The Skybound Sea tag-3

by Sam Sykes

  “Because-”

  “Even better, why don’t you just drop your trousers right now and work up a good, flaming piss that sets them all ablaze like you did a few days ago? Why are we here, skulking about like rodents?”

  “I would have hoped that, in our time together, you’d grasp that magic isn’t so mystical that it can be just summoned up like that. There isn’t an opportune moment to-”

  “There is never not an opportune moment to shoot fire out of your prick!” Denaos snapped sharply. “What is it, then? Back on the beach, you were nearly unstoppable. Days ago, you were pissing fire.” He stared intently at the wizard. “What’s going on with you?”

  “It’s complicated,” Dreadaeleon sighed, rubbing his eyes. “And I don’t have time to-”

  It wasn’t clear what he was trying to say when the boy’s body suddenly jerked, nor when his eyes bulged out, threatening to roll out of their sockets. Nothing was clearer when he snapped at the waist, leaning heavily on his knees as he loosed a torrent of vomit upon the ground to coalesce into a brackish green pool. Things were certainly disgusting, Denaos thought, and disgusting for a solid ten breaths, but whatever was happening to him didn’t become any more obvious.

  That didn’t happen until the vomit drew itself together of its own volition, shuddered as if it were taking a deep breath and then, with a slow, leisurely confidence, began to slither off on a carpet of bile.

  Denaos turned a slack jaw to Dreadaeleon, who merely wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sneered.

  “I’m dying, Denaos.”

  “I see. .” the rogue replied, his tone suggesting no real willingness to continue with this conversation, yet compelled all the same. “Of. . what?”

  “The Decay,” Dreadaeleon replied. “The barriers that separate the magic from my body are collapsing. I’ll slowly lose more control over both and, eventually, my skin will catch fire, my lungs will freeze inside my chest, and my nerves will splinter and erupt out of my skin.”

  “Which will be on fire.”

  “On fire, yes.”

  “Well. . that’s. .”

  The wizard affixed him with a glare. “That’s what?”

  “I guess I just thought it would have a more impressive name?”

  “What?”

  “Something like ‘the dragonblood,’ or ‘the frothening,’ or ‘that which explodes without mercy.’”

  Dreadaeleon narrowed his eyes sharply. “I am going to explode. My frozen innards will fly out of my body and burst into pink and black snow and children will make snowmen with my kidneys.”

  “I know, I know! I’m sorry! I just-”

  “You just what? You’re just concerned about me being out here? Thinking I can’t handle it? Thinking that I’m totally powerless because my own body is rebelling against me and soon I’m going to be chopped up for spare parts and turned into a book because I’m far more useful in death than I was in life?”

  “Those weren’t going to be my exact words, but. .”

  There was more to that retort, he thought, and it was going to be clever. But he said nothing more the moment he noticed the tears welling up in Dreadaeleon’s eyes, the moment he remembered the wizard was just a boy.

  A scared, dying boy whose remaining fluids that had not just come out of his mouth were now dripping from his eyes in thin streams.

  And he wanted something from Denaos, that much was obvious. A nod maybe, possibly a big hug and a weeping reassurance that everything was going to be fine and that they were going to rescue Asper themselves and Dreadaeleon was going to be proven a proud and powerful wizard over whom she would swoon after she told Denaos that everything he had ever done would be forgiven and he would go to heaven and he’d stop seeing the woman with the slit throat every time he stopped drinking.

  But he couldn’t tell Dreadaeleon that.

  Lying was a sin. An awfully convenient sin, given the circumstance, but Denaos couldn’t afford any more.

  And what the wizard got was something different.

  “I’ll go gather your vomit,” Denaos said with the kind of hesitation that suggested he had hoped he’d never have to say that.

  What was that? Dreadaeleon asked himself as he watched the rogue stalk away. What was that look? What was that? Pity? He pities me? A lowlife, scum-sucking, barkneck like him pities me? He sneered, felt a salty tear drip into his mouth. Probably because you’re crying like a. . like a woman or something. No, not a woman. She wouldn’t want you to say that. It’s demeaning. Stop that. Stop all of it.

  He couldn’t.

  Weak. You disgust me. You’ll disgust her. And when they hack you up, your pieces will disgust everyone else. You’ll be the only wizard useless in life and in death. Look at you, unable to do anything but sit here and weep. How are you supposed to be the hero? How are they supposed to respect you? How are you supposed to save her?

  “You are not, lorekeeper.”

  As odd as it felt to say, he knew Greenhair was standing behind him even before she spoke in her lilting tone. There was always something that preceded her arrivals: a feeling at the back of his head like cricket legs rubbing together, a sudden calm that washed over him, and the fact that she only ever seemed to show up when he felt a particular kinship with things that came out of livestock rectums.

  As such, he didn’t turn around to look at her. He didn’t even speak to her, didn’t acknowledge her existence at all.

  “You have exactly until I blink to leave before I roast you alive,” he muttered.

  Or tried to, anyway.

  “I do not wish you any distress,” she said, her voice a river flowing into his ears to pool beneath his brain. “But I do not think you are in any condition to be making threats.”

  He half-smiled, half-sneered as he turned to face the siren. His attentions were instantly drawn to her head, framed by feathery gills wafting from her neck, a fin rising from a crop of hair the color of the sea, a pair of blank, liquid eyes staring intently at him. All the color and oddity framed a face that was expressionless. A serene, monochrome portrait: perfectly and terrifyingly empty.

  “I’m always willing to make the effort,” he said, “especially when it comes to deranged sea tramps that have attempted to sell me to the very purple-skinned longfaces I’m surrounded by right now.”

  Her mouth trembled into a frown. “I have never claimed to be incapable of regret, lorekeeper, nor mistake or misplaced ambition.”

  “And which one do I owe this visit to?” He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of a distant warcry. “Because if you’re looking for another regret, just raise your voice a little.”

  “I have no desire to draw the attentions of the longfaces,” she replied, averting her gaze guiltily. “I have. . reconsidered my alliance with them.”

  “Understandable, what with their constant desire to kill things.”

  “It was their unique talents that drove me to seek them out,” Greenhair said, a tone of accusation creeping into her voice. “The tome is too much to trust to mortals, the chance that the demons might seize it too great. I could not take that risk, for the sake of my waters and beyond.”

  “QAI ZHOTH!” a longface’s roar rose over the ridge.

  “If you want to ask them something, I’d do it now,” Dreadaeleon replied, lowering his voice. “Before things get weird.”

  “I was. . mistaken. My faith in them was driven by their talent for slaughtering the demons. I did not suspect that their prowess might come from serving someone far darker.”

  “Darker?” Dreadaeleon asked, sarcasm replaced by curiosity. “What do you mean?”

  “I. . was at Irontide when the morning rose, seeking Sheraptus. I had hoped to reason with him, to convince him to direct his attentions toward Jaga. I overheard dealings between him and. . something. Something old.”

  “The bad kind of old, I take it.”

  “He spoke the first words to the Aeons. He was the one that spoke on their behalf, taking th
eir words from the servants of the Gods just as they took their masters’ words. Azhu-Mahl, he was called in the darkest days. He, who was closer to heaven than any mortal, is alive and allied with the longfaces.”

  “They do tend to attract some odd friends, don’t they?”

  “LISTEN TO ME.” The porcelain of her face cracked, the liquid of her voice boiled in a bare-toothed snarl. “I can make no apology that would sate you, only tell you that I was wrong, in all things, and whatever sins I have wrought against you are nothing compared to that which is about to happen. Their allies, the old gray one, he is providing them with things that should not be.”

  “The stones,” Dreadaeleon whispered, the realization dawning upon him instantly. “The red stones they carry. They negate the laws of magic. .”

  “And their venoms that eat through demon flesh,” Greenhair said. “They have more, worse, all of which can do much, much worse and all of which require the longfaces destroying Ulbecetonth.”

  “How? Why?”

  “I do not know yet.”

  “Handy.”

  “I know only that, to stop them and the demons both, someone is required. Someone brave, someone powerful.”

  “We have neither of those,” Dreadaeleon said. “My greatest feat is vomit that walks, the bravest among us is off chasing it, and both of us are a little preoccupied with something right now.” He turned away, looking back to the ridgeline. “Now, if you’ll just. .”

  Before he felt the chill of her fingers, her hands were upon his shoulders, resting comfortably as though they had always been there. And by the time he was aware of them, he couldn’t help but feel that they belonged there. They didn’t, of course; she was a siren, treacherous by nature, treacherous by practice. This was a trick, obviously.

  A trick that felt cool upon his skin, coaxing out the fever that had engulfed his body for the past days. A trick that came out of her lips on a lilting, lingering song, flooding into his head to douse a mind ablaze with fear, with doubt.

  “I will not, lorekeeper,” she spoke, words sliding into song, song sliding into thought. His thoughts. “I cannot, for I cannot do this without you.”

  He felt it again, the itch at the back of his skull.

  She’s in your head, old man. Careful. You know what she does in there. Get her out.

  He should have. He would have, if her presence there didn’t seem so right, so natural. Expelling her seemed like throwing out a perfectly good bottle of wine, something so sweet and fragrant that it would be a crime to do anything but drink it in, savor it.

  He didn’t even like wine.

  “No one else can do this. Not your companions, not the longfaces,” she whispered to his ears, to his mind. “I need your strength, your intellect, your power. I need you.”

  “I. . I can’t,” he said. “I’m sick. I’m dying. I have no power.”

  “You are distracted. You are distraught. Trifling things.”

  “Ah. . trifling.”

  “They mean nothing to you. I can ease your thoughts, give you clarity.” Her fingers rose to his temples, fingers gently swirling the waters she poured into his mind. “I can give you the power to save me.”

  “And. . what about Asper?”

  “Leave her,” she cooed, like it was just a simple thing to do so.

  “She needs me.”

  “The world needs you. They will speak of you with tears in their eyes. They will respect you. Thousands of lives against one, all their respect against hers.”

  “All of them. .” He closed his eyes, tried to imagine it. She made it easy. “They would fear me.”

  “They would love you.”

  “If I just. .”

  “Come with me.” Her breath was a heady scent, filling his nostrils even as her voice filled his ears, all of her entering all of him. “To Jaga. Let me give you power. Let me give you the world.”

  “And she. . she would. .”

  “She will die.” It was spoken with all that fragrance, all that sweet water, all that made the siren’s voice intoxicating. “She will die. She does not need you. She means nothing. But you are-”

  It happened without words. It happened with barely any movement. And he wasted no thought on how he found himself with his eyes ablaze with energy, how a lock of her sea-green hair lay severed from her shocked, wide-eyed face, how his fingers still smoked and the air still crackled with the bolt of lightning he had just narrowly missed her with.

  It happened. And he lowered two fingers at her, tiny blue serpents dancing across his fingertips.

  “Leave,” he whispered.

  “Lorekeeper, I-”

  “LEAVE.”

  Her expression continued to crack, the serenity of her face shattered into fragments of anger, revulsion, and fear. She backed away from him slowly, as she might an animal, down the dune and toward the shore. Her eyes never left his, even as his fingers left her body, the electricity crackling eagerly upon his tips.

  “You will never save her,” Greenhair snarled. “Even if you release her from the longfaces, you can’t help her. This world will be consumed, lorekeeper, in sea or in flame. You will die. She will die. And when she does. .” The siren’s lip twisted up, her sneer an ugly crack all its own. “It will be your name she curses for not doing what must be done.”

  He had no retort for that. He had barely any wit with which to hear her. His skull was ablaze again, her liquid words boiling inside his head and hissing out on meaningless sighs of steam. He didn’t lower his fingers, didn’t release the anger coursing through him until she disappeared behind a rocky outcropping.

  And when he did, the power did not so much leave him as rip itself free from him, taking will and strength with it. A poignant reminder that, despite the occasional outburst, he was still dying. A reminder lost on him as he gasped, arms falling to his sides and knees buckling as he tried to stay on his feet.

  He heard footsteps behind him. Denaos, maybe. Or anyone who wasn’t blind, deaf, or stupid enough not to notice the bolt of lightning that had just gone howling into the sky a moment ago. It didn’t matter. Anyone who wanted him dead wouldn’t have had to try very hard to make it happen.

  “I take it I missed something fun, then,” Denaos said as the footsteps came to a halt behind him.

  “Greenhair,” Dreadaeleon said, breathing heavily.

  “The siren, huh?” The rogue didn’t sound surprised. “Where is she now?”

  “Chased her off.” The boy staggered to his feet, turned to face the rogue. “Have to leave. Someone was bound to have seen that lightning. Someone had to have sensed it.”

  “They probably would, if there was anyone left to do it.”

  “What?”

  Denaos jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “It was faster than we expected. The ships have almost all left. Aside from a few left behind to stand guard, there are no more longfaces on the island.”

  “Jaga,” Dreadaeleon said. “She wasn’t lying.”

  “Huh?”

  “They’ve left for Jaga. Going to destroy Ulbecetonth.”

  “That’s. . good, right?”

  “When has their wanting to destroy something ever worked out well for us?”

  “Point.”

  “Greenhair said,” the boy paused, his body wracked with a sudden cough, “that they served someone darker, someone older. Even if they didn’t. .” His words devolved into a hacking fit.

  “Lenk and the others are on the island,” Denaos finished.

  They stared at each other, the realization dawning upon them both, the choice shortly thereafter. Stay here, save Asper and possibly die? Go to Jaga, warn the others and possibly die? Of course, one of them could stay and save her while the other went to warn them and then they’d both certainly die.

  But they saw in each other a reflection into themselves. Something in the way Denaos stared, eyes firm and searching for no way out of this. Something in the way Dreadaeleon stood, pulling himself up on trembling legs and
refusing to acknowledge the pain it caused him with so much as a wince.

  And in that, they both knew that they would stay. They would save her, maybe die trying. She was worth it.

  To both of them, each one realized with a sudden tension, a clench of fist and a narrow of eye, toward the other. A tension they had no choice but to bite back at the moment.

  “There’s still longfaces down there,” Denaos said. “We circle around, slide down the dune, and make our way to the cavern at the back. If she’s not dead, she’ll be in there.”

  “She’s not dead,” Dreadaeleon said.

  “I know,” Denaos replied.

  “Then why’d you say it?”

  No answer.

  Lying was a sin, after all.

  FIFTEEN

  HEART OF FURY, INTESTINES OF RESENTMENT

  I’m not ungrateful.

  It was a resentful thought, as most of Gariath’s were. Thoughts were too flexible, they could be changed at any moment, so what was the point in using them?

  You have given me much.

  Words were much more solid. Once words were spoken, they were there forever, hanging in the air and impossible to ignore. Like scent.

  Your eye, your hatred, my life. .

  Gariath could not afford words here. Words were breath and breath was too precious to waste, where he clung precariously to slick, slippery walls by the tips of his claws. He needed it, as rare as it came, to keep clinging there, keeping himself from sliding down a vast and gaping darkness.

  It’s disgraceful that I don’t just let go and let this be over.

  Thoughts weren’t enough.

  But if you accepted that, you wouldn’t be you.

  He snarled, dug his claws in. The thick, fibrous tissue of the walls did not yield easily, but he felt liquid gush out from the scratches he carved into it, pouring over his hands. The floor shifted violently beneath him.