by Sam Sykes
‘You are cruel to notice,’ he replied. ‘But Mother Deep needs many mouths, and I am the one selected to remain cursed with the sins of flesh and earth so that others may be guided to Her waiting heaven.’ The frogman twisted a bald head to regard the masses behind him. ‘And am I not rewarded with the adoration of the devoted?’
‘The pain is fleeting,’ the frogmen echoed in unified chorus, ‘the blue is endless.’
‘So says the great Ulbecetonth.’
‘May She reign over a world without the agony demanded by false Gods.’ The frogmen raised their webbed hands and extended them towards the black water. ‘May these ones see Her restored to a throne built over heaven.’
‘It is not too late.’ The leader turned his attention back to Kataria and a sudden light filled his eyes. A desperation, Denaos saw, that he had seen in every man who hungered for the same thing. ‘Forsake your false Gods, as they have forsaken you. Abandon the sins of memory and sky. Feed the Mouth of Mother Deep.’
His lower lip trembled in time with his hand as it and his eyes, now wide and unblinking, lowered themselves to Kataria’s taut, pale form.
‘And he shall speak well in your name.’
The shict’s answer was less eloquent.
Heralded by the sound of ripping flesh and an all-too-mortal squeal, her head shot down like an asp’s to seize the frogman’s hand in her teeth. After a quick, canine jerk, he pulled back a bloody hand and the pain that lit up his eyes seemed even more foreign in the wake of his inhuman congregation. He stared at her, shocked, as she flashed a smile that was morbid and red, chewing on the pink for a moment.
‘Not the mouth you were expecting to be fed,’ she said before spitting it at him, ‘was it?’
The frogmen congregation recoiled in collective horror. They turned to their leader with a terror reserved for those who had seen idols desecrated and loosed a chorus of disharmonious agitation at the pain that flashed across his features and the blood that dripped to the floor. For his part, the Mouth seemed far less confused.
‘Swear unto Her,’ he seethed through clenched teeth. He twisted the head from his bone-carved staff to reveal a jagged blade. ‘Feed Her flock.’ He lunged forwards, seizing her by the throat as he raised the blade, quivering and whetted with his own blood. ‘It matters little to Her.’
Kataria met the threat with teeth bared and a snarl choked in her throat, defiant even as the jagged edge of the blade grinned green against the unnatural torchlight. Denaos, though he was certain some God somewhere hated him even for the effort, had to fight his own grin back down into his throat.
Silf help him, though, it was hard not to be pleased when opportunity bloomed into so sweet a flower.
Quietly, his eye slid up towards the bulbous ivory sphere that stared out blankly over the impending bloodshed. The Abysmyth’s expression hadn’t changed since first laying eyes and webbed hands upon his throat. If not for the shallow breaths that shuddered through its emaciated abdomen, it would be hard to declare the creature alive at all.
It was impassive. It was inattentive. It was uncaring. Enough, he reasoned, that it wouldn’t notice the dagger until Denaos had jammed it deep into that vast, unblinking stare. Immune to mortal weapons or no, the rogue imagined that two fingers of steel rammed into gooey flesh would at least give the demon an itch.
An itch it would have to scratch.
That, of course, left the frogmen to deal with. The congregation stood, enraptured by their leader’s quivering, bleeding hand. They were intent on the human, blank, sheep-like eyes upon their shepherd. So intent, he reasoned, that they had been sent into utter confusion at the little nip Kataria had given him.
A well-placed slice to the jugular, he imagined, would shock them enough that they’d hardly miss him.
So, one knife in the eye, he told himself, feeling the familiar weight of the weapon tucked neatly in his belt, one in the neck, feeling his heart beat against the cold steel strapped to the inside of his vest, and a spare for whoever else isn’t shocked, clenching his buttocks tightly.
All that was needed was an opportunity. An opportunity, he noted with some dismay, that was particularly slow in coming.
Of course, the loss of Kataria would be lamentable. She wasn’t entirely unpleasant company, as women went, nor entirely unpleasant to look at. However, she was still just a shict. He knew it, and his companions would understand. Dreadaeleon would have a few forced words of grief, Gariath some callous commentary and Asper all manner of harsh words for him not being able to save her.
Lenk, of course, would likely have reacted far worse, if he was still alive. Failing that, however, Denaos thought the young man would have been pleased if he and the shict had both died in the same place, separated only by a mere stone block.
Kataria’s death was regrettable, but necessary, he reasoned with a restrained nod.
Or it will be, if it ever happens. .
The quiver with which the frogman held the dagger was familiar to him; he had seen it in hungry men who had been consumed with desires that the company of other men, or demons, could not satisfy. The broad eyes, angry and hungry at once, suggested that the frogman was caught between the desire to spill blood in retribution and the very grim knowledge that this was likely to be the last female he, all too human, would see in quite some time.
Of course, the rogue might have been more sympathetic to the Mouth’s quandary if not for the webbed fingers wrapped about his throat.
As it was, he made a quick note to feel guilty twice when he made his escape. Once for having to bite back his sigh of finality when the frogman at last overcame his indecision and drew the blade back, and twice for forcing himself to resist the urge to shout in exasperation when the creature staggered backwards suddenly.
Such a temptation passed quickly, overcome by a far more pressing urge to cover his ears. A cacophony of whispers filled the room, a high-pitched whine seeping through the stones, a guttural murmur rising between the ripples in the waters. And yet, it wasn’t within his ears that the rogue was assaulted. The sound permeated every part of him, vocal talons clawing past every pore to sink into his body and reverberate inside his sinew.
His were not the only sensibilities to be so flagrantly violated. Kataria writhed about in her captor’s grasp, snarling with such ferocity as suggested she was straining to block out the noise with one of her own. The Mouth, too, reacted in such a way, drawing concerned looks from his congregation and impassive stares from the Abysmyths.
‘Yes, yes,’ he whispered to no one, ‘I hear you.’ With a sudden growl, he clapped hands over his ears. ‘I SAID, I HEAR YOU!’
The dagger dropped from his fingers, forgotten along with his imminent sacrifice as he trudged past Kataria with a sudden weariness, ignoring her spitting and snarling. Denaos tolerated the noise long enough to note the intensity with which the Mouth gazed upon the stone slab at the end of the hall behind which Lenk had disappeared.
‘What is it?’ the Mouth muttered, then shrieked. ‘WHAT IS IT? I can’t. . it’s hard to. .’ He bit his lower lip, narrowed his eyes upon the stone. ‘Fine. I just. . what? They’re coming? How close?’
Denaos felt the creature behind him shift and dared to look up enough to see the Abysmyth’s gaze also locked upon the rock. The impassiveness in the demon’s eyes had also shifted, as much as an expressionless fish face would allow. It stared without the hysteric intensity of the Mouth, but rather with the attentive silence of an eager pupil.
What lessons it sought to learn in the agonising noise, Denaos did not dare guess.
‘They can wait,’ the Mouth replied, his voice suddenly a whine. ‘I’ve business to. . what? No, it’s not as though-’ He paused, hissing angrily at the stone as he gestured wildly at Kataria over his shoulder. ‘She insulted me! She insulted you! Now you wish to-’
The sound intensified. Denaos could no longer resist, forcing his hands to his ears as the murmurs became thunderous bellows, the whining a chorus
of angry shrieks. The congregation cowered at the unseen speaker and even the Abysmyths shifted uncomfortably.
It was Kataria who drew Denaos’s attention, however. The shict’s writhing became a frenzy, kicking, frothing, emitting howls that went silent beneath the onslaught of sound. Her arms firmly locked behind her, her ears twitched and bent wildly, trying to fold over themselves and block out the sound.
The rogue grimaced. Despite his earlier plot, it was difficult not to share his companion’s pain. Besides, he reasoned with as little resentment as he could muster, if she decided to simply collapse without blood or fanfare, there’d be no escape for him. That thought fled him the moment she looked up to meet his gaze, however.
Her eyes were wide and terrified, like a beast’s. No, he thought, not an animal. . she looks like. . just like. . He blinked. When he opened his eyes again, she was someone else, another woman, another life ending with blood seeping out of her throat. She mouthed something, his ears were deaf to it, but his mind was not.
‘Help me, tall man.’
He shut his eyes again. When he opened them, the shict hung limp in the Abysmyth’s grasp, her breathing shallow, buds of red beginning to blossom inside her ears.
‘No! No more! No more!’
His attentions were drawn back to the Mouth, collapsed before the stone as though it were an altar of adoration.
‘I do your bidding! I serve the Prophet!’ He crushed his head to the floor in submissive fervour. ‘I will serve!’
The silence that followed seemed deafening in the wake of such a hellish chorus. Even though it had dissipated, Denaos couldn’t shake the reverberation, the sensation of ripples sent through his blood. It wasn’t with anything but irritation that he recalled where he had first felt such a sound, such a violation of flesh by song.
‘Greenhair,’ he whispered.
‘What?’ The Mouth rose on shaky feet, not turning about. ‘What is it?’
‘Of course, it was a set-up.’ His callous laughter, he hoped, disguised fury and fear he dared not show before his captors. ‘You’ve been working with the siren the whole time.’
‘Blasphemy,’ the Mouth replied. ‘There are no blind servants to false Gods in this place.’ He turned, and the hunger that had once filled his eyes was replaced with a madness yet unseen in the empty stares of the Abysmyths and symmetrical glowers of the frogmen. ‘This. . this is a holy place.’
‘Defilers have arrived,’ the Abysmyth holding Kataria gurgled. ‘Offenders to Mother Deep. . slayers of the Shepherds.’
‘So it is noted,’ the Mouth grunted, stalking back to the dagger.
‘The longfaces return,’ Denaos’s own captor added. ‘The Prophet demands vengeance.’
‘There is yet time.’ He leaned down to pluck the weapon up. ‘I am yet the Mouth of Mother Deep. I demand vengeance of my own.’
‘The Prophet is the Voice.’ The Abysmyth regarded Kataria, limp and motionless in its grasp. ‘This vessel is empty. There is no further need.’
‘What have you done with her, you sons of fish-whores?’ Denaos demanded, scolding himself immediately afterwards. So much for restraint. .
‘I know not from whence this wretch came,’ the Abysmyth replied, ‘but it is a blessed one to have heard the voice of the Prophet with such clarity.’
‘A Prophet,’ Denaos muttered, eyeing the door. ‘You worship a block of stone.’
Mock them, he told himself, brilliant.
‘I suppose that makes as much sense as anything else related to a bunch of walking chum and their hairless androgynous toadies.’
They’re going to kill you, no matter what. Go out with some class.
‘You also reek.’
Well done.
‘You dare to blaspheme-’ the Mouth snarled, stalking towards him.
‘The words of the faithless are nothing to the graced ear.’ The Abysmyth’s grasp grew tighter around Denaos’ throat. ‘The Prophet shall cleanse what mortal filth taints these hallowed halls. As we shall march in Mother’s name to cleanse the impending blasphemers.’
‘Is that easier or harder to do with only one eye?’
Before the Abysmyth could so much as grunt, the blade was out and flashing in Denaos’s hand. He twisted in the beast’s grasp, arcing the dagger up and sinking it into a gaze that remained blank even as the hilt kissed its pupil.
With a triumphant cackle, he kicked at the creature’s ribcage, leaping away from it and tearing towards the water. His heart raced with elation as the frogmen reacted just as he had hoped, recoiling and parting with collective horror at the desecration that had occurred before them.
He glanced over his shoulder as he sped towards shadowed freedom, grimacing at Kataria’s limp form. Sparing a moment to mutter a prayer that the shrieking had killed her before the demons could have the pleasure, his attention was suddenly seized by the Mouth.
Odd, he thought, that a man so thoroughly defiled would be smiling.
Then he felt webbed fingers seize him. The Abysmyth’s long arm jerked him off his feet, staring at him through the wedge of steel lodged in its skull. The hilt shifted with an unnerving squishing noise as the creature’s eyeball rolled about in its socket.
‘Blessed is he who stands to face his judgement,’ the creature gurgled. ‘Blessed is he who perishes in the name of Mother Deep.’
Its arm snapped forwards with surprising speed, sending Denaos hurtling towards the wall. He struck it with a crack, bouncing from the stones to land in a puddle of salt water. Through hazy vision, he was barely able to make out Kataria’s pale body flying over him as she was likewise discarded.
‘So, then, are all blessed in Her eyes and heart.’
With that, the creatures turned and stalked through the congregation, followed by a begrudging Mouth. So, too, did the congregation turn to vanish down the hallways, following the Abysmyth’s empty voice.
‘Defilers approach. All are needed. We go to water, to weapons, to war.’
Left alone in the silence of the hall, accompanied only by the crackle of green fire and the lonely drip of water, Denaos could hear the sound of his heart slowing, the sound of red seeping into the puddle that was his grave. It was the groan behind him that caught his attention, however, the voice that rose faintly.
‘Lenk,’ Kataria whispered, her voice wet, ‘. . I’m coming. ’
No matter; he reminded himself to appreciate the irony when he reached the afterlife.
She’s alive, he thought, unable to summon the breath to chuckle.
Twenty-Four
THE OPPORTUNE MOMENT
It was with great clarity that Asper recalled the very first time she wondered whether Talanas truly loved her.
One year ago, following a short, wiry young man with silver hair, as his barbarous shict followed him, her doubt had been a brief, niggling gnat she could easily swat away. A disciple of the Healer’s pilgrimage, after all, required many opportunities to witness and learn from injury as well as to see what good could be wrought from those situations.
While most joined their local militias or armies, Asper was handed the bad luck to be born in an era where no one was particularly eager to slaughter each other on a mass scale. Adventurers, at the very least, provided ample opportunity to observe injury and all manner of wounds and diseases.
Her doubt had grown with each member added to their band: the murderous brigand, the heathen wizard and the savage monster. When they had finally met Miron Evenhands and agreed to aid his mission to commune with the heavens, it had dissipated.
But now, as she squatted in the underbrush of Ktamgi’s forest, watching the prow of the black vessel carve through the water, her doubt returned. And like a rash left untreated, it blossomed with a triumphant festering.
The ship, carved long and sleek from a wood so dark as to devour the sun, slid along the shoreline. With every push of the thick oars, every grunt of effort from those who pushed them, the crew became distinct, each one an ugly purple bru
ise upon the ship’s low-set deck.
At first, she wondered if she might be hallucinating, wondered if some native pollen had seeped into her nostrils and twisted her sight into some miasma of ebon and violet. She certainly had never seen such creatures as dotted the benches on the vessel.
Their purple flesh, generously exposed by the hammered sheets of iron they wore over their chests, was pulled hard and taut over muscles that flexed and shimmered in sweat-laden harmony. Their black hair resembled a row of hedges, each one trimmed with similarly violent style and cut close to their powerful jawlines.
It was their eyes that caught Asper’s attention, however: rows of narrowed, white diamonds without pupil or iris, each one set deep into the sockets of a long, narrow face.
Asper felt herself cringe inwardly. These, then, were the source of the carnage upon the blackened beach. She found it easy enough to believe; as the ship pulled closer, she could make out the thick iron blades strapped to their belts, two to each man, dark and ominous against their muscular purple thighs.
And yet, for all their menace and jagged edges, they appeared to be nothing more than ordinary blades. Not even well-made ones at that, she thought, each one resembling little more than a long spike. What, then, enabled these men to slaughter the demons as they had done?
That question suddenly became far less relevant to her as another one forcefully entered her mind through her widening eyes.
Are. . are they. . slowing down?
‘NYUNG!’
She winced at the sound: a harsh, alien bark that was difficult to distinguish between an actual spoken language and a bodily function. Whichever, the men seemed to understand it well enough. With an equally unintelligible roar in reply, they dug their oars into the sands of the shoals, bringing the ship to a sudden halt, bobbing ominously in the surf.
Though she was shocked to admit it, her first thought was not for herself, but rather for her companions. Gariath and Dreadaeleon were still vanished, chasing whatever it was that made each of them respectively useless at that moment. What would happen, she wondered, fearful, if they should stumble upon the purple creatures disembarked and eager to dismember?
