

  Sheraptus glanced down to the sand and the tiny crab. ‘Why does it exist?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘A tiny thing that moves in the same, meaningless direction as other tiny things, that looks exactly like other tiny things, but is not the same tiny thing as the others?’ He quirked a brow. ‘I have never seen such a thing.’

  ‘They have no such things in the Nether?’

  ‘None. Females are females. Males are males. Females kill. Males speak with nethra. This is how things are.’ He sighed, rolling his eyes. ‘This is what makes them so … dull.’

  ‘Hence our agreement.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Sheraptus said. He adjusted the crown on his head, felt the red stones inside it burn at his touch. ‘And while I am not ungrateful for your donations, I have some reservations.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘This world … I have difficulty comprehending it. The Nether is dull, of course, but it is logical. It makes sense. This one …’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘I suppose I’m mainly concerned with everyone’s decision to do whatever they want.’

  ‘Expound?’

  ‘This is supposedly an island of death, yes?’

  ‘The war between Ulbecetonth’s brood and the House of the Vanquishing Trinity left the land scarred. The taint of death is embroiled in its very earth. Nothing pure grows here. Nothing pure lives here.’

  ‘I believe you said, originally, that nothing lived here, period.’

  ‘Did I?’ The Grey One That Grins smiled. ‘It likely seemed more dramatic at the time, the better to catch your interest. Apologies for the deception.’

  ‘Please, think nothing of it. My interest is certainly caught. But as we see, things do live here.’ He glanced down the beach. ‘Or did, anyway.’

  The earth there was a place of deeper death than even the ruinous battlefield of the beach could match. The earth was seared black, still smoking in places. Mingled amongst the burned earth were shapes consisting of two arms and two legs, their bodies twisted into ash that flaked off with each stray gust of wind. They were scarcely distinct from the blackened earth, let alone as Those Green Things they had started life as.

  ‘Truth be told, they are among the source of my worries.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘They came down. They attacked me.’

  ‘You were on their land.’

  ‘Their land that nothing lives on.’

  ‘It was still theirs.’

  ‘But why? Why bother over such a land? Would it not make more sense to depart to a place where life persists?’

  ‘If you’ll recall, and I mean no disrespect in reminding you, they did have such a land. You repurposed it.’

  ‘Your generosity is obliged, but I take no offence in the common term.’ Sheraptus shrugged. ‘The netherlings required their land. We took it.’

  ‘And why did you take it?’

  ‘Because we are strong. They are weak. Why did they not simply flee from us?’

  ‘Ah, I begin to see your puzzlement. May I pose a theory?’

  ‘By all means.’

  ‘The term you seek is “symbiosis”.’

  ‘Sym … bi … osis,’ he sounded it out. A smile of jagged teeth creased his purple lips. ‘I like that word. What does it mean?’

  ‘It is the condition in which, through mutual cooperation, one life-form supports another.’

  ‘Ah, now I am further confused. You’ll have to pardon me.’

  ‘Not at all. Consider them …’ The Grey One That Grins gestured to the burned corpses.

  ‘Those Green Things,’ Sheraptus said, nodding. ‘Well, not so green anymore. What of them?’

  ‘They did not abandon their land until they had no choice, because to abandon their land would mean their death. They cultivate the land, feed their trees, guard their waters. In return, the land provides them with fruit and fish to feed off of.’

  ‘Mm,’ Sheraptus hummed. ‘One almost feels poorly for what we did to them.’

  ‘Almost?’

  ‘As I said, we required their land if we are to return your generous contributions.’

  ‘Please, don’t make any mistake. The Martyr Stones are our gift to you.’ His companion gestured to the crown. ‘You have used them wisely thus far. We trust that you will use them wisely in days to come.’

  ‘Trust …’ Sheraptus gazed skyward for a moment, his milk-white, pupilless eyes lighting up. ‘Ah. I believe I understand. Do you mind if I theorise?’

  ‘Oh, please do.’

  ‘Symbiosis is what you believe us to be. You give us these stones, you lead us to this new green world and in return …’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We kill the underscum. This … Kraken Queen of yours.’

  ‘You seem to grasp it quite well.’

  ‘Yet I remain puzzled.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Indeed. I am told there is a bigger, vaster world beyond these chunks of sand floating in this … it’s called an ocean?’

  ‘It is and there are.’

  ‘A bigger, vaster world filled with more beasts, more birds, more trees and more people and all their vast multitudes of invisible sky-people.’

  ‘Gods.’

  ‘Another word for “stupid”.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘And there are …’ He looked to his companion, smirked. ‘Females there?’

  ‘Many.’

  ‘Then why are Sheraptus and Arkklan Kaharn here on this desolate place? Why are we not out and learning more of this world?’

  ‘I did request your presence here.’

  ‘Ah. I suppose the question then becomes, why are we listening to you?’

  His vision was painted red as the nethra surged through him. Crimson light leaked from his eyes, painting his companion as a dark blob against the ruby haze. The Martyr Stones in his crown blazed, the black iron they were set in growing warm with their response.

  It had been the last sight Those Green Things had seen before they were reduced to ash. They had shrieked in their language, tried to crawl over each other to escape. The Grey One That Grins did not try to escape, though. The Grey One That Grins never moved unless he had to.

  He thought he didn’t have to move.

  Sheraptus made people move.

  Sheraptus was not pleased.

  ‘Ah, but how would you make this world work for you?’

  ‘I’d find a way.’

  ‘You did not find a way to reach this world. It was our searching that discovered the Nether before we found heaven.’

  ‘Heaven does not exist.’

  ‘Many suspect it does.’

  ‘Then they are weak.’

  ‘Weakness rules this world, Sheraptus. They believe in things that they themselves do not understand. You cannot hope to understand it, either. Not without us.’

  ‘And what do you provide?’ Sheraptus asked, narrowing his fiery stare. ‘You send us on errands against the underscum. They are weak. The females hunger for greater fights.’

  ‘You suggested that they were dull for their hunger.’

  ‘What I said then and what I say now are different. I, too, tire of this pointless burning. The appeal of the Martyr Stones remains trivial, fleeting. I wish to know more of this land, and all I have discovered are useless relics from useless wars.’

  ‘May I dispute?’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

  ‘I must insist,’ the Grey One That Grins said. ‘Within these ruins lie secrets of the House, the methods they used to banish Ulbecetonth. We must seek them out if we are to destroy her.’

  ‘You mean if I am to destroy her,’ Sheraptus replied. ‘You only seem to emerge when you require something else of me.’

  ‘I would entreat you to have patience with me. My presence is required at many places at once.’

  ‘The
point remains, I have yet to see a reason to oblige you in this vendetta against your demons.’

  ‘You wish to see the world beyond this one? Very well. But know that Gods are strange things. People may not understand it, but they believe that the Gods will protect them in exchange for their devotion.’

  ‘Symbiosis.’

  ‘Precisely. And their devotions come with spears and swords, Sheraptus, and they are many. Arkklan Kaharn numbers how many? Five hundred?’

  ‘That is as many as we’ve been able to bring through the Nether.’

  ‘Slay Ulbecetonth and you shall have more. We will put our resources behind you. We will open more doors to the Nether. We will point you to the seats of knowledge in this world. We will unleash you … if you simply perform this triviality for us.’

  Sheraptus stared at him for a time before he blinked. The stones ceased to burn. His eyes returned to their milky white.

  ‘I suppose I can have patience for a while yet, then,’ he said.

  ‘I am pleased we could reach an agreement. All else goes according to plan?’

  ‘It does. Yldus is scouting the overscum city you wished us to. Vashnear combs this island with the Carnassials.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I am here to speak to someone about a book,’ Sheraptus said, smiling.

  ‘I was intending to inquire as to its status.’

  ‘I am pleased to have saved you the trouble.’

  ‘You would take no offence if I left now, then?’

  ‘Unless you require something else of me.’

  ‘At the moment?’

  ‘Or in the near future.’

  The Grey One That Grins tilted his head to the side, looking thoughtful. Or as thoughtful as Sheraptus suspected his companion was capable of looking.

  ‘I have been made aware of certain presences upon the island,’ he said after a moment. ‘Peculiar creatures that should have died long ago.’

  ‘Beyond Those Green Things?’

  ‘Far beyond. Humans.’

  ‘With all due respect to your awareness and attunements,’ Sheraptus said, ‘I suspect That Thing That Screams would have told me if any other elements arrived.’

  ‘I do not trust that creature.’

  ‘I would suggest, then, that you trust in my hold over her.’

  ‘As you say. Of course, should you find trust in my reasoning, I would ask that you do your best not to slaughter these humans. They continue to oppose Ulbecetonth and have dealt blows against her before.’

  Sheraptus quirked a brow. ‘These are the ones that were at Irontide?’

  ‘The very same. Does this aggravate you?’

  ‘Not entirely, no. The females lost were … females. They’d have been disappointed if they didn’t die.’

  ‘And the male?’

  ‘Cahulus was weak, apparently.’

  ‘I can trust your discretion, then?’

  ‘Discretion …’ Sheraptus hummed the word.

  ‘Judgement.’

  ‘You can concede my judgement.’

  ‘I will settle for that, then.’ The Grey One That Grins turned to go, crawling upon his hands and feet. ‘I trust Vashnear will arrange for the usual transportation?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Very well, then. I leave things in your capabilities.’ The Grey One That Grins continued for another three paces before pausing and glancing over his emaciated shoulder. ‘Sheraptus?’

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘Symbiosis without certainty is faith.’

  ‘Faith being?’

  ‘The ability to move in one direction without necessarily knowing where one is going.’

  ‘Weakness.’

  ‘The one that drives the world.’

  The Grey One That Grins said nothing more as he slinked down the rest of the beach, disappearing behind a dune. Sheraptus watched him go for as long as it took for him to feel it again: a light brushing of air against his cheeks, the faint warmth of fire screened through snow.

  A moth’s wings, flapping.

  He recognised it as nethra, albeit only a faint, fleeting trace of it. Weak as it was, though, the intent behind it was clear. With whatever pitiful power they had, someone was reaching out for him.

  He smiled softly, narrowed his eyes and reached back.

  As one, the fire erupted from his eyes as a wave of force swept out from his body. It sped along the sand, kicking it up in small waves of dirt. In a moment, it dissipated, but the force lingered. He watched it sweep over dunes, over beach, over puddle, following a distant, unseen goal.

  He waited patiently.

  He heard a scream, faint in the distance.

  Female.

  He smiled.

  Dreadaeleon turned at her howl, seeing her clutching at her arm wildly.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Asper wailed. ‘What is it?’

  He was about to ask when he was struck by it a moment later. The force shot through him, reaching up into his body with a burning hand, seizing his bowels in intangible icy fingers and giving it a sharp twist.

  Keep it together, old man, he tried to tell himself. Keep it together. She’s in trouble now. Keep it together for her. He took a step toward her, collapsed onto his knees. Breath was coming in rasping, thick gasps, the force slipping up to choke him from the inside. FOR VENARIE’S SAKE, YOU WEAK LITTLE—

  His insult died with his thoughts as electricity gripped his skull, setting it rattling in its thin case of flesh and hair. For a fleeting moment, he was aware of the sensation, aware of what it meant. Someone was attempting to find his thoughts, to harness the electric impulse in his skull. The human mind was too complex for that, he knew, just as he knew that every experimental attempt to do so had ended in—

  He screamed. He couldn’t hear it. His ears were ringing. His vision was darkening.

  He looked to his side. Asper was not screaming. Why wasn’t she screaming? She was always screaming, always terrified. He was supposed to protect her now. Once he remembered how to use his legs, he decided, he would do just that. All he needed to do was remember how to do that, also how to breathe.

  Asper was clutching her arm, obviously in pain, but speaking clearly. The certainty was still present in the set of her jaw, the determination in her face. But there was something else there, a glimmer of something in her eye. He recognised it; he wished he could remember what it meant.

  With his last thought, he wondered how things could have gone so wrong. He was going to save everyone, save her. But now he was numb, barely aware of the earth moving under him. But as his vision darkened, he could see the gloved hands gripping his shoulders, pulling him along. He stared up into Denaos’ face and summoned up the will for one final thought.

  You dumb asshole.

  Nine

  PESTS

  Five hundred and forty-nine patches of disease crawling on two legs, he thought as he stared down at the tiny port city beneath the setting sun.

  Two hundred and sixty able to hold a weapon, with five hundred and twenty eyes that spoke of their inability to know how.

  One hundred and three of them carrying fishing rods and nets instead, taking their aggressions out against an ocean that was far too kind to them.

  Ninety and six of them infirm, indisposed or suffering from the delusion that their lack of external genitalia was an excuse to let others do the fighting.

  Ninety remained, evenly split between visitors in short boats who believed that the glittering chunks of metal they traded for their fish and grain was what made their civilisation worthy of crushing other peoples beneath its boot, and the children …

  The children …

  Naxiaw scratched his chin, acknowledging the coarse scrawl of tattoos etched from beneath his lip to up over his skull.

  Forty and five little, toddling future lamentations. Forty and five impending regrets on skinny, hairless legs. His eyes narrowed, teeth clenched behind thin lips. Forty and five future murderers, butchers, burners and desec
rators.

  He had counted.

  Diseases all.

  Naxiaw took note of them: where they stood, what weapons they carried and which ones would cower in pools of their own urine when he led the rest of them down into their streets. With a finger smeared with black dye, on a piece of tanned leather, he scrawled the city as he saw it from high on the cliff. His six-toed feet dangled over the ledge, kicking with carefree casualness as he plotted a death with each dab of dye.

  Port Yonder, as the humans called it, was a city built on contempt.

  It was a demonstration of stone walls and hewn wood that the kou’ru bred with more rapidity than could be contained. It was proof that there would never be enough flesh and fish to satisfy their voracity. It was their assertion of contempt for the land, that they would desecrate and destroy in the name of building walls to cower behind, to raise filthy little children behind.

  Children, he knew, that will grow up to consume more land, to spread the same disease.

  It was a city that proved beyond a doubt the threat of humanity.

  He reached behind him, ran his long fingers down the long black braid that descended from his otherwise hairless head. He brushed the four black feathers laced into its tuft. He had earned them the day he proved that threats, no matter how unstoppable they might seem, could be killed.

  The time for vengeance would be later; for the moment, he returned their contempt.

  He sat brazenly out in the open, long having deemed subterfuge and camouflage unnecessary. The humans hadn’t spotted him in the week he’d been there, and wouldn’t. To do that, they would have to look up.

  All it would take for him to be spotted would be for one of them to look up, to see his pale green skin, to squint until they saw the long, pointed ears with six notches carved into each length, to let eyes go wide and scream ‘Shict!’ They would all be upon him, then; they would kill him, find his map, realise there were more of him coming, assemble their forces, pass the word to their many outliers and empires.

  And then, Intsh Kir Maa, Many Red Harvests, and all the long and deliberate years that had gone into its planning would be foiled. The greatest collaboration amongst the twelve tribes would be ruined.

  And the human disease, in all its writhing, gluttonous, greedy glory, would fester.

  But for that to happen, they would have to look up.