by Sam Sykes
He took a thin, white page and rubbed it gingerly between two fingers. The flinch of his lips, the ripping of the paper was short, bitter. Dreadaeleon’s scream was longer, louder. And at that sound, the longface’s lips twisted into a wry smirk.
‘But that’s part of your charm, isn’t it?’
‘Sheraptus …’ Greenhair spoke, then immediately stammered out: ‘M-Master … that is just a book of lore, nothing important. The true object is—’
‘Not moving, for the moment.’ He reached down and took a severed head from the palanquin, staring at its closed eyes, golden locks and frowning. ‘And they even carry death around with them … fascinating.’
The head, Lenk recognised. The Deepshriek’s head. The lizards kept it.
‘They know nothing of its importance. It will be ours again soon. Patience.’
‘There is a word for this sort of thing …’ Sheraptus hummed, tossing the head away. ‘It is either “macabre” or “deranged”, but it’s unimportant. I came for something else. Where is it?’
‘There, Master,’ Greenhair said, pointing to the palanquin. ‘The tome is there.’ Her glance flitted towards Dreadaeleon for a moment. ‘It will be safer with you.’
Sheraptus, however, merely stared at her, as unexpressive as a man with flaming eyes could be, before he looked over her to Xhai.
‘Where is it?’ he asked the Carnassial.
She shot him back a look, as wounded as a woman with spike-encrusted shoes could. ‘The Grey One That Grins only wants the tome. The other things are—’
‘I would very much like to have it … them,’ Sheraptus said. ‘It would make me very happy.’ He pursed his lips, furrowed his brows; beneath the fire, he looked almost hurt. ‘Xhai … do you not want me to be happy?’
She recoiled, as if struck. An emotion, close to but not quite the fury that was present earlier, shook her features. After a moment, her face settled into one of cold acknowledgement. She turned her head away and barked a command.
‘TCHIK QAI!’
There was a scrabble of boots, a few muffled curses from behind a massive, jutting ribcage half-buried nearby. Lenk’s ears immediately pricked up, his attention drawn towards the movement, his heart beating faster at the noise. The reaction did not go unnoticed.
‘Ignore that,’ a cold voice snarled.
‘The enemy is before you,’ a hot voice growled.
‘Duty first. Betrayers die.’
‘They will all die. They all betrayed you. Forget everything else.’
‘Kill.’
‘Listen.’
He did not hear them, felt them as nothing but flashes of hot and cold in his body. His eyes were locked upon the twitches of movement between the bones. He spotted glimpses of purple, but did not pay attention them. Before them, glimpses of colour, white and silver under the moonlight, moved swiftly, but erratically.
The movement stopped momentarily. There was another shout of protest, this one louder but not clear enough to be heard well. It was met with a snarling iron retort and a faint cracking sound. Lenk found himself surprised that he was wincing at the unseen blow, found himself surprised that he was leaning forward, craning his neck to see what emerged from behind the bones.
And despite the fear that had been growing in his chest since he had awoken, he found himself surprised to see a pair of emerald eyes, wide, terrified and searching.
He tried to cry out, tried to scream when he found he couldn’t. His throat was constricting, voice choked.
‘No,’ another voice answered his unspoken question, ‘speak not. Draw no attention. Not yet. He does not need you, does not want you. Survive first. Kill later.’
She looks hurt. She needs help. I need to—
‘Soon. Tome first. Duty first.’
No! Not duty first, she’s more important. She—
‘Fled. From you.’
What?
‘Fear was in her eyes. She was right to show us.’
No, she—
‘Does not understand.’
‘Cannot understand.’
‘Your duty … our duty … more important. She cannot see that. Looks away from it.’
She isn’t looking away now.
No response came; he wouldn’t have heard it, anyway. His eyes were locked on Kataria’s, and hers on his, as she was marched forward by ironbound hand and guttural snarls from purple lips. She put up minimal resistance to such, not that her bound hands would allow her much, in any case. Still, Lenk found himself surprised by her passiveness as she was ushered towards the knot of netherlings; he had expected her to be snarling, thrashing, biting and cursing.
To see that anticipated furious resistance emerge from the pale form emerging behind Kataria, however, was slightly more surprising.
‘And after I’ve chewed those off, because I’m sure you things only claim to be females,’ Asper snarled at the netherling shoving her forward, ‘I’m going to rip your eyes out and eat those, too!’ She dug her heels in, shoved back at her captor, tried to break away. All futile efforts, their failures doing nothing to curb her tongue. ‘Get back, you slavering, sloppy little cu—’
‘I know maybe three of those words,’ the netherling snarled back, raising an iron fist. ‘And I don’t know what to say to make you shut up, but I do know what to hit you with.’
‘No.’
Bones shook in skin, sea retreated from shore, all eyes looked up and instantly regretted doing so. Sheraptus’ eyes were narrowed to fiery slits as they swept up to the netherling holding the priestess. Like a flower before fire, the females’ resolve withered, hands trembled, gaze turned towards the sand.
Asper’s did not, however. And from the sudden widening of her eyes, the slackness of her jaw, the very visible collective clench of every muscle in her body, it wasn’t clear if she even could. Nothing had seemed to leave her, least of all her fight. Rather, it was apparent that the moment she had met his eyes, something had instead entered her and had no plans of leaving.
And, judging by his broad smile, it was more apparent to no one than Sheraptus.
‘This is it,’ he whispered, stalking closer to her. ‘This is what I came to see, what I continue to see. This … utter rejection of the world.’ He lifted a long purple hand to her, grinned as she flinched away from it. ‘That. What is that? Why do you do such a thing? You know you can’t flee, know you can’t escape, but you still try. Instinct dictates that you sit there and accept it, yet you refuse to. Why?’ He glanced up towards the sky. ‘I had once thought it was your notion of gods, with how often you pray to them, but I see nothing up there.’
His voice shifted to something low, something breathy and born out of his heart. Yet as soft as it went, it remained sharp and painful so that none could help but hear him. His eyes drifted from Asper’s horrified stare, searching over her half-nude body. Slowly, his hand rose to follow, palm resting upon her belly, fingers drumming thoughtfully on her skin.
Her choked gasp, too, could not be ignored.
‘It’s not gods, though, is it?’ His hand slid across her abdomen, as if beckoning something to rise from the prickling gooseflesh and reveal it to him. ‘No, no … something more. Or less?’ His smile trembled at the edges, trying and failing to contain something. ‘I just … can’t tell with your breed.’ His gaze returned to hers, a lurid emotion burning brighter than the fire consuming them. ‘But I dearly look forward to finding out.’
He turned away from her, his stare settling on Kataria for a moment, white brows furrowing. ‘And this one … doesn’t even put up a fight?’ He gave her a cursory glance, then shrugged. ‘I like the ears, anyway. Load them up.’
‘W-what?’ Asper gasped. Vigour returned to her as she was forced towards the black vessel, and she struggled against her captor’s grip. ‘No! NO!’ At that moment, she seemed to notice the others, bound on the sand. ‘Don’t let him do this to me. He’s going to … to …’ Tears began forming in her eyes. ‘Help me … help me, D—’
A rough cloth was wrapped about her mouth, tied tightly as she was hoisted up and over the netherling’s purple shoulder and spirited to the boat.
‘Asper!’ Dreadaeleon cried out. ‘I can help you … I … I can.’ He gritted his teeth as crimson sparked behind his eyes, the magic straining to loose itself. ‘It’s just … it’s …’
‘Intimidating, isn’t it?’ Sheraptus shot a fire-eyed wink at the boy. ‘I felt the same way when I first beheld it … well, sans the pitiful weakness, anyway.’ He ran a finger along the crown upon his brow, circling its three burning jewels. ‘One can’t help but behold it, like a candle that never snuffs out.’ He considered the boy carefully for a moment. ‘Which, I suppose, would make you a tiny, insignificant moth.’
As soon as he said the word, the boy collapsed, tumbling backwards with his eyes shutting tightly as if to ward against the burning. Immediately, his breathing slowed, his body went still. Lenk couldn’t help but widen his eyes in fear. Nothing he had known – human, longface or otherwise – could kill with a word.
‘Dread?’ he whispered.
‘Ignore it.’
‘He’s …
‘Unimportant.’
‘Should we … do something?’
‘I, for one,’ Denaos interjected, ‘fully intend on rising up and enacting a daring rescue, as soon as I finish crapping out a kidney.’
‘Plenty of time for that when I take you to the ship,’ Xhai snarled as she seized the rogue by his hair and hoisted him up. ‘This is better, in fact.’ Her smile was as sharp and cruel as the spikes on her feet. ‘Now, I can take my time.’
‘Semnein Xhai.’
She looked up with an abashed expression that had no business on a face so hard. Sheraptus’ befuddled dismay was just as out of place and somehow even more disturbing as he canted his head to the side.
‘Do I not make you happy?’ he asked. ‘You require this … pink thing?’
‘But you …’ She bit her lower lip, the innocence of the gesture somehow lost in her jagged teeth. ‘We are taking prisoners, aren’t we?’
‘It’s necessary to understand the condition of humans, yes,’ he replied. ‘But it’s only ever seen in females, and two is more than enough. We have no need for males. Leave this one behind.’
She glanced from Sheraptus to Denaos, gaze shifting from confused to angry in an instant. With a snarl, she hurled the rogue back to the earth and swept her scowl upon the remaining netherlings.
‘If any of you kills him,’ she growled, ‘you will do it quickly and you will not enjoy it. Or I’ll know … and I will.’
‘We have what we came for, in any case,’ Sheraptus said. He made a gesture, and the tome flew from the palanquin to his hand. He spared a smile for Togu. ‘As promised, we leave your island in peace.’
‘Good,’ Togu replied bluntly.
Lenk was aware of movement, netherlings returning to their vessels, chatter between them. He paid attention to none of it, his eyes locked, as they had been for an eternity, on Kataria’s.
Her lips remained still, her ears unquivering. It was only through her eyes that he knew she wished to say something to him. But what? The question ripped his mind apart as he searched her gaze for it. A plea for help? An apology? A farewell?
He was likewise aware of his inability to do anything for her. His bonds would not allow him to rise, to escape. The searing heat and freezing cold racing through him would not allow him to weep, to speak. And so he stared, eyes quivering, lips straining to mouth something, anything: reassurances, promises, apologies, pleas, accusations.
‘Take that one to the ship, as well,’ Sheraptus ordered the netherling holding her.
It was only when Kataria was hoisted up onto a powerful shoulder, only when her eyes began to fade as she was hauled through the surf, only when her gaze finally disappeared as she was tossed over the edge of the black boat that he recognised what had dwelled in her gaze.
Nothing.
No words. No questions. Nothing but the same utter lack of anything beyond a desperate need to say something that he had felt inside of him.
And only then did he realise he could not let her disappear.
‘Very well, then,’ Sheraptus said, pointing to a cluster of netherlings. ‘You five. You have … pleased me. I think you deserve a reward.’ He barely hid his contempt at their unpleasantly beaming visages. ‘The tome is all we require. Everything else can be destroyed.’
‘What?’ Togu spoke up, eyes going wide. ‘We had a deal! You said—’
‘I say many things,’ Sheraptus replied. ‘All of them true. It is my right to take what I wish and give as I please. And really, you’ve been quite rude.’
‘Sheraptus … Master,’ Greenhair spoke, ‘I gave them my word that—’
‘Bored,’ the male snarled back. ‘I am leaving. Come or stay, screamer. I care not.’
Confusion followed as netherlings hurried back to their boats, Sheraptus idly shaping his earthen staircase and returning to his own vessel. Greenhair reluctantly followed him aboard. Blades were drawn, cruel laughter emerging from jagged mouths. Togu shouted a word and his reptilian entourage fled. White, milky eyes settled on helpless, bound forms.
Lenk cared not, did not hear them, did not look at them. He watched the boat bearing Kataria slide out of view, vanishing into the darkness. He swallowed hard, felt his voice dry and weak in his throat.
‘Tell me,’ he whispered, ‘can you … can either of you save her?’
No more heat. No more fever. Something cold coursed through his blood, sent his muscles tightening against bonds that suddenly felt weak. Something frigid crept into his mind. Something dark spoke within him.
‘I can.’
Twenty-Nine
THE SCENT OF MEMORY
The grandfather wasn’t speaking to him anymore.
Unfortunately, that didn’t mean he wasn’t still there.
Gariath could see him at the corner of his eyes, held the scent of him in his nostrils. And it certainly didn’t mean he had stopped making noise.
‘We had to have known,’ he muttered from somewhere, Gariath not knowing or caring where. ‘At some point, we had to have known how it would all end. The Rhega were strong. That’s why they came to us. They were weak. That’s why we aided them. That was what we did, back then.’
Of all the aimless babble, Gariath recognised only the word Rhega. How far back, who ‘they’ were, when the Rhega had ever helped anyone weak was a mystery for people less easily annoyed. He wasn’t even sure who the grandfather was speaking to anymore, either, but it hadn’t been him for several hours, he was sure.
The shift had begun after they had left the shadow of the giant skeleton and its great grave of a ravine behind them. The grandfather suddenly became as the wind: elusive, difficult to see, and constantly flitting about.
He talks more, too, Gariath thought, resentfully. Much more annoying than the wind.
He had long given up any hopes for communication. The grandfather vanished if Gariath tried to look at him, met his questions with silence, nonsensical murmurs or bellowing songs.
‘We used to sing back then, too,’ the grandfather muttered. ‘We had reason to in those days. More births, more pups. We killed only for food. Survival wasn’t the worry it is today.’
Granted, Gariath admitted to himself, he wasn’t quite sure how the effects of senility applied to someone long dead, but he was prepared to declare the grandfather such. The skeleton had obviously been the source, but further details eluded both Gariath’s inquiries and, eventually, his interest.
The grandfather had faded from his concerns, if not from his ear-frills, hours ago. Now, the forest opened up into beach and the trees lost ground to encroaching sand. Now, he ignored sight and sound alike, focused only on scent.
Now, he hunted a memory.
It was faint, only a hint of it grazing his nostrils with the deepest of breaths, an afterthought muttered from the withered lips of an ancestor long dea
d. But it was there, the scent of the Rhega, drifting through the air, rising up from the ground, across the sea. It was a confident scent, unconcerned with earth and air and water. It had been around longer, would continue to be when earth and air and water could not tell the difference between themselves.
And he wanted to scream at it.
He craved to feel hope again, the desperate yearning that had infected him when he had last breathed such a scent. He wanted to roar and chase it down the beach. He resisted the urge. He denied the hope. The scent was a passing thought. He dared not hope until he tracked it and felt the memories in his nostrils.
There would be time enough to hope when he found the Rhega again.
‘Wisest,’ the grandfather whispered.
Gariath paused, if only because this was the first time he had heard his name pass through the spirit’s spectral lips in hours.
‘Your path is behind you,’ he whispered. ‘You will find only death ahead.’
Gariath ignored him, resuming his trek down the beach. Even if it wasn’t idle babble, Gariath had been told such a thing before. Everyone certain of his inevitable and impending death had, to his endless frustration, been wrong thus far.
And yet, what his ears refused to acknowledge, his snout had difficulty denying.
Broken rocks, dried-up rivers, dead leaves, rotting bark – the scents crept into his nostrils unbidden, tugged at his senses and demanded his attention. The scent he sought was difficult to track, the source he followed difficult to concentrate on.
Each time they passed his nostrils, with every whiff of decay and age, he was reminded of the hours before this moment, of the battle at the ledge.
Of the lizard …
His mind leapt to that moment time and again, no matter how much he resisted it, of the tall, green reptile-man coated in tattoos, holding a bow in one hand, raising a palm to him. He saw the creature’s single, yellow eye. He heard the creature’s voice, understood its language. He drew in the creature’s scent and knew its name.
Shen.
How could he have known that? How could he still know that? The creature had spoken to him, addressed him, called him Rhega. How was that possible? There weren’t enough Rhega left on the mainland, let alone on some forsaken floating graveyard, for the thing to recognise him. And he was certain he had never seen it before.
