by Sam Sykes
‘And what did they say?’ the shict pressed.
She could feel his morbid grin twist into her back.
‘Supposedly,’ he muttered, ‘when the Navy finally seized Irontide, they made their examples down here.’ He rapped his knuckles against the stone. ‘The smugglers barricaded themselves in here. The Navy responded by punching a hole through the wall with their catapults.’
‘And?’
‘And then. . high tide.’
She paused at that, taking a moment to waste a sneer in the darkness.
‘Dirty trick,’ she muttered. ‘But they’re just stories.’
No reply from the back.
‘Right?’
‘They might be,’ Lenk replied for the rogue. ‘History’s full of worse ways to die and the people who think them up.’ He spared a stifled laugh. ‘I suppose we should take a certain amount of pride in that we’ll probably be experiencing some of the more awful ways first-hand.’
‘You’re a delight,’ Denaos growled softly. ‘Why have we stopped, anyway? At least with the sound of water, I don’t have to listen to you.’
Kataria leaned forwards in the gloom, narrowing her eyes. The two men held their breath behind her, nearly springing backwards when they heard her morbid chuckle.
‘There’s light ahead,’ she whispered, ‘and voices, too. We’re getting close.’
‘What kind of voices?’ Lenk asked.
‘Frogmen.’ She looked thoughtful as her ears twitched. ‘Something else, too.’
‘Abysmyths?’ Lenk tightened his grip on his sword.
‘No.’ She shook her head and frowned. ‘I thought I had heard something else, but I must have been mistaken.’
‘You’re never mistaken,’ Lenk said, quickly correcting himself, ‘when it comes to noise, anyway. What did you hear?’
‘A female’s voice.’ Her frown grew so heavy that it threatened to fall off her face and splash into the murk. ‘It almost. . sounded like the siren.’
‘Aha!’ Denaos grimaced at his own cry. ‘I could have told you. She’s led us to our deaths.’
‘Kat said it sounded like Greenhair,’ Lenk replied harshly, ‘we don’t know if it’s her or not.’
‘How many things in this blessed world of ours sound like some fish-whore?’ the rogue snarled. ‘How many?’
‘I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?’
Lenk hefted his sword, gave Kataria a gentle push to urge her onwards. The shict responded by nocking an arrow, slinking forwards silently. Creeping into the gloom as they did, their steps heralded by the sounds of water sloshing, neither man nor shict glanced over a shoulder to see if the rogue followed.
Denaos had always thought of himself as a sensible man, a sensible man with very vocal instincts that currently shouted at him to turn around and let the others die on their own. It was suicide to follow; if, by some miracle of faith in fish-women, Greenhair hadn’t betrayed them, there might be another siren within the forsaken hold.
He recalled Greenhair’s song, her power to send men, even dragonmen, into slumber. The thought of snoring blissfully at some sea-witch’s tune while an Abysmyth quietly munched his head down to the neck held no great appeal.
Even if they did survive long enough to lay a finger upon the tome, what then? How would they escape? Even if they survived and were paid in full, how long would it be before he was placed in another situation where head-eating was a very likely outcome?
The sensible thing, he told himself, would be to turn back now, find a merchantman and hitch a ride back to decent folk.
‘Sensible,’ he reaffirmed to himself, ‘indeed.’
He knew that the tome lay with something that he did not seek to find. But he knew much more certainly that the things he didn’t want to find were in the shadows that turned sensible men to cowards.
And, he reminded himself as he sighed and began to wade after them, he was a sensible man.
‘I do not remember ever being loved by Gods.’
The frogman finished its sentence with a slam of its staff, driving it against the stones, letting the various bones attached to its head rattle against its ivory shaft. Dozens of pale faces looked up at the creature reverently, black eyes reflecting the torches that burnt with a pure emerald fire.
Dozens of faces, the frogman thought, free of scars, free of birthmarks, free of overbites, underbites, deformities, hair colours. Dozens of faces, all the same beaming paleness, all the same mouths twisted shut in reverence, all the same black eyes looking up at it, silently begging for the sermon to continue.
And the frogman indulged them.
‘I do not remember a day without suffering,’ it said, letting its voice echo off the vast chamber walls. ‘And I do not remember a day when my suffering served any purpose but for the amusement of what I once thought of as beings perfect and pure.’
The faces tensed in reply. The frogman snarled, baring teeth.
‘And I do not want to remember.’
At this, they bobbed their heads in unison, muttering quietly through their own jagged teeth.
‘What I remember,’ it hissed, ‘is praying daily at the shores for a false mother to deliver food. What I remember is starvation. What I remember is those that I once called my family being swallowed up and the waves mocking me. I remember.’ It levelled its staff at the congregation. ‘And so do you.’
‘Memory is our curse,’ they replied in unison, bowing their heads. ‘May Mother Deep forever free us.’
‘I thought the sea to be harsh and cruel, then,’ it continued, ‘but that is when I heard Her song.’ It tilted its head back, closing its eyes in memory. ‘I remember Her calling to me, singing to me. I remember Her assuring me that my life was precious, valuable, but my body was weak. I remember Her leading me here, granting me Her gifts, to breathe the water, to dance beneath the waves,’ its face stiffened, ‘to forget. .
‘I do not remember Gods talking to me.’ It craned to face the congregation once more. ‘I do remember them asking me for my wealth and to deny others their wealth.’ Its smile was broad and full of teeth. ‘And so did Mother Deep bid me to shatter their pretences by asking these ones to come, penniless and alone, fearful and betrayed, full of aching memory. She bade these ones to return and forget the lies they had been told. She gave these ones gifts and asked for but one thing in return.’
The faces brightened in response, reflecting the frogman’s smile.
‘She asks,’ they chanted, ‘only that these ones aid the Shepherds as the Shepherds aid these ones.’
They spoke, and their voices reverberated through the water that had claimed the stones and the few stones the water had spared drowning. They spoke, and their voices caused the green flames to leap to life at their words as they burned in their sconces. They spoke, and a dozen as yet unheard voices, sealed behind sacs of flesh and skins of mucus, pulsated in response.
It would have thought them disgusting, it reflected, and chastised itself for the blasphemy. Something that it once was would have thought them disgusting, these glorious creations of Mother Deep that clung to the walls and pillars. Now, the frogman, the creature that it had become, knew them to be Her blessings made manifest.
They pulsated, beat like miniature hearts, bulbous and glistening, misshapen and glowing. Inside these great and vile creations of flesh and fluid, something stirred. Trapped within these skins, something sought to glow with the light of life. Beyond the glistening moisture that clung to them, something reflected only blackness.
‘Disgusting,’ Lenk muttered, sneering at the pulsating sacs. ‘What are they?’
Neither rogue nor shict had a response for him beyond a reflection of his own repulsion. The vast and sprawling chamber, as though it had not yet been desecrated enough by the black water that drowned it and the green and red graffiti that caked its walls, was absolutely infected with the things. They clung to every corner, bobbed in the water, hung from every pillar. The largest of them was suspended directly above the
circle of frogmen, twitching with a thunderous pulse, threatening to drop at any moment.
‘I’m rather more concerned with what they’re doing,’ Denaos muttered with a grimace as the frogmen began to rhythmically sway. ‘Any ceremony accompanied by ritualistic chanting tends to end with eviscerations, in my experience.’
‘I am slightly tempted to enquire, but all the same.’ Lenk nudged Kataria’s shoulder. ‘Any sign of Abysmyths?’
‘Not that I can see.’ Her eyes were narrowed, sweeping the chamber. ‘Take that as you will, though. They’re large, black things in a large, black room.’
‘Well, we can hardly wait here for them to come and eat us,’ the young man murmured. ‘We’ll have to move soon.’
‘To where, exactly?’
Lenk glanced about the hall. Options, it seemed, were limited. The chamber had undoubtedly once been grand, though its vast ceiling had begun to sink, its marching pillars had crumbled and its floor was completely lost to the water, save for the sprawling stone island that the frogmen congregated upon.
He didn’t even bother to note the torches crackling an unnatural green and the hanging sacs; there would be time enough to soil himself over those details later.
Though nearly unnoticeable through the gloom, he spied a crumbling archway at the chamber’s furthest corner. Half-drowned, half-cloaked in shadow, what lay beyond it was veiled in forbidding void.
‘There,’ he pointed, ‘that’s the way.’
‘How do you figure?’ Kataria grunted.
‘Because we seem to have a habit of going into places that would result in our deaths and I’d hate to ruin our rhythm.’
‘Sound reasoning as any. However,’ Denaos gestured to the prostrate frogmen, ‘how do you intend to get past them?’
‘Luck? Prayer?’ The young man shrugged.
‘Neither of which ever seem to work for me,’ the rogue countered. ‘Hence, before we decide to rush off all at once and possibly die together, let’s do a bit of scouting.’ He gestured to Kataria. ‘Send the shict out first.’
The suggestion struck Lenk like an open-handed slap and he felt himself tense at it, fixing a scowl upon the rogue. In the back of his mind, he knew such an anger shouldn’t have been stirred within him; after all, his companions had nothing in common save complete disregard for each other’s well-being.
All the same, he couldn’t help but tighten his grip on his sword irately.
‘Yeah, that works.’
If Denaos had slapped him, Kataria’s response all but knocked him into the water. He whirled on her suddenly with eyes wide.
‘What?’ he sputtered. ‘Wait, why?’
‘It makes sense, doesn’t it? I’m the best stalker. I should go ahead and see if this even has a chance of working.’
She unstrung her bow and pulled a small leather pouch from her belt. Quietly coiling the string, she secured it tightly within the pouch before popping it into her mouth and swallowing it. Her unpleasant smile at the men’s revulsion was accompanied by a wink.
‘Wet bows don’t shoot.’
‘That’s not what I’m worried about. You might get killed.’
She blinked at him.
‘And?’ Not waiting for an answer, she turned, crouching low into the water. ‘Assuming you can see me when I reach the door, follow.’
‘But. . Fine.’
Lenk found the words coming out of his mouth with more exasperation than they should have. He watched her slide into the water, her black-painted flesh melding seamlessly into the gloom. Only the tips of her ears, protruding from the surface like the dorsal fins of two fish, gave any indication of her presence.
It was only after she was almost totally out of sight that he whispered to her fading form.
‘Be careful.’
‘She’ll be fine,’ Denaos muttered.
‘Of course, no great loss if she dies.’ Lenk cast a cold, narrow scowl over his shoulder. ‘Right?’
‘Given the circumstances, I would think the opposite. I’d rather have a working bow than a corpse.’
‘Don’t act coy.’
‘It’s no act, I assure you.’
‘Well, in case you hadn’t noticed,’ Lenk spat, ‘I still hold a grudge over what you said on the beach.’
‘You’ll have to be more specific.’
‘I mean-’ The young man paused, scowling at his taller companion. ‘You really are scum, you know that?’
‘It has been suggested before.’ The rogue shrugged. ‘And yes, of course I know what you’re talking about.’
‘And?’
‘And,’ Denaos bit his lip contemplatively, ‘I’m a tad hard pressed to care.’
Lenk had no retort for that, merely staring at the tall man with a blend of incredulousness and anger that vaguely resembled an uncomfortable bowel movement. Before he could even begin to think of something to say, however, Denaos held up a hand.
‘And before you decide to see just how far up you can shove that sword, let me explain something to you.’ He sighed a sort of sigh that a father reserves for uncomfortable discussions with a son aspiring to be a seamstress. ‘Listen, you’re still young, rather naive to the ways of the world, but I consider you enough of a friend to tell you that you’re wasting your time.’
The rogue’s words were lost on Lenk, so many unheard echoes in the void of his ears, fading quickly with every breath. And with every breath, another voice spoke more loudly in his head.
‘He is weak.’
‘You’re a human,’ Denaos continued, ‘she’s a shict. Don’t get me wrong, I’m delighted you found a pointy-eared shrew to lavish undue affection upon, if only for the sake of loosening you up, but don’t think for a breath that the feeling is shared.’
‘She is weak, as well.’
‘Whatever you may think of her, of everyone in the little social circle we’ve created, it’s all completely pointless.’
‘They will both die here.’
‘In the end, you can’t change what you are, and neither can she.’
‘We will live on, though.’
‘She’s a shict. You’re a human. Enemies.’
‘Our enemy lies within this forsaken church.’
‘Centuries upon centuries of open warfare won’t lapse just for you, my friend.’
‘We will make our war upon the creature that leads these abominations.’
‘She’ll shoot you in the back as soon as she feels the impulse.’
‘We will carve out the pestilence that festers here.’
‘So don’t blame me for holding a view that the rest of the world knows to be true.’
‘We will cleanse this world.’
‘It’s all moot, anyway. You clearly haven’t heard a word I’ve said.’
‘And it begins. . now.’
‘Now. .’ Lenk whispered.
‘NOW!’ another voice echoed.
They whirled about as one, suddenly aware that the rhythmic chanting had reached an abhorrent crescendo. The voices were incoherent, tainted by the sound of croaking and gurgling, punctuated by clawed hands raised, trembling, to the sunken ceiling. All knelt prostrate, all babbled wildly in mockery of a proper hymn.
All but one.
‘Now is the time,’ the frogman with the staff uttered, ‘now is when these ones’ suffering and hardships are rewarded. ’
It raised its staff to the ceiling and the pulsating sac above responded. It ceased to beat like a heart and began to tremble furiously, shaking angrily against the thick strands of mucus that held it to the stones. Areas of it stretched, extended, indentations of thick fingers pressed against the viscous skin.
The frogmen responded, their voices rising and falling in ecstatic discord with every push from within the tumour-like womb. The staff-bearing creature seemed to rise higher, held aloft by their fervent chanting as it shook its staff at the ceiling.
‘Come to these ones, Shepherd,’ it crowed, ‘and grant these ones the gifts that were promis
ed.’
‘Free these ones from the chains of memory and the sins of air,’ the chorus chanted.
‘The feasts that were promised,’ the high frogman croaked, ‘the gifts that were whispered, the song that is yearning to be heard. .’
‘Sing to these ones,’ the chorus spoke, ‘and deliver the world-’
‘TO ENDLESS BLUE!’
The frogman’s invocation echoed through the hall.
It did not go unanswered.
There was the sound of flesh ripping as the sac split apart against the force of a long, black arm. It dangled, glistening like onyx, from the ceiling for but a moment before the ripping became a harsh groan.
Lenk’s breath caught in his throat as the womb tore open violently, expelling a blur of blackness that collapsed onto the floor with a heavy, hollow sound. From the quivering strands of leathery flesh that dangled from the ruined womb, droplets of a thick, glimmering substance coagulated, shivered and fell. The frogmen rolled their heads back, expressions twisted into orgasmic mirrors of each other as the substance splattered across their faces.
There was no time for the young man to vomit, no breath left in him to even contemplate doing such a thing. Unable to turn away, he continued to stare as the blob of darkness began to stir in the circle of frogmen.
Without so much as a whisper, it rose to its knees. Even so prostrate, it towered over the row of hairless heads before it. Its body trembled, sending thick globs of the ooze peeling off its flesh. With a violent cough, expelling more of the foul stuff, its head rose: two vacant white eyes stared up, a jaw filled with white teeth lowered.
And, freshly born, the Abysmyth screamed.
‘Sons of. .’
The meagre breath that Denaos was able to conjure was still more than Lenk could manage. The young man’s jaw hung slack, his sword limp at his side. He could not blink, for fear that when he opened his eyes again, the demon would still be there.
The creature took no notice of the men, however. It swayed upon its knees, oblivious to its surroundings as the frogmen crowded around it, scooping globs of the viscous ooze in both hands and devouring it messily, choking on their own moans as they shovelled, lapped and slurped the demonic afterbirth into their craws.
