The giant Abyssal came crashing down to the floor, with Gunnar watching curiously as it writhed in its death throes. The lesser demons that still remained cried out in horror, aghast at the great creature’s destruction. And as Gunnar turned to face them, the cowardly devils turned and ran, leaderless and disorganized. Aldous’s body, somehow still breathing and barely clinging to life, floated back to the surface.
Gunnar regarded him, the warrior’s faceless mask revealing no emotion. “You never should have come here, you know that. You have transgressed upon one of holy places, and there always has to be consequences.”
Slowly, the Son of Korgaan put his boot on Aldous’s chest, and then gradually, but firmly, pushed him back beneath the roiling surface.
* * * * *
As the morning light dawned on the Varangur shrine, its cold rays piecing the palls of smoke that still hung over the area, the men of the Brotherhood took in the devastation of the night before.
Quaid felt as much as heard Gunnar’s arrival as the large man came up alongside him, the Varangur warrior staring off into the distance as he spoke.
“You will go now.” His voice was hoarse from recent events, but still firm nonetheless. “This place is ours, it always has been and it always will be.”
Quaid felt bile rise in the back of his throat. He wanted nothing more than to drive a blade down the sickening man's gullet, silencing him forever. But their losses had been heavy, barely a dozen of his men were left in any shape to fight, and both his brother knights were gone. He was tired, so unbelievably tired that he feared he might collapse from exhaustion at any moment. The heady rush of battle was electrifying, but it took a severe toll on the body's faculties; and when it passed, it left an empty shell behind it.
The knight turned away from the Son of Korgaan, unable to stomach a reply, and went to help his men prepare their wounded and the bodies of the dead knights for their journey back home.
* * * * *
That night, Quaid wandered the halls of the fortress, unable to sleep. Whatever differences had existed between himself and Aldous in recent times, they could not undo the years of kinship the two had shared. The knight had lost friends before, everyone in the Brotherhood had; it was the unavoidable cost that came with their purpose. This time, it hit him harder than usual.
Pausing his meandering, he stepped up to one of the open, Gothic arches that lined the passageway and stared out of the gallery at the moonlit courtyard below. For a moment, he allowed himself to once more enjoy the feeling of the clean, cool breeze as it kissed his face. The only sound in the early morning air was the gentle lapping of the courtyard's fountain, its surface slowly sparkling as it reflected the moon's rays.
Quaid stood, watching its continual, almost rhythmic patterns, and allowed himself to close off his feelings of guilt for a time. In many ways, what the Brotherhood did, throwing themselves completely and utterly into a cause that was larger than oneself, gave them all a way to avoid dealing with the pain of reality. It occurred to him how easy it was to disappear into the obligations of duty, to push down other feelings and hide from their true impact.
In that instant, Quaid felt that perhaps he had gained some measure of understanding for the way that Aldous had kept a distance between the two of them over the intervening years. Every member of their society had had to find their own ways to cope with the constant stresses. Still restless, the knight continued his aimless wanderings. It was not until some time later that he was surprised to find himself in the council chamber next to the laid out armor of his fallen friend. It felt as if waking from a dream, with no knowledge of why or how he came to find himself there.
For a long time, he remained still and unmoving. Dust motes danced in the beams of light that were being cast across the open space by a number of the higher windows. Quaid did not know what it was that had brought him here to the altar on which Aldous's armor was neatly arrayed in honor of the dead knight. Seeing the ancient plate-mail still sporting the wounds of battle caused the emotions of loss and failure within him to return once more.
For some unknown reason, the knight found himself unable to divert his gaze from the armor, and Quaid could swear that he saw a faint movement within the intricate, cut designs that spanned the metal’s surface. Bending over to take a closer look, he could see what appeared to be faint trickles of water moving along the delicate channels, albeit in apparent disregard for the forces of gravity. He had no idea why, but he could feel himself lifting one hand, bringing it ever closer to the strange phenomenon that he was seeing.
The nearer he got to it, the more the armor seemed to react to his presence. What had started as mere droplets became a continuous flow, mesmerizing in its beauty and complexity. Without thinking, he placed his hand fully on the remarkable cuirass before him and was immediately blinded by a searing flash of light. His head roiled as his senses were momentarily stolen from him, but in that instant, Quaid finally understood what his friend had been through, and what trials he himself would go on to face as an inductee of the Order of Retribution.
The Sea Does Not Give Up Her Dead
By C. L. Werner
A briny breeze moaned across the barren shore. Djwet could hear it whistling through his fleshless ribs, rippling the tattered remains of his vestment. He raised his bony fist and stared at his skeletal fingers, at the crust of sand embedded in each joint and crack. There was a strange detachment as he gazed upon the horror he had become. The fear and repugnance felt by the living had been stripped away from him, along with his flesh. All that remained was a tormenting sense of weariness.
Djwet let his hand drop to his side. There could be no rest for him now. Not unless he was released, and that was something he knew his masters would never do. He had dared to offend them, and this undying slavery was their revenge upon him. They had damned him with their obscene magic, condemning him to the ghastly borderland between the living and the dead.
The sea breeze continued to blow against his skeletal frame, but Djwet could not feel its caress. He could not smell its crisp scent or taste the salty tang in the air. The only sensations left to him were those of sight and sound, and even these were but an arcane semblance of what he had known in life. Just enough stimulation to allow him to perform the tasks demanded of him by his masters.
The revenant slowly turned his skull and looked toward the half-sunken tower that jutted up from the shoals. The Pharos of Karkus, the great lighthouse raised by the ancient Ahmunites. It was all that remained of the once mighty city. The rest lay drowned by the Infant Sea or buried beneath the desert sands. Only the monolithic Pharos had endured, rising up into the sky, a gravestone for a vanished people.
Or so Djwet had thought when he brought his pirate fleet into the shallows with the intention of plundering the Pharos. He had not feared living kings, he scoffed at those who feared the kings of the dead. But death and the Ahmunites were strange bedfellows. He discovered that when he dropped anchor and led his crew into the crypt-like corridors of the Pharos.
Djwet did not linger upon the memory of his destruction. If only that had been the end for him. Instead it had merely been the herald of a strange and terrible beginning.
He could not see the imperious gaze that watched him from the ramparts of the distant lighthouse, but he could feel their scrutiny just the same. The royal mummies of Karkus had gathered to see he fulfilled the purpose he had been given. Perhaps, Djwet hoped, it would be enough to atone for what he had done. Perhaps they would banish the necromantic energy that coursed through his bones and allow him to rest.
“For those who would profane the dominion of the Ahmunites, there can be no rest.” The words were uttered by a dry, rasping voice; a tone devoid of all empathy. Djwet looked away from the half-sunken tower and found the withered form of Nekhbet standing beside him. The high priest's mummified body was swathed in strips of resin-coated papyrus, each fold inscribed with eldritch hieroglyphs. A frayed robe of faded blue fell around hi
s shoulders while a tall headdress of gold and sapphire adorned his head. Nekhbet's countenance, such as remained, was locked behind a golden death-mask, a fabulous representation of his features in life. They were harsh and imposing, warning Djwet that undeath had not inflicted these qualities upon the high priest, but had simply magnified them.
“There is only atonement,” Nekhbet stated, removing the golden mask and exposing the desiccated features beneath. “Service to the great empire of the Ahmunites.” He raised a bony hand, each finger festooned with a ring cast in the shape of a beetle. He gestured to the bay. In response, the waters began to churn and bubble.
Djwet's desiccated heart could no longer feel the awe of horror the sight should have provoked. He watched as the boiling waters began to slide away and shapes rose up from the bottom. They were shapes known to him, despite the corrosion and decay that caked their hulls. Ships! Nor just any ships, but the pirate fleet he had brought to plunder the Pharos so long ago.
“Your fleet rises once again,” Nekhbet said. “Only this time to greater purpose than base thievery. They serve the empire now... as does their admiral.”
Djwet wanted to reject the high priest's declaration, but such will as had been left to him was unequal to the task. The revenants raised by the Ahmunites were allowed only so much initiative as was deemed necessary by the necromancers. All he could do was simply bow his fleshless skull in acceptance.
“Your skeletons have labored long to restore my fleet,” Djwet said. “Rebuilding them beneath the very waters that swallowed them.” He turned his gaze toward Nekhbet. “Your magic can conjure dead men from their graves. Now I understand it can do the same with ships as well.”
Nekhbet gestured toward the ghostly fleet with its encrusted timbers and splintered hulls. “This is but a small part of what we shall achieve,” he said. The undead priest fixed Djwet with his cold eyes. “We will raise a still mightier armada. An armada that will sweep across the Infant Sea and bring vengeance down upon the kinslayers of Ophidia.”
Djwet looked across the pirate galleys now floating in the bay. Lean, wasted shapes with encrusted hulls and ragged masts. The banks of oars, however, were sound, as were the rudder and prow. The undead had focused their labors upon making the vessels seaworthy, not restoring them to their old grandeur. Pragmatism, not pride, was Nekhbet's intent. The tomb-robbing pirates were simply a utility for the nobles of Pharos.
Skeletons climbed up from the depths, scrambling up the chains which dangled over the sides of each galley. Dripping, their bones caked in brine, the undead who had worked tirelessly to rebuild the sunken ships now took their places at the banks of oars. In unison, each leering skull turned toward the shore and looked toward Djwet. He could sense the skeletal sailors awaiting his commands.
“Where will we find such an armada?” Djwet dared to ask. The question quivered in his mind, as though dreading to hear the answer.
Nekhbet's withered flesh pulled back in a grisly smile. “We sail for the Fang Isles and the little pirate republic that sent you to plunder the Pharos. Much will have changed since you walked their shores, but the vessels caught in the Cobra's Coils will still be there.”
Djwet felt a cold sensation when he heard Nekhbet state their destination. He would have resisted if there were still any power within him to do so. “This is why you did not leave me as those,” he said, pointing to the mindless skeletons on the galleys. “You needed me to navigate a course through the Cobra's Coils. You needed me to lead you back to my people.”
The high priest's smile curled into a cruel sneer. “Many a ship has been sunk upon the rocks that guard your pirates. The waters around the Cobra's Coils are littered with the wrecks of those who pursued your sea-wolves. They will rise again, this time to serve the Ahmunites.”
“And the Fang Isles?” Djwet asked.
Nekhbet shook his head. “The wrecks will be there, but who can say the drowned crews remain? Hungry fish may have picked them over long ago.” The priest brought the butt of his staff cracking down on the beach, its tangle of charms clattering against its sides. “On the isles there will be bodies enough to man the oars.” A dry, raspy excuse for laughter whistled across his blackened teeth. “Fret not, Djwet. You have been long under the Pharos. Whoever we find on the isles, they will be no one known to you.”
Djwet bowed his head in submission to the high priest. When he lifted his face once more, he saw gangs of skeletons wading out toward the ships, long planks raised up on their shoulders. As the planks were brought to the galleys, troops of armored undead marched out from the Pharos. Their coats of copper and kilts of bronze glistened in the light as they walked to the crude piers and made their way to the ships. Sword and shield, spear and bow, the undead soldiers moved with eerie precision to take their places on the decks and in the holds. Some of them carried great urns which they set carefully near the prow of each ship. One group of skeletons bore a massive jar, its sides painted with cabalistic symbols and the most arcane of hieroglyphs. The bearers paused near Nekhbet, waiting until the high priest gestured with his rod toward the largest of the galleys.
“That will be your flagship,” Nekhbet told Djwet.
“There must be a most potent magic in that jar,” the revenant observed as he watched the bearers pick their way across the planks.
“Dust,” Nekhbet replied. He looked back at the crawling sands beyond the beach. “The dust of death,” he hissed, and in his words there was both a forlorn regret and a merciless promise.
* * * * *
Psarius darted down between the gnarled, stalk-like coral growths. From the corner of his eye, he could see the sleek, dagger-like shape whip its tail to the left and bring its gray-white body turning about. The shark's black eyes stared from either side of its broad head. Its gaping jaws exposed rows of triangular teeth, each one keen as a knife and serrated along the sides. Morsels of meat fluttered about the fangs, caught between them during the creature's frenzied feeding.
The shark had his scent. Of that, Psarius was certain. It was no good simply trying to hide from the creature's vision once it took notice. Some uncanny instinct allowed a shark to hone in once it had selected its prey. The fish circled around the coral pillar, its powerful tail lashing from side to side as it zeroed in on its prey.
Psarius darted up toward the surface. He knew the sudden motion would bring the shark charging toward him. There was no question of outpacing the creature, for raw speed the fish was more than his match. What it lacked was agility. Before the shark could reach him, Psarius suddenly twisted around and turned his ascent into a dive toward the bottom. Leaving the bright surface far behind, he plunged toward the debris-ridden sea floor.
The gills along the sides of his neck fluttered as Psarius watched for the shark to come again. His webbed hands clutching the sides of a corroded anchor, the naiad waited for the creature to pick up his trail and come rushing after him. From the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of motion. The huge shark was diving toward him from the left rather than straight on. Psarius quickly shifted his position, putting the heavy anchor between himself and the predatory fish.
The shark's eyes rolled back, showing only white as it moved to the attack. The massive jaws stretched wide, displaying their razored rows of teeth, as the creature surged forward in a burst of frenzied excess.
Psarius pushed from the anchor, propelling himself a dozen yards away. The blind shark kept coming, gnashing its teeth against the corroded metal. The jaws clamped down, teeth scrabbling at the anchor. With mindless rage, the shark lashed about, trying to destroy this object that refused to sate its terrible hunger.
The naiad swam around the enraged shark and darted for a piece of barnacle-ridden wood. Psarius groped around the wood before his hands found what he was looking for. Brushing away the obscuring sand, he withdrew a long cross-shaped metal device. Ropes ran along the sides of the weapon, while at its forefront there protruded a sinister spike of bronze. Swiftly bringing the har
poon-gun up to his shoulder, Psarius aimed at the amok shark. While the fish continued to worry at the anchor, he squeezed the trigger and sent the barbed spear hurtling into the creature.
The shark jerked as the harpoon slammed into its body, shearing through the gills on its right side. Blood gushed from the injury, and the fish erupted into a frantic spasm as it tried to pull itself free from the spear and the heavy ropes that connected it to the naiad's gun.
Here was the most dangerous part of the hunt, Psarius reflected. Blood in the water had drawn this shark to pursue the naiad. Now the shark's own blood might bring more of its kind to the scene. Psarius had lost a few catches in his time to such cannibalistic frenzies. He swiftly drew his knife. In a flash of motion, he launched himself at the shark. Distracted by its own pain, the fish failed to react to Psarius until the bronze blade was raking across its belly.
Psarius clutched at the shark's gritty skin, feeling its sharp edges digging at his scales. He dug the knife deeper, stabbing up into the creature's body until he brought the blade ripping into its heart. He felt the splash of sticky gore on his fingers as the organ ruptured. The shark flailed about in one last spasm of agony, then floated limply in the harpoon's chains.
The naiad looked about anxiously, eyes peering through the depths for any sign of more sharks. Satisfied that none had caught the tang of blood in the water, he started to secure his catch. Lord Ichthyon would be pleased. There was no game in the sea the noble savored half so well as that of sharks.
Psarius was binding his catch in a web of seaweed when his every sense became alert. There was something close, something that awakened in him an almost primal agitation. He swung around, ripping his harpoon clear and holding it at the ready.
Only a few yards away, drifting above a mass of kelp, was an uncanny figure. It had the general shape of a human, but the body was almost impossibly lean and covered in a rubbery gray hide. The feet were clawed and with great spurs jutting from the calves. The hands were long and webbed, the fingers grotesquely stretched. It was the thing's head that was most alarming; a lumpy mass of tissue from which a tangle of short tentacles projected. Above and behind the ropy tendrils, two oversized amber eyes glistened.
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