Sea of Revenants (Nysta Book 6)

by Lucas Thorn

  “Sounds personal to me.”

  “That’s because you don’t understand the sea.” She smiled at the elf’s sour expression. “Don’t be offended. You’re not from the islands. But for us, we live in it. And it might look peaceful to you sometimes. But it’s not. It’s ruthless. And you have to respect it, or it’ll chew you up. Think about sharks.”

  “Reckon I’d rather not,” the elf said drily.

  “And I get that, too. They’re fucking monstrous to look at. Even worse to watch them eat.” She waved her spoon. “But they don’t eat us because they hate us. They eat us because they’re hungry. That’s just life. The way it is. And we’ve got an island on the east side of the Crossbones called Lockjaw. There’s a temple there, too. Small and made of old ships sort of hammered together. Real old ships. Some from the Night Age, they say. It’s dedicated to an old god of the sea. A god we’ve all forgotten the name of. But he looks like a shark, only he’s supposed to be as big as an island and his teeth are bigger than a boat. So, we leave offerings to him. Hope that keeps him happy. Happy enough he doesn’t send one of his little cousins to chew on us, right? And we’ve got another temple on Fold which no one knows what it’s for. Some god who looks like a kraken. But with the wings of a bat. We’d hate to see that bastard ever rise out of the sea, so we shove a few apples on a plate and hope for the best. We’ve got this thing about temples here. Maybe that’s why the one-eyed dickhead over there is obsessed with Lightforge and its supposed statues of men with the wings of a dove. Right now you’re thinking the Crossbones is just a bunch of islands full of crazy cults, but it ain’t about worshipping strange gods. It’s about respect. For the sea. For the temples. Show respect to them, and they’ll respect you back. That’s how we see it. Well. Most of us.”

  “Maks is different,” the elf guessed.

  “Yeah. Maks is one of a new kind who’ve been moving here this past few years. They’re looking for something, I think. Something they haven’t found.” She sighed. “Look, I know it sounds crazy all this talk of wanting to be draug. Maybe it is. But that could be one of the reasons he was called the Madman in the first place. He drives all those who work at the temple mad, for sure. You should see Ihan when he’s carving stone. But I look at it like the Madman’s strong. Stronger than anything else in these waters. And strength should always be respected. You don’t respect it, it’ll consume you. Maybe that’s why the Ox was chosen. Because we’ve forgotten to respect him. We got too used to him protecting us all the time. Forget he could also kill us if he wanted.”

  The elf nodded. The Deadlands had its oddities, she remembered.

  She’d once walked into the camp of a few bandits who were busy praying in front of a large obsidian rock. A shapeless mass which they thought was a fragment from the eye of Grim. Chipped from his pupil in the moment of his death, it’d rocketed into the sky and landed in the Deadlands to watch over his chosen people.

  That’s what they’d believed.

  They’d also believed she should kneel to it.

  She unconsciously reached for a strip of cloth knotted into her hair. She hadn’t knelt.

  Later, as the young woman snored with her head on the table, the elf couldn’t stop thinking of the gods of the islands and their strange need for offerings. Was that why the Madman’s draug were chasing them? Because they wanted a sacrifice?

  She remembered the oddly serene looks on the faces of a few of the crew as they’d been pulled from the Blue Ox. Surely enough blood had been spilled, even for a god.

  The fire’s light trickled through the dark room.

  Exhausted, Halvir muttered in his sleep. He’d sat himself down with his back to the door, determined no draug would come through without him knowing.

  Didn’t want to die in his sleep, he said. Or wake to find one gnawing on his face.

  It was a good idea, and one she’d considered herself.

  Stern was in his own room. A small hollow carved off to the side with a hammock stretched across. He’d worked a long time on Maks, cleaning the wound out and stitching it shut with a tidier hand than he looked to have.

  The blind man still hadn’t moved. Cowl drawn over his head completely, the top tip brushing against the table in front of him. Hadn’t moved his arms. Hadn’t touched the mug of beer in front of him, even when Saja offered to drink with him as she dived into a jug the old man had delivered after her meal.

  A jug the elf had shared with the nagging sense that something was missing. Something which would make everything slot together nicely in her head.

  Strange gods. Eldritch temples. Ritual sacrifice.

  Raiders dedicated to delivering their bodies to a crazed creature of the sea.

  Feeling the sly fog of alcohol weaving through her mind, the elf rose from the bench and massaged her lower back. Cleaned out the aches from sitting so long.

  Then trod slowly through the clutter to stand above the sleeping body of Maks. The one-eyed raider had lapsed into genuine sleep since his leg had been brutally cleaned and wrapped. He smelled of blood and Stern’s healing herbs. And sweat.

  She looked to Halvir, but the big raider had his head low on his chest and wasn’t moving.

  Saja snuffled.

  Stern was out of sight.

  And the blind man didn’t move as she reached out slowly and began going through Maks’ pockets. Found a few gems. A coin with odd geometric stamping.

  In other words, nothing.

  Then her eye caught the glint in his boot and she reached to pull the knife free. Admired it for a moment, taking note of the clean hilt which looked to be new. The blade itself was straight and almost ornamental.

  A trinket more than a tool, then.

  The steel didn’t look very strong. Like it might snap if it got caught between ribs.

  She wondered why a raider would have such a pretty weapon.

  A pretty weapon with an odd carving on the handle. A face. Serene and with closed eyes. Meticulously carved into the wood with high cheeks and androgynous beauty. No hair, though. Instead, it was ringed by small triangles aiming outward.

  Familiar, but not.

  Something about it touched her nerves in a way she didn’t like. Maybe it was local, she thought, but she doubted it.

  Until she’d seen his knife, she considered everything about the raiders and their equipment to be practical and sometimes brutal. This was neither.

  Maybe he’d looted it, she thought. Maybe he hoped to sell it.

  She slid it back into his boot and returned to her seat. Looked down at her hands, face troubled by the symbol on his knife. The circle of triangles radiating outward from the face meant nothing to her, but the face itself?

  It was there, on the tip of her mind. Words of a song from her childhood. A song she couldn’t quite dredge up from her memory. A thought, half-formed. A thought so repulsive she actually didn’t want to think it.

  Instead of thinking, she pushed her hand to her mug. Lifted it slowly to her mouth.

  Aimed a salute to the blind man.

  “Here’s to closing our eyes to the truth,” she said softly. Waited, and when he didn’t reply; “Yeah, feller. Reckon neither of us sees the point in that.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  She woke slowly.

  Too slowly.

  Her head felt crushed between two slabs of concrete and her hands heavier than stone. She curled her fingers, feeling knuckles creak as they moved without strength.

  Taste of something bitter in her mouth.

  Acrid.

  Coppery.

  She rolled her cheek across the table, spitting the taste from her mouth. “Magic,” she growled. “Fucking magic.”

  Sluggish, the worms swam through her veins, nosing muscle and probing tendon.

  Waking. Just as confused as she was.

  She tried to lift her head, but couldn’t. Not at first.

  Fingers squeezed into fists. Fists she pressed hard against the table as leverage to push herself
upright. Violet eyes burning with hate as she reeled on the bench before sliding to the ground on lucid muscle. A puppet without strings.

  Her face aimed toward the round door of Stern’s waystation. A door now wide open. Blood splashed across the doorframe and pooled on the floor. Laying in the dark red puddle, Halvir stared back at her with empty eyes already fogged with the misty breath of the Old Skeleton.

  Several holes in his chest. One in his throat.

  Not draug, though, she noticed. Gasping with the effort it took, she hauled herself up again, leaning her elbows on the bench behind her. Legs pushing as hard as she could. Mind working with crippled speed, trying to figure out what had happened.

  More blood across the counter.

  Old Stern. The sour-smelling man was stinking even worse now his belly had been ripped opened and his intestines splashed out across the counter. He lay on his back, arms dangling off the edge. Dead eyes wide to reflect the agonised torment of his final moments. Open mouth had exhaled his last breath toward the ceiling.

  The elf turned again, neck not quite holding her head properly. The bench where Maks had been. Ropes strewn like cut snakes. Stained with the one-eyed raider’s blood.

  But no body.

  “Saja,” she groaned through numb mouth. She couldn’t feel her lips. “Saja?”

  The young woman wasn’t there either. No sign of her. A mug on its side, contents spilled. Drooling off the side of the bench. Forming its own puddle. Glistening and dark.

  She squeezed eyes shut.

  Blinked.

  Shook her head to clear the thick fog and found her eyes pulled toward the corner of the room where the blind man sat, shrouded in his cloak. Cowl pulled over his face. Unmoved since she’d seen him there the night before.

  “You,” she growled. “You’re a spellslinger. You cast something. What’d you do to me?”

  The hood twitched. At last, a movement.

  “I’m no mage.” The voice was dry. Like the heavy rasp of a saw amplified through a massive drum. “At least, not in the way you mean.”

  She stumbled forward, struggling to wrap her fingers around A Flaw in the Glass. Unable to. Unable to drag it free with fingers which felt boneless.

  Fury demanded she hurt him.

  Kill him for what he’d done. But her body still refused to respond.

  “What the fuck did you do?”

  “I saved your life.” He lifted his head slowly, still revealing nothing of his face. “The thug you brought here had every intention of slitting your throat while you slept. You might try showing a little more gratitude. Most elfs have that much sense at least.”

  Slumping forward, she leaned on the table and glared at him. Feeling some sensation return to her fingertips. A tingling at the edge of control. “Maks. You’re saying Maks killed them?”

  “He heals fast,” the blind man observed, an amused edge to his voice. “One might think there was more to him than there seemed.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Gone. He took the woman with him. Saja. Was that her name?”

  She squeezed her fingers. Unclenched. Clenched. Buzzing in her ears, but it was fading.

  “Saja.” She said the name only to get her jaw working again. To feel her teeth with her tongue. Reached to awkwardly scrub at her mouth, pushing feeling back into her face. Forcing the skin of her cheeks to lose their claylike solidity and begin to move. “That’s right. Fuck. What happened?”

  “You slept. I think you drank too much. The one you call Maks woke. He worked himself free of his bindings. I didn’t care much about it at first. When you carried him inside, you seemed to be helping him. I didn’t expect any trouble until he cut the throat of your friend at the door.” The blind man cocked his head, listening to the subtle changes in the air. The action of a man who saw through sound. “He stabbed him. I think through his lungs?”

  “Looks about right.”

  “I heard the air hiss. It’s a distinctive sound. Stern woke. I don’t think he wanted to kill him, but the old man panicked. He grabbed something. An axe, maybe. I think the axe did some damage, because he spent longer with Stern than with Maks. And I don’t think the old man enjoyed it.”

  “It ain’t pretty,” the elf allowed. “How come I didn’t hear it?”

  “The man called Maks was fairly efficient. He has some skill at silent murder. But Saja woke when the old man died. Woke long enough to scream a few times before he got to her. He hit her, though. Didn’t kill her. I’m not sure why.”

  “I didn’t wake.” The elf spoke through her teeth. Spit dribbled down her lips which still felt like foreign objects she had no control over. “Why the fuck didn’t I wake?”

  “That, I can’t answer. But he moved to kill you when she was down. He hesitated. And it was in that hesitation I saved your life.” The cloaked form made a sound in the back of his throat. A gruff bark. Perhaps a laugh, but it was quick. So quick, she thought maybe she imagined it. “I’m not good at illusions. But lucky for us both he was still recovering from his injury and panicked by the screams the young woman made. He slit your throat and left. Only, he missed your throat by a few inches.”

  “And he left you alive? Didn’t touch you?”

  “When you first came in here, did you see me?” He made the strange gurgle sound again. “And you people have the gall to call me blind.”

  She finally managed to hold herself steady. “Your illusion. How come it’s left me like this?”

  “I needed you to be still. The last thing I needed was for you to wake when he grabbed your hair and lifted your head. I stopped your heart for a time. That’s all.”

  “That’s all?” She blinked at him. Sweat slithered down her brow as she summoned everything she could to stand on her own feet and grab the hilt of A Flaw in the Glass. “That’s all? You killed me? You fucking killed me.”

  “Don’t be so melodramatic,” he snapped. “Stopping your heart for just a few seconds can’t kill someone like you. It takes more than that, as you well know. If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead. You’d be a little puddle of gore on the floor next to Stern’s guts. I saved your life, Child of Veil. The correct response is an acknowledgement of debt.”

  He waited.

  And the air between them practically vibrated as the elf seethed. Seethed hard because, given she had no reason to doubt his story, he was right. She owed him.

  But it still riled that he’d cast on her. That magic had touched her. Killed her, no matter how temporary he claimed it to be.

  And that wasn’t the most frightening part.

  Forcing her voice to stay even, she spoke. “You know what’s inside me.”

  Didn’t make it a question.

  “Of course I know,” he said. “My eyes might be blind, Nysta, but I can still see more than you can.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Lux Corepith. I doubt that means anything to you.”

  Irritated by the simplicity of his tone, she snapped; “What are you?”

  “Ah. That’s a better question. Maybe there’s hope for you, yet.”

  He moved then, lifted his arms so the tips of his fingers emerged as he pushed the cowl back to finally reveal his face.

  A face, mottled and dry. Skin stretching like paper across his skull. A skull with no hair to hide the desiccated skin. More bone than flesh. Green light drifting on vaporous wings up through the cloak under his chin. Eyes shut tight, lids no longer functioning and looking to have sunk deep into their smudged sockets adding to the effect of his head being no more than a skull.

  Mouth still mostly there, but his right cheek was completely gone to reveal twin rows of teeth and a dry tongue sitting inside his mouth like a strap of old leather.

  Flaps of skin clinging to his neck. A few veins pumped something which wasn’t blood through his body, and strings of muscle fingered loosely at his bone.

  He didn’t open his cloak, but she knew what she’d see if he did.

 
She’d seen it before on another just like him.

  “Deathpriest,” she said. “You’re a deathpriest.”

  “Good. You know. That saves us the agony of more stupid questions.”

  “Why?” She could stand now. But her brain still felt fuzzy. She pressed at her temples. “Why save me? You let the others die, but you saved me.”

  “Another good question.” His papery skin drew his lips back into a smile almost as cruel as her own. “I didn’t need them.”

  The words chilled her to the bone and she snarled in the back of her throat as she spat at him. “Whatever it is you want, you better know I ain’t the kind who likes being manipulated.”

  He clicked his tongue against the dry roof of his mouth. The sound vibrated in the hollow of his skull. “It’s hardly manipulation to save your life and expect a little fucking gratitude,” he hissed. “I don’t care what kind of person you are. In fact, the meaner you are, the better. I need mean. And pissed off. I need that, too. You’ll give me those things if you have them. Give them to me willingly, too, in the end. Manipulation is getting you to do things you don’t want to do. But you’re a killer, Nysta. I don’t have to see your eyes to know there’s murder in them right now. I can smell it on your breath! But you owe me. Owe me your life. And you’ll repay.”

  Her heart pulsed quicker as the worms did their work. Whatever he’d done to her, they were washing it away. Pushing it aside.

  She rolled her shoulders as she studied his deathless face.

  Still burned with a desire to kill him. But it was tempered by the knowledge she owed him.

  And whatever it was she was turning into, she couldn’t deny this one simple fact which stayed her hand. It wasn’t honour. Not really.

  It was just her nature. Something she’d always felt compelled to do. No matter what, she’d always repay a debt. And now, thanks to an ork who’d stood with her on the Wall of Darkest Shadow, she’d even consciously work to make it count.

  He sat smugly, waiting with still patience. Calm grin firm as he let her dwell on conflicting emotions until she relented and her rigid stance settled into something more fluid. More relaxed.