by Sam Sykes
And yet, it had intervened on his behalf, saved him from death. Twice, Gariath admitted to himself; once with an arrow and again with the surge of violent resolve that had swept through him afterwards. That vigour had waned, dissolving into uncomfortable itches and irritating questions.
Questions, he reminded himself, that you have no time for. Focus. If you can’t feel hope, you sure as hell can’t feel confusion until you find them.
‘Find what, Wisest?’ the grandfather murmured. ‘The beach is barren. There is nothing for us here.’
‘There must be a sign, a trace of where they went,’ Gariath replied, instantly regretting it.
‘There are no Rhega here.’
‘You’re here.’
‘I am dead.’
‘The scent is strong.’
‘You have smelled it before.’
‘And I found Grahta.’
‘Grahta is dead.’
The grandfather’s words were heavy. He ignored them. He could not afford to be burdened now. He pressed on, nose in the air and eyes upon the cloud-shrouded moon.
Thought was something he could not carry now. It would bow his head low, force his eyes upon the ground and he would never see where he was going.
‘The answer lies behind you, Wisest,’ the grandfather said. ‘Continue, and you will find something to fear.’
The spirit was but one more thing to ignore, one more thing he couldn’t afford to pay attention to. So long as he had a scent to track, answers to seek, he didn’t have to think.
He wouldn’t have to think about how the beach sprawled endlessly before him, how the clouds shifted to paint moonlight on the shore. Still, he made the mistake of glancing down and seeing the shadows rising up in great, curving shards farther down the beach.
Bones, he recognised. More great skeletons, more silent screaming, more shallow graves. How many, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t have the wit to count, either, for in another moment, the stench of death struck him like a fist.
It sent him reeling, but only that. What made him stop, what made his eyes go wide and his jaw drop, was the sudden realisation that he had been struck with no singular aroma. Another scent was wrapped up within the reek of decay, trapped inside it, inseparable from it.
Rivers. Rocks.
Rhega.
No.
That was not right. The scent of the Rhega was the odour of life, strong, powerful. He seized what remained of his strength, throttled it to make himself stagger forward. He would get a better scent, he knew, smell the vigour and memory of the Rhega that undoubtedly lingered behind it. Then everything would be fine. He would have his answers. He could feel hope again and this time, he’d—
He struck his toe, felt a pain too sharp to belong to him. A white bone lay at his feet, too small to belong to a great beast, too big to be a hapless human corpse. Its scent was too … too …
‘No …’
He collapsed to his knees; his hands drove themselves into the dirt and began digging. He sobbed, begging them not to in choked incoherencies. Thought weighed him down, fear drove his hands, and with every grain removed, white bone was exposed.
No.
An eye socket that should have held a dark stare looked up at him.
No!
Sharp teeth worn with use and age grinned at him.
NO!
A pair of horns, indentations where ear-frills had been, a gaping hole in the side of its bleached head …
He was out of thought, unable to think enough to rise or look away or even touch the skull. He knelt before it, staring down.
And the dead Rhega stared back.
‘That’s why the scent is faint.’
Gariath recognised the voice, its age and depth like rocks breaking and leaves falling. He didn’t look up as a pair of long, green legs came to stand beside him and a single yellow eye stared down at the skull.
‘It’s in the air, the earth.’ He squatted beside Gariath, running a reverential hand across the sand. ‘So is death. No matter how many bones we find and return’ – he paused to sigh – ‘there are always more.’
Gariath’s stare lingered on the skull, afraid to look up, more afraid to ask the question boiling behind his lips.
‘Are they …?’ he asked, regardless. ‘All of them?’
The Shen’s head swung towards him, levelled the single eye upon him. ‘Not all of them.’
Words heavy with meaning, Gariath recognised, made lighter with meaninglessness. ‘If a people becomes a person, there are none left.’
‘If there is one left, then there is one left. Failure and philosophy are for humans.’ He glanced farther down the beach. ‘They have been here.’
Gariath had not expected to look up at that word. ‘Humans?’
‘Dragged through here, earlier, by the longfaces,’ the lizardman muttered, staring intently at the earth. ‘We had hoped Togu would take care of their presence, but not by feeding them to purple-skinned beasts. He encourages further incursions.’ He snorted. ‘He was always weak.’
‘You have been tracking them? You are a hunter, then?’
‘I am Yaike. I am Shen. It matters not what I do, so long as I do it for all Shen.’
‘You can hunt with one eye?’
‘I have another one. I am still Shen. Other races that teem have the numbers to give up when they lose one eye.’ He hummed, his body rumbling with the sound. ‘Tonight, we hunt longfaces. Tonight, we kill them. In this, we know we are Shen.’ He glanced at Gariath. ‘More bones tonight, Rhega. There are always more.’
‘There is a lot of that on this island.’
‘This?’ Yaike gestured to the skull. ‘A tragedy. The Shen were born in it, in death. We carry it with us.’ He ran a clawed finger across his tattooed flesh. ‘Our lives are painted with it, intertwined with it. In death, we find life.’
‘In death, I have found nothing.’
‘I am Shen.’ Yaike rose to his feet. ‘I know only Shen. Of Rhega, I know only legends.’
‘And what do they say?’
‘That the Rhega found life in all things. I am Shen. For me, all things are found in death.’
Yaike’s gaze settled on Gariath for a moment before he turned and stalked off, saying nothing more. Gariath did not call after him. He knew there was nothing more the Shen could offer him, as surely as he knew the name Shen. And because he was not sure at all how he knew the name, he felt no calm. Thought felt no lighter on his shoulders.
Answers in death, he thought to himself. I’ve seen much death.
‘And you haven’t learned anything, Wisest,’ the grandfather whispered, unseen.
Death is a better answer than nothing.
There was no response to that from the grandfather. No sound at all, but the hush of the waves and the sound of boots on sand.
‘Is that it?’ a grating voice asked, suddenly. ‘It’s pretty big, isn’t it?’
His nostrils quivered: iron, rust, hate.
He turned and regarded them carefully, the trio of purple-skinned longfaces that had emerged from the night. They clutched swords in hands, carried thick, jagged throwing knives at their belts. How easy it would be, he wondered, to stand there and let them carve his flesh. How easy would it be to find an answer in his own blood, dripping out on the sand.
He hadn’t learned anything that way so far.
‘You have humans,’ he grunted. ‘I will take them.’
‘They yours?’ one of them asked. ‘How about we burn what’s left of them and what’s left of you in a pile? Fair?’
He stepped forward and felt refreshed by an instant surge of ire welling up inside him. It might not have been the most profound of solutions, but then, this was not the most difficult of problems.
For this question, for any question, violence was an answer he understood.
The netherlings shared this thought, bringing their swords up, meeting his bared teeth with their jagged grins.
Humans were nearby, he knew,
and they were likely dead. Netherlings were closer, he knew, and they would soon be dead. He would find answers tonight, answers in death.
Whose, he wasn’t quite sure he cared.
Lenk felt the chill shudder through his body, seizing his attention.
‘They have come to a decision.’
The sight of drawn swords and grins of varying width and wickedness confirmed as much. The netherlings’ brief argument over who was going to kill whom had lasted only as long as it took for words to give way to fists, with the least battered picking their prey. The one most bloodied settled with a grumble for Dreadaeleon’s unconscious form, still beside Lenk.
The one with the broadest grin and the bloodiest gauntlet advanced upon him, pursued by scowls from the ones with the most knuckle indentations embedded in their jaws. There were many of those, he noted. She had wanted him badly.
‘She shall never have us,’ the voice muttered. ‘We will find her first, show her revelation, show them all.’
‘Revelation,’ Lenk whispered, ‘in blood, steel. We will show them.’
‘Show us what?’ the advancing netherling asked, tilting her head to the side.
‘He could show us his insides,’ one of the longfaces offered.
‘Rather, you could,’ another replied, kneeling beside the prone form of Denaos. ‘I intend to make this one die slowly. Xhai is going to be pissed.’
‘Die?’ the voice asked of Lenk.
Lenk shook his head. ‘Not us.’
‘Not if she is to survive.’
A sudden heat engulfed Lenk, bathed his brow in an instant sweat. ‘And what of your survival? Save her, even try to, and you’ll die, you’ll rot and she’ll be—’
The sweat turned cold, froze to rime on his skin. ‘Meaningless. Duty above survival. Duty above life. Duty above all. They are coming. They will die, as these ones here die.’
‘As all die,’ Lenk murmured.
‘Now you’ve got it,’ the netherling said, grinning as she levelled her sword at the young man’s brow. ‘This is just how it is, as Master Sheraptus says. The weak give all, the strong take all.’ Her grin grew broader. ‘Master Sheraptus is strong. We are strong.’
‘Weak enables strong. Strong feed on weak. Not incorrect.’
‘Her perception is wrong, though,’ Lenk muttered.
‘What?’ The netherling smiled with terrible glee. ‘Oh, wait, are you going to do one of those dying monologues that pinkies do? I’ve heard about these! Make it good!’
His stare rose to meet hers. Instantly, her smile faded, the wickedness fleeing her face to be replaced with confusion tinged by fear. His eyes were easy as her sword arm tensed, his voice emerging on breath made visible by cold as he stared at her and whispered.
‘We are stronger,’ he said evenly. ‘We will kill you first.’
She recoiled at that, as if struck worse than a fist could. ‘I hoped to enjoy this,’ she growled, drawing her blade back, ready to drive it between his eyes. ‘But you ruined it, you stupid little—’
A roar split the sky apart, choking her voice in her throat. Her arm steadied as a new kind of confusion, fear replaced with curiosity, crossed her face. She looked over her shoulder, milk-white eyes staring down the beach, seeking the source of the fury.
‘That’s …’ another longface hummed, squinting into the gloom, ‘that’s one of the low-fingers, isn’t it? That the Master sent out?’
‘It is,’ the voice answered in Lenk’s head, ‘what we have waited for.’
He felt his eyes drawn to the beach. Movement was obvious, even in the darkness: purple flesh shifting beneath moonlight as a netherling charged down the beach. But her gait was awkward, bobbing wildly as she rushed forward. The peculiarities grew the closer she drew: the jellylike flail of her arms and legs, the hulking shadow behind her body.
By the time Lenk saw the longface’s head lolling on a distinctly shattered neck, it was clear to him and everyone else what was about to happen.
‘Oh, hell, it’s that … that red thing!’ a netherling snarled. ‘What are they called?’
‘It was supposed to be dead, wasn’t it?’ another snarled. ‘The screamer said!’
‘It’s not,’ the third laughed, hefting her jagged throwing blade. ‘This day just gets better and better.’
‘What about the pink things?’
‘Kill ’em if you want. Don’t expect any scraps.’
A cackle tore through the longfaces. A chorus of whining metal followed as jagged hurling blades flew, shrieking to be heard over the war cry that chased them.
‘QAI ZHOTH!’
With each meaty smack, the longface’s corpse shuddered as the blades gnawed into lifeless flesh and stuck fast, leaving the creature behind it unscathed. It rushed forward, trembling as a roar emerged from behind the shield of sinew. Lenk saw flashes of red skin, sharp teeth and dark, murderous eyes. He found he could hardly help the smile creeping upon his lips.
And behind the corpse, Gariath’s grin was twice as long, thrice as unpleasant.
‘AKH ZEKH LAKH!’ the longfaces threw chants instead of knives, hefting their swords and shields as they charged forward to meet the dragonman’s fury with their own.
‘Distracted. Escape possible. Death inevitable. Duty will be fulfilled.’
‘My hands are tied,’ he whispered.
‘Move or die.’
‘Fair enough.’ He pulled at the ropes; he knew little of knots, but it seemed reasonable that the netherlings would not plan to hold prisoners any longer than it took to gut them. With a little guidance, he was sure he could break free. ‘Denaos, can you—’
‘He can,’ the voice replied. ‘He did.’
The slipped bonds on the earth where the rogue had lain was evidence enough of that.
‘We did not need him. Do not need any of them. Focus. Time is short.’
A challenging howl confirmed as much. Gariath had dropped his corpse to the earth, seizing it by its ankles and dragging it to meet his foes. Their anticipation was evident in the gleam of their swords, the grin on their faces.
‘QAI ZHOTH!’ the leading one howled, leaping forward. ‘EVISCERATE! DECAPITATE! ANNIHILA—’
The chant was shattered along with her teeth as two thick skulls collided. He swung the corpse like a club of muscle and flesh. Limp arms flailed out to smash ironbound hands into chanting jaws. Bones cracked against bones, casting the attackers back as Gariath grunted and adjusted his weight for another swing.
‘Ignore,’ the voice hissed, its freezing tone bringing Lenk’s attention back to his wrists. ‘Duty is at hand. We must free ourselves. We must kill.’
‘I can’t,’ he snarled, tugging at his wrists. ‘I can’t!’
‘Can’t what?’ Dreadaeleon replied. ‘Gariath seems to have the matter in hand.’
‘If you cannot, then she dies. All die. Because of you.’
‘I can’t help it … I can’t get free!’
‘I can.’
‘You … can?’
‘Who can?’ Dreadaeleon asked, glancing at the young man. ‘Lenk … really? Now?’
‘Say it.’
Somehow, within the icy recesses of a mind not his own, he knew what he must say. And somehow, in the shortness of his own breath, he knew the consequences of saying it.
‘Save her,’ he whispered.
The voice made no vocal reply. Its presence was made manifest through his blood going cold and a chill sweeping over him. His skull was rimed in ice, numbing him to thought, to fear, to doubt. His muscles became hard, bereft of feeling or pain as he pulled them against the rope. They did not ache, did not burn, did not protest. They were ice.
He should worry, some part of him knew.
His hands pulled themselves free. He felt blood, cold on his skin, could not find the thought to hurt. He rose up on numb legs and staggered forward. The palanquin was before him, his sword upon it, its leather hilt thrust toward him invitingly. He clutched it and for a brief momen
t felt a surge of vigour, a piece he had been missing thrust violently into him and made whole.
‘You have a sword to defend yourself, the means to escape,’ another voice whispered feverishly. ‘Escape! Run now! Save yourself! You don’t need to die here!’
Words on numb ears; he would not die here. He staggered forward, the blade dragging on the earth behind him. Gariath swung the corpse back and forth wildly; he was unimportant. The netherlings darted about him, seeking an opening in his defence; they were insignificant. One of them hung back, the one that had failed to kill him, the one that would enable him.
She was first.
She heard him approach, felt his breath on her neck, knew his presence; that was all so unimportant. She whirled about, the blade in her hand, the curse on her lips, the shield rising; that was just insignificant.
His own blade rose swiftly. He could see himself in its reflection, see the dead, pupilless eyes staring back at him. Then, he was gone, vanished in a bath of red. He couldn’t remember when the blade had found her neck. He couldn’t remember what he had said that made her look at him with such pain in her mouth, such fear in her eyes.
But he remembered this sensation, this strength. He had felt it in icy rivers and in dark dreams, in the absence of fever and the chill of wind. He remembered the voice that spoke to him now, as it melted and seeped out of his skull. He remembered its message. He heard it now.
‘Strength wanes, bodies decay, faith fails, steel breaks.’
‘Duty,’ he whispered, ‘persists.’
Life returned to him: warm, burning, feverish life. The body fell to the ground, the netherling gurgling and clutching at the gaping wound in her throat. The others whirled around, staring at her, then turning wide eyes up to Lenk.
‘Shtehz,’ one of them gasped, ‘the damn thing just turned grey ag—’
The ensuing cracking sound would have drowned out the remark, even if the netherling’s mouth wasn’t reduced to a bloody mess as a red claw seized her by the back of her head and smashed her skull against her companion’s.
