Black Halo

by Sykes, Sam

  ‘Insects are made of meat.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem a little odd to defend an insect so vehemently?’

  ‘A little.’ His smile was broad, if no less crooked. ‘Maybe I’m not so averse to the various oddities that surround me anymore.’

  His lips twitched, something tremulous scratching his mouth, straining to find a place where it could break out. She recalled how many times she had seen his gaze before, bereft of the softness it bore now. His gaze had been something hard and endlessly blue before, something to be avoided.

  Quietly, she longed to see those eyes again. They would at least be easier to turn away from. Instead, she was bound by his stare, forced to look at him as he stared back at her with an expression that was terribly human.

  ‘Maybe,’ he whispered, ‘I don’t want to leave all of them behind.’

  Why do you keep doing this? Her voice was growing ever more faint in her mind, but still returned to gnaw at her heart with sharp teeth. Why do you encourage him like this? Even if you wanted this, even if you wanted to be infected, this can’t last. It can’t even last as long as you think it can.

  Lenk didn’t see the fear on her face as he looked up. His smile diminished only slightly as he stared at the three half-naked figures approaching them. His wave was weak, his eyes lost their softness; it only reminded her painfully of how he had just looked at her.

  ‘Other oddities, I’ll be glad to be rid of.’

  ‘The same could be said of you,’ Denaos muttered as he slunk forward. ‘At the very least, don’t expect me to leave flowers on your grave.’

  ‘And don’t expect me not to leave something brown and steaming on yours,’ Lenk replied sharply. ‘But I didn’t call you out here to just insult you.’

  ‘Just insult me? Were you going to kick me, as well?’

  ‘Not today.’ Lenk patted his leg. ‘I had something to—’

  ‘You should kick him.’

  Dreadaeleon’s voice was as sullen as his frown was long. His eyes shifted irately toward Denaos, who merely sneered in reply.

  ‘Some gratitude,’ the rogue muttered. ‘This is the thanks I get from you?’

  ‘For what?’ Asper asked, cocking a brow.

  ‘For …’ Whatever it was that flashed across Dreadaeleon’s face, only Denaos seemed to catch it. ‘A secret.’

  ‘Secrets,’ the priestess repeated quietly. ‘I suppose he knows all about that, doesn’t he?’

  This time, something flashed across Denaos’ face. His visage shifted, as though he tried on and discarded a mask in a single breath many times over. When he finally chose one, the blankness on his face was as cool as his tone of voice.

  ‘Everyone knows something about them.’

  His eyes flickered and Kataria’s breath caught in her throat, as though he had hurled that sentence like a dagger and struck her squarely in the heart. Her ears lowered, flattened against her head as a thick and awkward silence smothered the air between them, even if it could do nothing to hide the scowls darting from face to face.

  And, like the baffled eye of a half-naked storm of scorn, Lenk turned a single raised brow to his companions.

  ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Kataria spoke up with a swiftness that made her want to kick herself. ‘Nothing, really. Nerves are … you know, worn, from having sand up our collective rear ends for a while.’

  ‘Six days,’ Dreadaeleon said, nodding, ‘since we arrived.’

  ‘Since we were shipwrecked,’ Asper pointed out.

  ‘Yes, we’ve been over this,’ Lenk snarled, rubbing his brow. ‘And now, it’s over.’

  A panoply of furrowed brows and confused looks met him.

  ‘Did I miss something?’ Denaos asked. ‘We don’t have the tome, don’t have a boat, we certainly aren’t paid and, in fact, seem to be poorer by about three pounds of clothing, give or take, since we started.’

  ‘Not to mention the fact that Kataria has, in fact, told you that netherlings are on the island,’ Dreadaeleon pointed out.

  ‘And I think Denaos mentioned something about demons, didn’t he?’ Kataria asked.

  ‘Yes, but when you found them, they were busy killing each other,’ Lenk replied. ‘And none of them saw you, did they?’

  A choral attempt at inconspicuousness assaulted Kataria’s ears: Dreadaeleon cleared his throat and appeared to study the sky overhead, Denaos sniffed and spared a momentary sneer, Asper shuffled her feet briefly before reaching for a holy symbol that wasn’t there and resigning herself to casting her eyes downward. The shict couldn’t afford to furrow her brow at them for long before Lenk turned the same scrutinising, expectant stare upon her.

  She blinked, then shook her head briefly.

  ‘No one,’ she replied. ‘The netherlings were busy with the demons, as you say.’

  ‘And likely the same can be said of the other fish-things,’ Lenk replied, rolling his shoulders. ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘Well, basically, everything,’ Asper interjected. ‘Between the presence of the longfaces, the demons, the lizardmen and the noted absence of the presences of the tome, our clothes—’

  ‘The gold,’ Denaos added, ‘our dignity, and so forth …’

  ‘Point being,’ Asper said after shooting the rogue a silencing glare, ‘things certainly don’t look over.’

  ‘Because you’re not looking at it with the proper perspective,’ Lenk replied. ‘What you’re seeing is the broth, not the meat.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘I wrote about it earlier.’

  ‘How does that help any—’

  ‘As I was saying, you’re only seeing what we don’t have: the tome, the gold. We didn’t have a lot of dignity to begin with, so that’s no great loss.’ He offered a weak smile around the circle. ‘But we do have each other. We have our lives. We should hold on to them.’

  Kataria wasn’t quite certain what he expected, be it a raucous chorus of cheering approval or a weary sigh of resignation and agreement, but she could guess by the sudden narrowing of his eyes that he wasn’t expecting the choked snort Denaos forced through a crooked grin.

  ‘You girl,’ the rogue cackled and held up his hands for peace. ‘No, no, sorry, I meant to say something far less insulting to our female cohorts and far more insulting to you, but … you girl.’

  ‘Don’t feign bravery now, you roach,’ Lenk snarled at him. ‘You were the most eager to run when we started this.’

  ‘And I still am. I agree with your philosophy, but not your reasons. Let’s not go acting like you give a damn over everyone’s lives at this point, not after we’ve nearly died … how many times now?’

  ‘Roughly thirteen since we left the Riptide,’ Dreadaeleon interjected. ‘Those are only the potential deaths by injury, of course. Taking into account factors such as accidents, disease and premeditation sans follow-through, the tally rises considerably.’

  ‘All of which you remained conspicuously silent through until now,’ Denaos said, scratching his chin. ‘What’s changed?’

  Lenk made no reply for the rogue to hear, nor did he offer one to anyone. Still, Kataria saw it in the brief flash of blue as he cast her a sidelong glimpse. It was only the barest sliver of azure, but she could see his answer in the sudden softness of his stare, the quiet thaw of his eyes. Something had changed; what it was, he would not say to her or any of the others.

  And so, as he stood silent, she ignored the feeling that she should follow and spoke up.

  ‘The longest-lived rat doesn’t ask why a crumb comes his way,’ she snarled at the rogue. ‘The fact that this one standing in front of me is suddenly so interested in why he’s not getting stepped on should be more questionable than anything else.’

  She had expected anything from the rogue: a sneer, a snide comment, a veiled threat, even the sudden appearance of a dagger he had somehow unnervingly concealed. These she was prepared for; these she had retorts for. Thus, when he angled his eyes away from h
er stare and said nothing more, she was struck dumb.

  ‘As always,’ Lenk continued, sighing, ‘I don’t expect anyone to follow me where they don’t want to. If any of you wish to stay here, carve out whatever life you care to amongst the lizards and count the days before something – purple, black or otherwise – rips off your head and eats it, feel free to.’ He sniffed. ‘Anyone else is free to listen to my plan.’

  Another chorus of begrudging coughs brought a grin out on his face.

  ‘How swiftly the tide turns, eh? Was it the mention of escape or the promise of having your head digested, then?’

  ‘I’m more curious about how, exactly, you plan to get off this island, given our circumstances,’ Denaos interjected. The sullenness from his face was banished and reinvigorated with snidery. ‘Did we or did we not miss our trip back to Port Destiny?’

  ‘We haven’t missed it.’ Kataria looked pointedly at the ground. ‘Sebast might still show up.’

  ‘If he doesn’t arrive soon, I still have a plan,’ Lenk replied.

  ‘Does it include a way to leave the Owauku,’ Asper began sharply, ‘who, I feel the need to point out, saved our lives and who, I feel again the need to point out, we are about to abandon as they are caught in the cross between the netherlings and the demons?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lenk said. He coughed discreetly. ‘In a way.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘If we tell them, they’re not going to help us escape, so I figured we’d … I don’t know, leave a note or something.’

  ‘Good,’ the priestess said, nodding. ‘Maybe they can use it to stanch the blood when their intestines get spilled out on the ground.’

  ‘They took our stuff,’ Lenk replied with a shrug. ‘Seems a fair trade.’

  She blinked. ‘They made us slightly sunburnt and uncomfortable … so we’re being reasonable in condemning them to a slow, agonising death.’

  ‘Stop being dramatic,’ Denaos said. ‘You know as well as we do that the longfaces kill their prey quickly.’

  ‘Oh, so now you’re for this?’ She whirled, snarling at the rogue. ‘What was that momentary conscience growing out of your mouth a moment ago?’

  ‘Indigestion, probably,’ he replied. ‘Upon further consideration—’

  ‘You mean three breaths long?’

  ‘Further consideration,’ he replied forcefully, ‘it’s rather clear we aren’t going to make any money or avoid an imminent disembowelment any longer by staying here. Prudence dictates we leave, maybe come back later when everyone’s dead and sift through the innards until we find something.’

  Kataria glowered at the distant gohmn herd sipping from a pool. ‘If there’s anything left.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Well, it’s all moot, isn’t it?’ Dreadaeleon suddenly chimed in. ‘I mean, we can’t just leave yet.’

  ‘At least someone has a sense of decency,’ Asper muttered.

  ‘Not a person in this circle is in a position to lecture anyone on decency, young lady,’ Denaos replied. ‘He probably just wants to stay as long as he can to catch a glimpse of all the flesh on display.’

  ‘Clearly,’ Dreadaeleon said, sneering. ‘But I was more referring to the fact that we’re, as yet, incomplete.’ His expression was half-beseeching and half-curious as he swept it about the circle. ‘I mean, what about Gariath? If the rest of us are alive, he probably is, too.’

  ‘He seemed fairly determined not to be when we last saw him,’ Asper said.

  ‘He’s alive,’ Kataria said softly.

  ‘How do you know?’

  The shict felt a sudden unease as the human eyes turned toward her, scrutinising her slowly. She felt the urge to flee, to escape both their stares and the memory of her encounter with Gariath. She had done a good enough job over the past days, she thought, trying to trick herself into thinking that the dragonman was dead and her secret was safe.

  In her heart, though, she knew he was alive. There was no way she could be so lucky for anything else to be true.

  ‘She knows because she’s not an idiot,’ Lenk replied before she could. ‘He’s stronger than all of us. He would survive. And I suppose we can delay our plans until we find him.’

  ‘A thought occurs,’ Denaos interjected. A thoughtful look crossed his face and he inhaled sharply, as though about to deliver a stirring conclusion. ‘Why?’

  ‘What do you mean, why? He’s part of our group, isn’t he?’

  ‘Well, we’re not really a “group”, are we? And he’s really more of a hanger-on that chose to insinuate himself into our loose coalition … a parasite, if you will.’

  ‘Parasites don’t so abruptly try to kill us,’ Kataria muttered.

  ‘Well, he’s been doing it for the past year,’ Dreadaeleon retorted. ‘I thought we were past holding that against him.’

  ‘Yes, but he came awfully close this time,’ Asper said. ‘It’s probably wiser to abandon him now after his … what, eighteenth try?’

  Denaos chuckled. ‘Stick up for the lizardmen that you just met, but abandon the one you’ve known for ages? Is that sort of behaviour condoned in the Talanite faith?’

  ‘I sleep easy,’ she replied. ‘Do you?’

  ‘I’m sure there’s some lovely backstory that I don’t care about between you two,’ Lenk interjected, ‘but I’ll have to interrupt to put this to a vote.’ He swept a careful stare around the circle. ‘Acknowledging full well what it means to say so … how many of you want to leave Gariath behind?’

  Denaos’ hand shot up with swiftness, Asper’s followed with only enough hesitation to display a minor internal struggle. Dreadaeleon glanced at them both with a frown that went slightly beyond disapproval. It wasn’t until Lenk looked to his side and saw the pale, slender arm in the air that he quirked a brow.

  ‘Really?’ he asked Kataria. ‘I would have thought you to be his only supporter.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first time you were wrong, would it?’ she growled at him.

  He frowned. ‘I … guess not.’ With a sigh, he rubbed his eyes. ‘Well, that’s that, then, isn’t it? If he is alive and we go through with this, I suppose we’ve got one more thing that can and will kill us.’

  ‘All the more reason to leave,’ Kataria agreed.

  ‘Which you still haven’t explained how you intend to do,’ Denaos pointed out.

  Whatever Lenk had to say in response was suddenly drowned out by the sound of a heavy breathing, heavy footsteps and a heavy stick being dragged through the sand. It was hard to ignore the sight of Bagagame approaching the group, and outright impossible to miss the sight of the screeching writhing roach he dragged by its antennae alongside his stick.

  ‘Okay, cousin,’ he gasped, pulling his twitching prize before Lenk. ‘Ol’ Bagagame got you covered. Took some whacking, but m’found you a nice slab to chew on.’ With a grunt, he hurled the insect forward. ‘Eat hearty.’

  ‘That’s … nice?’ Lenk said. ‘But there’s something else you can do for us.’

  ‘Ah, right. Rude.’ The Owauku’s tiny muscles strained as he hoisted his stick high above his head and brought it down in a shrieking splatter of foul-smelling ichor. His tongue flicked out from behind his grin to slurp up a glistening gob on his mouth. ‘Juicy enough for a king, eh?’

  ‘I was thinking the same thing,’ Lenk said as he turned his smile from the lizardman to his companions. ‘Bagagame, show us to Togu.’

  Nineteen

  MEN OF VIRTUE AND THE

  NOOSES THEY SWAY FROM

  He crept quietly through the city’s backstreets, hood drawn up, cloak held tightly about him. He navigated them quickly, quietly, the sins of his memories still embedded in the stones when he walked without webs on his feet, when he could bear the sensation of earth on his soles. He once had done so. He once had walked among them and they had called him neighbour.

  And what do they call me now, I wonder, he thought. Monster? Heretic? Betrayer? Demon worshi
pper. He paused at the mouth of an alley, glancing about before sliding through the sunlight and back into shadow. And what slurs I could level at them. Sheep. Cattle. Blind, ignorant masses that feed themselves into the furnaces stoked by the lies of the Gods and their servants. If they want it so bad, they deserve to die. They deserve to—

  No, no, he chastised himself. Remember what this is all for.

  He glanced down at the vial in his palm, the thick, viscous liquid swirling with a nebulous life all its own. Mother’s Milk. The gift of Ulbecetonth. The agent of change.

  Change, he reminded himself, was what it was all about. Change needed to lift the blinders from mortalkind, to show them that their gods were deaf and uncaring. It would be violent, he knew. People would die. More would live, guided by a matron that heard them and spoke to them in return. But they would never understand.

  They would call him a monster.

  He called himself the Mouth.

  But before that, he had called himself something else, he recalled. He’d had a name. He’d had a home. He’d had memories; he still did. The Prophet was cruel to keep him from being absolved of them, but perhaps there was a point to their withholding. Perhaps he needed to remember why he forsook name, home, land and sky alike.

  And so, when he came to the rotting doorframe of a house long abandoned, when he felt his heart begin to ache as he laid a hand upon the splintering door marked with a large red cross, he fought against the urge to turn away. He pushed it open. He went in.

  Shadows greeted him. They still knew him. They had been around for a long time, ingrained into the wood of the house itself. They had seen all. They remembered all. And he read their lightless testimony as he drew his hood back and walked across the rotting floorboards.

  He walked past a doorway; the shadows told him of a kitchen that had never been stuffed, but had enough to make stew every night. He walked past a rotting table; the shadows spoke of three bodies seated there, breaking a single loaf of bread to share. He walked to the decrepit stairs at the edge of the house.