Black Halo

by Sykes, Sam

  ‘So you say,’ Rashodd growled. ‘Of course, and it is with no undue distaste that I point this out, I am only a prisoner because you failed to live up to your end of our prior bargain.’

  ‘Lamentable,’ the voices said. ‘But your presence here serves our purpose further. You shall be free.’

  ‘The door is scarcely more than sticks bound with twine,’ Rashodd replied. ‘I can be free as soon as I wish to strangle the boy outside. I remain only on your promises.’ His voice became a throaty snarl. ‘In days of darkness, though, I must confess I find them less than illuminating.’

  ‘And yet, your faith compels you to stay.’

  ‘For a time longer.’

  ‘We find our own faith in the Mouth falters. The praises we heap upon him are no longer enough to compel his service. He wavers. He wanes.’

  ‘And you wish my service,’ Rashodd whispered. ‘You wish me to free this … Daga-Mer.’

  ‘For Mother Deep to find her way, the Father must also find his.’

  ‘And if I do …’

  ‘We grant you what you wish.’

  Rashodd’s thick fingers, what remained of them, ran across his face. No matter how many times he did it, no matter how many times he knew they wouldn’t be there, he continued to anticipate pieces of himself still in their proper place: a nose, an eye, part of his lip. And no matter how many times his fingers caressed jagged rents where those parts were missing, his rage continued to grow.

  ‘My face …’ he whispered.

  ‘We can return it.’

  ‘My fingers …’

  ‘We can bring them back.’

  He stared down at his hand. He could still feel the kiss of steel, the dagger’s tongue that had taken his digits. He could still see the hand that had held it. He could hear the voice that had told him not to scream. He could remember the tall man, the felon clad in black with the tears in his eyes.

  ‘My revenge …’ he whispered hoarsely.

  With a melodic laughter, the Deepshriek replied.

  ‘It will be yours.’

  Twenty-Four

  NAMING THE SIN

  The water is cold today.

  Lenk let that thought linger as he let his hand linger in the rush of the stream. Between the clear surface and the bed of yellow pebbles below, he could see the legged eels, their vast and vacant eyes staring out from either side of their gaping mouths as stubby, pinlike legs clung to rocks and streamweeds to resist the current.

  He mimicked their expression, staring blankly into the water as he waited for a reply to bubble up inside his mind. He did not wait long.

  ‘Mm.’

  The Steadbrook was never this cold.

  ‘You remember that?’

  It was what the village was named for. It powered the mill that ground the grain. It was the heart of the village. My grandfather told me.

  ‘Memories are returning. This is good.’

  Is it?

  ‘Should it not be?’

  You never seemed concerned with that before.

  ‘You never spoke back before.’

  Do you suppose there’ll be more?

  ‘More what?’

  Memories.

  He waited, listening patiently for an answer. All that responded was the stream, burbling aimlessly over the rocks. He furrowed his brow and frowned.

  Are you still there?

  The sun felt warm on his brow, uncomfortably so. Someone, somewhere else, muttered something.

  ‘Memories,’ it replied with a sudden chill, ‘are a reminder of what was never meant to be.’

  He blinked. Behind his eyes, shadows danced amidst flames in a wild, gyrating torture of consumption. Against a pale and pitiless moon, a mill’s many limbs turned slowly, raising a burning appendage pleadingly to the sky before lowering it, ignored and dejected. And at its wooden, smouldering base, bodies lay facedown, hands reaching out toward a warm brook.

  ‘Remember,’ the voice said with such severity to make Lenk wince, ‘why we do not need them.’

  ‘No,’ he whimpered.

  ‘Well, fine,’ someone said beside him. ‘Refuse if you want, but you don’t have to look so agonised at the suggestion.’

  He opened his eyes, glowered at the stream and the quivering reflection of a stubble-caked face staring down at him.

  ‘If I’m looking pained,’ he said harshly, ‘it’s because you’re talking.’

  ‘Feel free to leave. I don’t recall inviting you here, anyway.’

  Denaos was no longer one singular voice, not so easy to ignore as he had once been. Rather, every noise that emanated from him was now a chorus: complaint followed by a loud slurping sound, an uncouth belch as punctuation and the sound of half a hollowed-out gourd landing in a growing pile of hollowed-out gourd halves to serve as pause between complaints.

  He looked down at the young man and grinned, licking up the droplets soaked in his stubbled lip.

  ‘They can’t figure out the concept of clothing that keeps one’s stones from swaying in the breeze, but they can make some fine liquor.’ He held out the fruit-made-cup to Lenk. ‘You’re sure you don’t want any?’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know what it is,’ Lenk replied, rising up.

  ‘Drinking irresponsibly is a time-honoured tradition amongst my people.’

  ‘Humans?’

  ‘Drunks.’

  ‘Uh-huh. What’s it called?’

  Denaos glanced to his left and cleared his throat. Squatting on stubby legs beside the stream, fishing pole in hand, the Owauku took one eye off of the lure bobbing in the water and rotated it slowly to regard the rogue with as much narrowed ire as one could manage with eyes the size of melons.

  ‘Mangwo,’ he grunted, slowly sliding his eye back to the bobber.

  ‘And … what’s it made of?’ Lenk asked.

  ‘Well, now …’ Denaos took a swig, swished it about thoughtfully in his mouth. ‘I’d say it’s fermented something, blended with the finest I-don’t-want-to-know and aged for exactly who-gives-a-damn-you-stupid-tit.’ He smacked his lips. ‘Delicious.’

  ‘I suppose I should be pleased you’re making such good friends with the reptiles,’ Lenk said, raising an eyebrow. ‘Or do they just find your sliminess blends well with their own?’

  ‘Jhombi and I are getting on quite well, yes,’ the rogue replied as he plucked his own rod and line from the ground and cast it into the stream. ‘Probably because he barely understands a word of the human tongue and thusly isn’t as prone to be a whining silver-haired hamster.’ He grinned to the Owauku. ‘Am I not right, Jhombi?’

  Jhombi grunted.

  ‘Man of few words,’ Denaos said. ‘Speaking of, I trust negotiations with Togu went well?’

  Lenk stared blankly for a moment before clearing his throat.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So he’ll—’

  ‘I said yes.’

  ‘Oh …’ The rogue blinked, taken aback. ‘Well, uh, good.’ He slurped up the rest of his drink and tossed it aside. ‘When do we leave, then?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Delightful.’

  ‘After the party.’

  There was something unwholesome in Denaos’ grin.

  Lenk growled. ‘I hate it when your eyes light up like that. It always means someone is about to get stabbed or molested.’

  ‘And yet, you have now inadvertently invited me to an event that is conducive to both.’ Denaos chuckled, shaking his head. ‘My gratitude will best be expressed in the generous offer that I will save you for last in either endeavour. How’s that sound, Jhombi?’

  Jhombi grunted.

  ‘Jhombi agrees.’

  ‘How would you know?’

  ‘How would you?’

  ‘How is it that he can’t speak the tongue? Every creature on this island does.’ He glowered as a thought occurred to him. ‘Well, except for Hongwe.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Tall Gonwa, looked irritated and important.’


  ‘Ah.’ Denaos furrowed his brow. ‘They all look irritated, though. What made this one look important?’

  ‘Well, he had a satchel.’

  ‘A satchel, huh? I suppose that does count as sort of a status symbol amongst a people for whom the concept of pants is an incomprehensible technology.’ The rogue glanced at Lenk with worry on his face. ‘You negotiated all our terms, right? We’ve got pants?’

  ‘We’ve got pants, yes,’ Lenk said, nodding. ‘Kataria said—’

  ‘Kataria was there?’ Denaos asked, blanching.

  ‘She was, yeah.’ He glared at the rogue. ‘Why wouldn’t she be?’

  ‘Well, was there any trash to root around in? Filth to roll in? Perhaps a bone with a tiny piece of meat on it?’

  Lenk’s neck stiffened. ‘I thought we settled this.’

  ‘Settled what?’

  ‘You talking about her like that.’

  ‘We did settle, but on different things. What you settled with was a willingness to ignore the fact that a woman – called such only in theory, mind you – threatened to kill you.’

  ‘She saved my life.’

  ‘I’m not finished.’ The rogue pressed a thumb to his own chest. ‘I settled with the idea that I should cease trying to help a man intent on ignoring that this “woman” has fangs and that he wants them near tender areas.’

  ‘If she was planning on killing me, she would have done it already, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘So you’re honestly trying to rationalise your attraction to a woman a step above a beast with the excuse that she hasn’t killed you yet.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘And nothing about that seems insane to you?’

  ‘Like you’ve never threatened to kill someone and not gone through with it.’

  ‘There’s no time limit on murder oaths.’

  ‘Point being, things change, don’t they?’ Lenk replied. ‘Oaths are forgotten—’

  ‘Delayed.’

  ‘Even so … things change. Things happen.’ Lenk stared at the stream intently, his mind drifting back to so many nights ago. ‘Something … something happened.’

  Denaos cast a suspicious glare at the young man. ‘What kind of something?’

  Lenk sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘It’s going to sound insane.’

  ‘Coming from you?’ the rogue gasped. ‘No. Not the man who’s been spotted, on more than one occasion, talking to himself, yelling at nothing and possibly eating his own filth.’

  ‘I told you, I wasn’t eating it, I was—’

  ‘No!’ Denaos flung a hand up in warding. ‘Stop there, sir, for there is no end to that thought that will not make me want to punch you in the eye.’

  ‘Just listen—’

  ‘No, sir. You’ve given me the excellent news that we are soon to be off and that we’re having a celebration tonight. My life is going exceedingly well right now. I have food, drink, and the comforting company of a surly green man-lizard. Tomorrow, I’m going to start heading back to a world where undergarments are not only invented but encouraged. I tried to talk you out of this deranged bestiality plot you’ve cooked up, and I defy you – defy you, sir – to say anything to lure me back in.’

  In the wake of the outburst, the stream burbled quietly. Neither Denaos nor Jhombi looked up from their lures. A long moment of silence passed as Lenk stared and then, with a gentle clear of his throat and two words, shattered it.

  ‘Eel tits.’

  Denaos blinked twice, cringed once, then swiftly snapped his rod over his knee and sighed deeply.

  ‘Gods damn it.’ He plucked up one of the empty half-gourds and stalked to a nearby mossy rock, taking a seat. ‘All right … tell me.’

  ‘Well, it happened days ago, before Kataria found me with the Shen.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I was in the forest and I was … hallucinating.’ Lenk stared at the earth, the images returning to his mind. ‘I felt a river cold as ice, I saw demons in trees, I … I …’ He turned a wild, worried stare upon Denaos. ‘I argued with a monkey.’

  The rogue blinked. ‘Did you win?’

  Lenk felt his brow grow heavy, his jaw clench. Something spoke inside his head.

  ‘Not important.’

  ‘Not important,’ he growled. ‘I saw … Kataria there. She said things, tempted me and she peeled off her shirt and … eels.’

  ‘Eels.’

  ‘Eels!’ Lenk shouted. ‘She was there, speaking to me, saying such things, telling me to stop—’

  ‘Stop what?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. The fever was eating at me, cooking my brains in my skull.’

  ‘Are … you sure?’ Denaos’ face screwed up in confusion as he stared at the young man curiously. ‘I was there when Kataria dragged you in, and I should note that I saw nothing writhing beneath her fur. I was there when Asper looked you over. She said your fever was mild.’

  ‘What would she know?’ the voice asked.

  ‘It was my head, not hers!’ Lenk snarled, jabbing his temple fiercely. ‘What would Asper know about it?’

  ‘Considering the years she’s spent to studying the physical condition? Probably quite a bit.’ Denaos tapped his chin. ‘She started screaming and ran us out a moment later, but I remember clearly—’

  ‘He knows nothing.’

  ‘Remember what? How could you know? You and Kat have both now said she went mad and drove you out like … like …’

  ‘Heathens.’

  ‘Heathens!’ he spat. ‘How could you know what she knew? What happened after she drove you out? Why did she do it in the first place?’

  Denaos remained unmoving, glaring quietly at the young man with the same unpronounced tension in his body that Lenk had seen before, usually moments before someone found something sharp embedded in something soft. The fact that there was scarcely anywhere on the rogue where he could keep a knife hidden was small comfort.

  ‘That,’ he said, ‘is no business of anyone’s but hers. I believe her word over yours.’

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘A good point,’ Lenk muttered.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Why so defensive over her?’ the young man asked, raising a brow. ‘You’re always the first to suspect, yet you so willingly take her word over mine?’

  ‘She has the benefit of not being visibly demented,’ Denaos replied.

  Lenk wanted to scowl, to snarl, but the pain inside his head was growing unbearable. On wispy shrieks, the voice was agonisingly clear.

  ‘Traitors. Liars. Faithless. Ignorant. Unnecessary.’

  ‘Just ignorant,’ Lenk muttered, shaking his head. ‘Just … just …’

  ‘Look,’ Denaos said, his tension melting away with his sigh. ‘I’m not sure what kind of message is entailed by displaying the object of your attention with sea life replacing her anatomy, but it can’t be good.’ He leaned back and looked thoughtful. ‘The Gods send visions to speak to the faithful, to reward them, to guide them,’ his eyes narrowed, ‘to warn them.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were religious.’

  ‘Silf’s creed is silence and secrecy. It’s probably a mild blasphemy even telling you about this.’

  ‘So why do it?’

  ‘Greed, mostly,’ the rogue replied. ‘Averting a man from imminent mutilation of heart, head and probably genitalia seems a deed the Gods would smile upon.’ He glanced at the young man. ‘Tell me, what were you hoping to do once this whole bloody business was over and we stood on the mainland again?’

  ‘I’d given it some thought,’ Lenk replied, rolling his shoulders. ‘Farming is as good a trade as any. I figured I’d get some land and hold onto it as long as I could. Just a cow, a plough …’

  ‘And her?’

  Lenk frowned without knowing why. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Do you remember how she smiles?’

  Lenk stared at the ground, a slight grin forming at the corner of his mouth. ‘Yeah, I remember.’

  ‘Remem
ber her laughter?’

  His smile wormed its way to the other side of his face. ‘I do.’

  ‘You’ve probably seen her truly happy a few times, in fact.’

  He stared up at the sun, remembered a different kind of warmth. He remembered a hand on his shoulder, a puff of hot air between thin lips, heat that sent tiny droplets of sweat coursing down muscles wrapped under pale flesh. He remembered smiling then, as he did now.

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Good,’ Denaos said. ‘Now, of those times, how many had come just after she shot something?’

  His smile vanished, head dropped. The rogue’s words rang through his head and heart with an awful truth to them. Surely, he realised, there were some moments between the shict and himself where she had smiled, where she had laughed and there hadn’t been a lick of blood involved.

  But had she really smiled, then?

  ‘So she …?’

  ‘Was around for the violence? It’s a possibility, really. Nature of the beast, if you’ll excuse the accuracy of the statement.’ Denaos sighed. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t what you wanted to hear, but it’s the truth.’

  ‘It’s not.’

  ‘It is,’ the voice hissed.

  ‘It’s not!’ Lenk insisted.

  ‘Her motivation is pointless. She is a distraction, useless. He, as well, but less so if he makes our purpose that much clearer to foggy minds.’

  ‘Well, it’s not like you’ll have to stop seeing her,’ Denaos offered. ‘Just keep killing things and she’ll continue to follow the scent of blood.’

  ‘He is right.’

  ‘He is not!’ Lenk muttered.

  ‘Ours is a higher calling. We are not made for idle farming and contemplating dirt. There is still too much to do.’

  ‘What happened to you?’ he whispered. ‘Why do you speak like this now?’

  ‘Too much to cleanse. A stain lingers on this island. Duty is clear.’

  ‘Well, you asked for my opinion,’ Denaos replied, raising an eyebrow. ‘It’s hardly my fault that your thoughts run so contrary that you find sanity offensive, but the fact remains …’ He held out his hands helplessly. ‘Adventuring or the shict. You can embrace both or give up both, but never dismiss either. And you’ve got divine reinforcement for that fact, not that godly visions are necessary.’