Black Halo tag-2

by Sam Sykes

  ‘I’m not having fun because of the fact that I was violently assaulted and I’m surrounded by drunks’ — she paused and edged away from a flailing, cackling Owauku — ‘of various sizes and pigments.’

  ‘Perhaps you could try, possibly?’ he suggested. ‘I mean, before too long, you’ll be back in cold temples, reciting stale vows and flagellating yourself whenever you even think of something mildly amusing. This might be your last chance to do something interesting.’

  ‘Wait, what?’ Dreadaeleon glanced at Asper, worry plain on his face. ‘You’re leaving?’

  ‘What did you expect was going to happen when we reached the mainland?’ Denaos answered before the priestess could.

  ‘I don’t know … find more work or something?’ Dreadaeleon replied. ‘That’s what adventurers do, isn’t it?’

  ‘Adventurers take the opportunities they’re given,’ the rogue spat back. ‘And given that only one of us has the opportunity and reputation to return to decent society, why wouldn’t they take it?’

  Asper made no response to the tall man beyond a look of intent scrutiny. There was something to his eyes, she thought, a quaver he sought to bury beneath snideness and sarcasm that continually dug its way out. It was as if the minute cracks to his visage had begun to spread, seeping into his voice, exposing something dire and desperate beneath.

  ‘And what,’ she asked him softly, ‘will you do when we part ways, Denaos?’

  She had barely expected to be heard through the din of drumming and raucous cheer that echoed off the valley walls. And yet the expression on his face made it quite clear that he had. It didn’t so much crack as fall off in one great, pale sheet, leaving behind a wild, sunken stare and a long, sleepless face.

  He merely stared at her, hollow, as though he weren’t certain whether to search for words or a knife.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he whispered.

  His words were lost on the smoke of the fires, vanishing into the night air. And he, too, vanished, turning and staggering through the green jubilation. And she simply watched him go.

  Against the chaotic festivities and imbibings in the valley, she was starkly aware of Dreadaeleon’s impassiveness. And against his cold expression and folded arms, she was suddenly aware of her own furrowed brow and open mouth.

  ‘You look calm,’ she said with a hint of envy.

  ‘Should I not be?’ he asked, glancing over to her.

  ‘You weren’t at all … confused by what just happened?’

  ‘A drunken lout is doing things drunken and loutish,’ the boy said, shrugging. ‘He’ll wake up tomorrow with a headache and a desperate desire that we all forget what he said tonight. Shortly after that, we’ll be back to hearing snideness, cynicism and sarcasm until his neurosis demands him to try and drown himself again.’ He glanced over the woman’s shoulder. ‘Speaking of …’

  She followed his gaze to a nearby puddle fed by a thin trickle of water, in which an Owauku was passed out facedown, a rapidly fading line of bubbles emerging. She made a move to rise up and help the creature, but Dreadaeleon’s lips were quicker. At a muttered, alien word, the lizardman was flipped over by an invisible force and unceremoniously dropped on his back. Apparently heedless of the roughness, he looked up through eyes as bleary as those the size of fruits could be and grinned.

  ‘Oh, cousin,’ he burbled through liquor-stained teeth, ‘someone loves me tonight.’

  She couldn’t help but smile at the boy. ‘That was rather nice of you.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, looking a little surprised. ‘Yes, I suppose it was.’

  ‘I thought wizards didn’t waste power, though.’

  ‘Well … he was probably going to die,’ Dreadaeleon said, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘I suppose we could have pulled him out ourselves, but by then he might have inhaled a lot of water and you’d feel compelled to give him the kiss of life and …’

  ‘Ah,’ she said, laughing. ‘How noble of you to save me from having to mouth a lizard.’ Her laugh faded, but her smile did not as she regarded him intently. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I suspected that it was worth it to spare you having to resuscitate him and-’

  ‘No, how do you know?’ she interrupted. ‘How are you always so sure?’

  ‘What?’ He cast her a baffled look. ‘I’m not sure I-’

  ‘Yes, you are,’ she replied. ‘You always are. You were certain that you could get us to shore when the ship was destroyed, you know Denaos will be fine, you knew you had to save that lizard … how?’

  He studied her intently and she suddenly understood that her face mirrored his own; somewhere, her expression had gone from smiling curiosity to careful scrutiny. His voice, however, bore none of the uncertainty of hers.

  ‘Why,’ he asked, ‘do you wish to know?’

  ‘Because I’m not sure,’ she blurted out, the answer writhing on her tongue. ‘I haven’t been sure for a long time.’ She glanced down at the earth. ‘It wasn’t always like this. I used to know, because the Gods had to know, and I was content with that.’

  ‘I know you don’t want to hear it,’ Dreadaeleon replied, ‘but I don’t think you’ll find any answers in gods. I don’t think anyone ever has.’

  She should have grown angry, indignant at that. Instead, she looked at him again and frowned. ‘When did you first know?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you didn’t believe in the Gods?’

  ‘Ah,’ he replied. Now he stared at the earth. ‘About a year after I was indoctrinated into the Venarium. I was about eleven, then, my parents having said good-bye to me when I was ten.’ He sighed. ‘They were Karnerian immigrants to Muraska, strict followers of Daeon.’

  ‘The Conqueror,’ she said.

  ‘Indeed. They raised me to believe that their horned god would descend one day, subjugate the Sainites and lay waste to the bestial races, ushering in a new age of progress for humanity. When I learned of my power by accidentally setting my bed on fire, my father wasn’t furious, nor did he sing praises to Daeon. Instead, a week later, the man who would become my tutor took me away and my father had a thick pouch at his belt.’

  ‘They sold you?’

  ‘It’s not an uncommon practice,’ he replied. ‘The Venarium has the right to demand children who show talent — to preserve the Laws, of course — but an incentive is offered for people who turn theirs in before it comes to hunting them down.’

  ‘So it was then …’

  ‘No. I was still saying my prayers as I practised my spells, not taking meals I hadn’t earned, still cursing Sainites. It wasn’t until my indoctrination …’ He stared up at the sky. ‘We all do a task with our mentors to realise our duties to the Venarium. Mine was to hunt down a heretic, someone who practises magic outside our influence.

  ‘We learned he was a priest, a Daeonist, who had thought to put his talents to help his church: repairing roofs, warding off Sainites, that sort of thing. We tracked him down to his home and burst in, demanding that he come with us. He was weak, having no control over his powers had drained him. So his wife stepped before us, my master and I, and threw her arms out to stop us, saying we could not take him, that Daeon needed him.

  ‘We followed protocol, of course. We cited precedent, the agreement between the Venarium and all civilised nations to respect our Laws. After that, a verbal warning, and then finally, a demonstration of power.’ His face grew hard, bitter. ‘She refused to abide by all three.’ His voice was a whisper. ‘We … I burned her alive.’

  Asper stared at him intently. The shock in her gullet was choked by sympathy; she edged closer to him.

  ‘So that did it?’

  ‘That only made me wonder,’ he replied. ‘If a god did exist, and he did love us to the point that we would die for him … why did my parents give me up so easily?’

  When he had finished speaking, she saw him differently and was certain it was his face, and not her eyes, that had changed. By faith or nature, she strove to s
ee him softer, more vulnerable. She scrutinised his eyes for moisture, but found only hardness. His body had become more rigid, as though it ate and found sustenance from his words as he folded his arms and stared past the crowds of lizardmen.

  It was neither faith nor nature, she told herself, that made her reach out a hand and place it upon his shoulder.

  ‘Have you ever … told anyone else about this?’

  She expected him to tremble, as he occasionally did in her presence. It was with utter calm that he turned to her, however.

  ‘It is not a problem of the Venarium, hence not a problem of my mentor, hence no.’

  ‘There are others to talk to, you know,’ she offered.

  ‘I find no solace in priests, obviously,’ he replied coldly. ‘And who amongst the others would listen, even if I wanted to talk to them?’

  ‘Me?’ she asked, smiling.

  Now, he trembled, as though the thought were only occurring to him now. ‘I … already said about priests-’

  ‘I’m also a friend,’ she replied, her smiling fading as she glanced down. ‘And I’ve been considering my position as to the Gods.’ She awaited some considerate word, some phrase of understanding from him, perhaps even a little reassurance. When he merely stared blankly at her, she continued, regardless. ‘It seems … sometimes that no one’s listening. I mean, up there.

  ‘Well, how could they, right? Even if you don’t believe that the Gods watch over everyone, they’re supposed to watch over their followers, aren’t they? So how come I’m frequently surrounded by people obsessed with causing injuries that I’m supposed to cure? And half the time, they’re inflicting said injuries on me. I’ve thought it over, wondered if this was just all a test, but what kind of test just doesn’t end? And what about gods whose messages conflict with others’? If there are so many, and not all of them can be right, who is?’

  She sighed, rubbed her eyes, heard him take in a deep, quivering breath.

  ‘You’ve probably thought about this before, haven’t you? I mean, maybe you’ve wondered if there was anything beyond just this. So, if anyone has some insight, I’d wager you-’

  Empty space greeted her when she looked up, the boy vanished amidst the crowd.

  ‘Do.’

  No sigh followed; she was out of them, almost out of sources for answers, as well. She muttered angrily, reaching out and snatching a mangwo-filled gourd from a passing Owauku who scarcely noticed. She stared down at it with more thought than liquor likely deserved.

  Almost, she told herself as she tipped her head back and drank, but not yet.

  Feasts, fetes and parties were foggy memories in Lenk’s mind. He could recall food, lights, people. He could not recall tastes, warmth, faces. Disturbing, he knew, cause for great alarm, but he could not bring himself to care. The world was without chill memories and cold fears. The bonfires burned brightly; the liquor had long since drowned any concern he had for the sweat peeling off his body and the loincloth precariously tied about his hips.

  No sense in worrying about it, anyway, he thought. After the Kampo, he determined that no other parties would ever matter. Even if he could have remembered them, Steadbrook’s humble festivities would be a world behind the Owauku’s riots.

  And, to hear from her, at least six worlds behind a shictish party.

  ‘So, anyway,’ Kataria said through a voice thick with restrained giggling, ‘there are pretty much only three things worth celebrating.’ She counted them off on her fingers. ‘Birth, death and raids.’

  ‘Raids,’ Lenk mused, his mind seeming to follow his tongue rather than the other way around. ‘You typically kill humans during them, don’t you?’

  ‘Sometimes, and only because they’re the most numerous. But Tulwar, too, and Vulgores, Couthi … well, not Couthi, anymore, obviously, but only because they had it coming.’

  ‘So, you celebrate birth, death … and more death?’

  ‘If you want to dumb it down like a dumb … dumb, yeah,’ she grunted, slurring at the edges of her speech. ‘But it’s the whole atmosphere that makes it special. See, we bring back all the loot … er, reclamations back to camp and eat and drink and sing, and if there was one who was particularly bothersome, we drag his body back to camp — never alive, see — and make a whitetree. That’s when we take them by their legs and … and …’

  She looked up, the fierce glow of her green eyes a contrast to the sheepish smile she shot him.

  ‘It’s a tradition,’ she said, chuckling. ‘Even if it is violent, you aren’t in any place to pass judgement.’

  ‘I never did,’ he replied, offering a grin of his own.

  ‘Yeah, but you were thinking it.’ She made to step closer and wound up nearly toppling over, her face a hairsbreadth from his. ‘I know. I can smell your brains.’

  That statement, at the moment, was the least offensive thing about her and, no matter what she smelled, brains certainly weren’t what filled Lenk’s nose. Her breath reeked of liquor, roiling out from between her teeth in a great cloud. This was challenged only by the smoky odour of her body, her usual musk complemented by the copious amounts of sweat painting her flesh.

  He was not intoxicated, not by the sight or scent of her, at least. His fifth empty cup lay in the sand behind him, forgotten and neglected. His head was swimming, his body quivering; it felt as though the mangwo coursed through his veins. Drums were still pounding, song still roaring, but the idea of crashing down onto the sand and waiting for the morning to come seemed quite appealing.

  Or it had, anyway.

  Her presence invited a quick and ruthless sobriety. It was not likely that she could smell his brains anymore, since he could feel them threatening to leak out of his ears as she swayed closer to him. Thought faded, leaving all focus for sight and sound … and smell.

  The firelight bathed her sweat-slick skin in gold, battling the pervasive moonlight’s determination to paint her silver, both defeated by the smudges of earth and mud that smeared her pale skin from where she had fallen more than a few times. Her breath was an omnisensed affront: a reeking, heavy, warm cloud. Her smile was bright, sharp, lazy like a sated predator. The typical sharp scrutiny of her eyes was smothered beneath heavy lids. Her belly trembled, a belch rising up out of her mouth. He blinked, stared, heard, smelled.

  Arousal, he reasoned, was possibly the least sane, and — given his attire — most awkward, response imaginable.

  It hurt, if only slightly, to take a step back.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘do you miss it?’

  ‘Miss what?’ she asked with a sneer. ‘My family? My people?’ She raised a brow. ‘Or the killing?’

  ‘Is that all you have to go back to?’

  She turned her frown away and asked the ground instead of him. ‘What else is there?’

  ‘Other things.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ she asked. ‘What is it you’re going back to?’

  A good question, he thought, as he stared at her. He had no family to go back to, and while, technically, his ‘people’ were in no short supply, he had no particular group of humans he wished to call by that name. She stared at him expectantly, as though waiting for his eyes to offer an answer his lips could not.

  ‘To a place where I don’t have to kill anymore.’

  Her expression was unreadable. It might have been, anyway, if he had been staring at it. Instead he met her eyes, the same eyes that he had squirmed under, that he had shouted at her over, that he had turned away from, feeling the chills that followed the stare, hearing the voice that followed the chills.

  Turn away now, he told himself. Better to not know her answer. Even if she doesn’t kill you right now, even if she doesn’t say she’ll go back to the killing even after all of this, you can’t live with this. Not the staring. Not the question if she ever really means what she’s going to say. You can’t live with this, just as she can’t live without the killing. Better to turn away now.

  Drums thundered. Her ears twitched. She didn’
t blink.

  Better to turn away.

  Fires smouldered. He breathed deeply. He stared back.

  Turn away.

  Her lips twitched. He held his breath.

  She smiled at him.

  All at once, heat seemed to return to him, his blood turning to mangwo again. He smiled back, strained to smile harder than she was, to show her he felt the same as her. Of course, he thought, if he could read past the pained smile and know exactly what she was feeling, that would have been helpful, too, but he resolved to make do with what he knew.

  He knew he wanted this bloodless moment, this voiceless silence, this stare he could not turn away from to last for the years to come.

  And as he stared at her — at the sad, pitying smile she gave him — he knew he had only one more night.

  ‘So!’ she said swiftly, lids drooping, smile widening. ‘Why aren’t we still drinking?’ If that.

  ‘It’s a party, right?’ she asked with a quavering laugh. ‘We’re going to be at sea for who knows how long by tomorrow. Best not think about anything but tonight, right?’ She jerked a nod on his behalf. ‘Of course right.’

  He said nothing as he followed her farther over the ridge, her eyes furtively searching for any sign of the drink. Any drop visible, however, was fast disappearing down gaping, green gullets. He noticed that her ire seemed to rise with every moment her lips were left dry, a growl rumbling through her body. He could almost see the hackles rise on her naked back.

  Denaos was probably right, you know, he told himself. She thrives on the violence. She can’t even go this long without getting angry. How long could you possibly take that in? It’s the right decision, then. Say nothing. Try not to even think about her. That’s wisest.

  It occurred to him, not for the first time, that he rarely took the wisest course of action. And as he walked behind her, eyes drawn to her slender, sweat-kissed back, he began to develop a theory as to why that was.

  Desperate to turn his attention to anything else, he glanced at the rapidly thinning throngs of various green bodies. The lizardmen were vanishing, either collapsing into dark corners or wandering off, leaving only the echoes of their laughter and their aromas behind.