by Sam Sykes
Page 24
She’s in your head, old man. Careful. You know what she does in there. Get her out.
He should have. He would have, if her presence there didn’t seem so right, so natural. Expelling her seemed like throwing out a perfectly good bottle of wine, something so sweet and fragrant that it would be a crime to do anything but drink it in, savor it.
He didn’t even like wine.
“No one else can do this. Not your companions, not the longfaces,” she whispered to his ears, to his mind. “I need your strength, your intellect, your power. I need you. ”
“I . . . I can’t,” he said. “I’m sick. I’m dying. I have no power. ”
“You are distracted. You are distraught. Trifling things. ”
“Ah . . . trifling. ”
“They mean nothing to you. I can ease your thoughts, give you clarity. ” Her fingers rose to his temples, fingers gently swirling the waters she poured into his mind. “I can give you the power to save me. ”
“And . . . what about Asper?”
“Leave her,” she cooed, like it was just a simple thing to do so.
“She needs me. ”
“The world needs you. They will speak of you with tears in their eyes. They will respect you. Thousands of lives against one, all their respect against hers. ”
“All of them . . . ” He closed his eyes, tried to imagine it. She made it easy. “They would fear me. ”
“They would love you. ”
“If I just . . . ”
“Come with me. ” Her breath was a heady scent, filling his nostrils even as her voice filled his ears, all of her entering all of him. “To Jaga. Let me give you power. Let me give you the world. ”
“And she . . . she would . . . ”
“She will die. ” It was spoken with all that fragrance, all that sweet water, all that made the siren’s voice intoxicating. “She will die. She does not need you. She means nothing. But you are—”
It happened without words. It happened with barely any movement. And he wasted no thought on how he found himself with his eyes ablaze with energy, how a lock of her sea-green hair lay severed from her shocked, wide-eyed face, how his fingers still smoked and the air still crackled with the bolt of lightning he had just narrowly missed her with.
It happened. And he lowered two fingers at her, tiny blue serpents dancing across his fingertips.
“Leave,” he whispered.
“Lorekeeper, I—”
“LEAVE. ”
Her expression continued to crack, the serenity of her face shattered into fragments of anger, revulsion, and fear. She backed away from him slowly, as she might an animal, down the dune and toward the shore. Her eyes never left his, even as his fingers left her body, the electricity crackling eagerly upon his tips.
“You will never save her,” Greenhair snarled. “Even if you release her from the longfaces, you can’t help her. This world will be consumed, lorekeeper, in sea or in flame. You will die. She will die. And when she does . . . ” The siren’s lip twisted up, her sneer an ugly crack all its own. “It will be your name she curses for not doing what must be done. ”
He had no retort for that. He had barely any wit with which to hear her. His skull was ablaze again, her liquid words boiling inside his head and hissing out on meaningless sighs of steam. He didn’t lower his fingers, didn’t release the anger coursing through him until she disappeared behind a rocky outcropping.
And when he did, the power did not so much leave him as rip itself free from him, taking will and strength with it. A poignant reminder that, despite the occasional outburst, he was still dying. A reminder lost on him as he gasped, arms falling to his sides and knees buckling as he tried to stay on his feet.
He heard footsteps behind him. Denaos, maybe. Or anyone who wasn’t blind, deaf, or stupid enough not to notice the bolt of lightning that had just gone howling into the sky a moment ago. It didn’t matter. Anyone who wanted him dead wouldn’t have had to try very hard to make it happen.
“I take it I missed something fun, then,” Denaos said as the footsteps came to a halt behind him.
“Greenhair,” Dreadaeleon said, breathing heavily.
“The siren, huh?” The rogue didn’t sound surprised. “Where is she now?”
“Chased her off. ” The boy staggered to his feet, turned to face the rogue. “Have to leave. Someone was bound to have seen that lightning. Someone had to have sensed it. ”
“They probably would, if there was anyone left to do it. ”
“What?”
Denaos jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “It was faster than we expected. The ships have almost all left. Aside from a few left behind to stand guard, there are no more longfaces on the island. ”
“Jaga,” Dreadaeleon said. “She wasn’t lying. ”
“Huh?”
“They’ve left for Jaga. Going to destroy Ulbecetonth. ”
“That’s . . . good, right?”
“When has their wanting to destroy something ever worked out well for us?”
“Point. ”
“Greenhair said,” the boy paused, his body wracked with a sudden cough, “that they served someone darker, someone older. Even if they didn’t . . . ” His words devolved into a hacking fit.
“Lenk and the others are on the island,” Denaos finished.
They stared at each other, the realization dawning upon them both, the choice shortly thereafter. Stay here, save Asper and possibly die? Go to Jaga, warn the others and possibly die? Of course, one of them could stay and save her while the other went to warn them and then they’d both certainly die.
But they saw in each other a reflection into themselves. Something in the way Denaos stared, eyes firm and searching for no way out of this. Something in the way Dreadaeleon stood, pulling himself up on trembling legs and refusing to acknowledge the pain it caused him with so much as a wince.
And in that, they both knew that they would stay. They would save her, maybe die trying. She was worth it.
To both of them, each one realized with a sudden tension, a clench of fist and a narrow of eye, toward the other. A tension they had no choice but to bite back at the moment.
“There’s still longfaces down there,” Denaos said. “We circle around, slide down the dune, and make our way to the cavern at the back. If she’s not dead, she’ll be in there. ”
“She’s not dead,” Dreadaeleon said.
“I know,” Denaos replied.
“Then why’d you say it?”
No answer.
Lying was a sin, after all.
FIFTEEN
HEART OF FURY,
INTESTINES OF
RESENTMENT
I’m not ungrateful.
It was a resentful thought, as most of Gariath’s were. Thoughts were too flexible, they could be changed at any moment, so what was the point in using them?
You have given me much.
Words were much more solid. Once words were spoken, they were there forever, hanging in the air and impossible to ignore. Like scent.
Your eye, your hatred, my life . . .
Gariath could not afford words here. Words were breath and breath was too precious to waste, where he clung precariously to slick, slippery walls by the tips of his claws. He needed it, as rare as it came, to keep clinging there, keeping himself from sliding down a vast and gaping darkness.
It’s disgraceful that I don’t just let go and let this be over.
Thoughts weren’t enough.
But if you accepted that, you wouldn’t be you.
He snarled, dug his claws in. The thick, fibrous tissue of the walls did not yield easily, but he felt liquid gush out from the scratches he carved into it, pouring over his hands. The floor shifted violently beneath him.
And if I were to do that, I wouldn’t be a Rhega.
The gurgling behind him became a low rumble as something boiled up from the endless corridor behind him, se
nding the walls shaking, the floor writhing as he clawed his way forward.
And then, what would the point of this all be?
He tightened his grip, sinking his claws in to the skin of his fingers, stomped his feet down to secure a footing on the writhing floor. He felt liquid pour out in great, spurting gushes. He dug the claws of his toes into the floor, felt the blood pool around the soles of his feet.
The rumble behind him became something louder that shook the walls and floors and ceiling and the dark, dank air around him. And Gariath could feel by the trembling, the sound of the walls contracting around him, the great lurching shudder that shot through them, that it heralded something much, much bigger.
You have to earn my death.
Thoughts weren’t enough.
But he trusted by the blood pouring over his hands and the great tide of bile rushing up behind him that he had made his intent clear enough.
A crack appeared in the darkness before him, quickly spreading into a great, gaping hole bordered by black, jagged spikes. In as much time as it took to blink, soft blue light poured in.
The flood of seawater came right after.
The dragonman released his grip suddenly as the seawater crashed against his chest and the bile struck against his back. For a moment, it seemed as though he might be crushed between the two liquid onslaughts. But the ocean was merely an ocean. The digestive juices boiling up behind him had an entire day’s worth of hate and fury at having a clawed obstruction lodged in a tender gullet.
And expelled him like an undigested red morsel on a cloud of blood and black bile.
He went tumbling helplessly into the vastness of the sea as the Akaneed’s jaws crashed shut behind him and its tremendous column of a body pressed forward. Its snout only just grazed him, but it was more than enough to send him flailing, bouncing off the beast’s blue hide as it sailed beneath him.
It would have been easy to let go, to drift into the endless blue and disappear. Maybe he would survive, maybe the Akaneed would live the rest of its life with one eye happily, maybe they would kill each other later. But “maybe” was a human word indiscernible from human thought: easily twisted.
He was Rhega.
That was why, as the serpent’s tail passed beneath him, he reached down and seized it.
A tiny red parasite on the beast’s great bulk, Gariath fought to hold on against the twisting tail, against the wall of water, against his lungs tightening in his chest. Here, claws sunk into the flesh of the creature’s tail, he couldn’t even see where the beast’s head was, the vast road of writhing blue flesh disappearing into the murk of the sea.
Such a sight would have been enough to make him consider letting go, consider the wisdom of fighting a snake the size of a ship, consider if such a thing could even be killed.
It would have.
If he hadn’t already seen it from the inside, anyway.
The Akaneed’s throaty keen echoed through the water as the beast shifted beneath him; tiny as he might have been to it, he had not gone unnoticed, his crimes against the beast had not gone unremembered. That thought gave him pride. Pride that was quickly overwhelmed by the burning need to breathe as the beast’s tail swung from side to side in an attempt to dislodge him as it abruptly shifted upward.
His lungs nearly burst along with the water as the Akaneed broke the surface, out of the world of water and into the world of mist. As vast as it might have been, as much reason as it might have had to kill him, it still needed to breathe the air like him. It was still alive, like him.
And you can die, he thought, like me.
That thought propelled him as he hauled himself, claw over claw, across its columnous body as it tore through the waves, cleaving a path of froth and mist out of the sea. The salt stung his eyes; he didn’t close them. It made his grip slip; he clung harder. The beast twisted, writhed, slapped its tail in an effort to dislodge him; he refused to let go.
You deserve to kill me, he thought. I deserve to die.
Pillars of stone appeared out of the mist, walkways of stone cast shadows against the gray mist overhead as the beast wound its way between them, slamming its body against the rock in an attempt to dislodge him. But stone could not stop him. Sea could not shake him. He continued to climb, to claw his way up the beast’s hide, leaving bloody tracks in its hide behind him.
But I don’t want to die.
And, with one more pull, he saw it. Rising high and sail-thin, tearing the sea apart, the beast’s great crested fin stood. He growled, tensed . . .
And I’m not going to.
And leapt.
Not yet.
The beast roared and he felt its skull shake under him, just as it felt his claws upon its neck. His footing began to disappear beneath him, swallowed up by the sea as the serpent dove. That was fine. It was always going to be difficult. That’s how their relationship worked.
And so he drew in a deep breath and took the Akaneed’s fin in his claws as the world drowned around him.
Beneath the mist there was nothing but decay. Pillars of stone rose in a gray forest from the seabed. The shattered timbers of ships and their crumbled monolith statues littered the floor, leaves from the dead stone trees. The shattered hulls groaned as they passed overhead. The stone grumbled as they brushed past.
Grumbles became muted cries as the Akaneed twisted, smashing its body against the rock, hide grinding against the pillars and sending clouds of earth and foam erupting as it tried to scrape its parasite off.
Gariath shifted only as much as he needed to avoid being crushed between flesh and stone, suffering dust in his eyes and shards of rock caroming off his skull. Every movement was energy wasted and every ounce was needed.
The ancient warship came into view with astonishing swiftness, its crushed and scorched hull half-sunken into the seabed, its great stone figurehead holding its arm up as if to warn Gariath of the foolishness of what he was about to try.
But what kind of lunatic would listen to a statue?
The beast swam toward it, arching its body to scrape Gariath off on the wood like it would any other piece of tenacious, sticky filth. The dragonman seized the opportunity as surely as he seized the Akaneed’s fin. He spared enough energy to growl, planted his feet, and, with the entirety of his weight and strength, pulled on the creature’s fin.
Hard.
It was about the moment the beast let out a keening wail of alarm that Gariath wondered if the statue might have had a point. It was about the moment when the beast lurched headlong into the statue’s outstretched arm that he was fairly sure he should have paid more attention to it.
Past that, his only thought was for hanging on.
The Akaneed smashed through the statue, its body crumbling with a resigned, stony sigh, as though it knew this had been coming. The warship itself lodged a louder complaint. Ancient timbers came cracking apart in shrieks, splintering in snarls as the beast, disoriented and furious, pulled itself through the wreck in an explosion of wood and sand.
Shards of wood came flying out of the cloud of earth that rose in the creature’s wake, whizzing past Gariath, striking against his temple, bouncing off his shoulders. Each one he took stoically; to cry out, to even snarl would be breath from burning lungs that he couldn’t afford to lose. Even the giant
I owe you blood, he thought.
That was easy to give, coming out in a stream of cloudy red as he pulled the spike out.
Blood is better than screaming, anyway.
It trailed behind him, filling the ocean, flying like a proud banner, boldly proclaiming his progress as he hauled himself bodily across the creature’s hide.
It will let everyone know that I gave something back.
It clouded his eyes, made it hard to see. His lungs seared, threatening to burst. The serpent picked up speed, threatening to send him flying off as he clawed his way up to the creature’s head.
But you gave me more. You g
ave me a reason to live.
And through his own blood, through the rush of salt, through it all, he looked down and saw the Akaneed. And with its sole remaining eye, it looked up and saw him.
Thank you.
He raised the spike of wood above his head.
I’m sorry.
He brought it down.
The cloud of red became a storm, the beast’s thunderous agony splitting through the billowing blood. It became a bolt of lightning unto itself, arching and twisting and writhing and shrieking into contortions of blind pain as it sailed violently through the bloodstained sea.
They found the surface, bursting from the sea with a roaring wail too loud to be smothered by the mist. Gariath breathed short, quick breaths, unable to spare the effort to take more. Where he had been a parasite before, he now clung to the beast with tumorlike tenacity as the Akaneed tore wildly through the forest of pillars in a blind, bloody fury.
He was nearly thrown off with each spastic flail of the beast’s tail, each time it caromed off of a pillar, each time it threw back its head and howled through its agony. Honor kept his grip strong, pride kept his claws sunken; he had taken everything from the Akaneed.
He would not waste the sacrifice by being thrown off now.
The pillars thinned out, giving way to open ocean. The Akaneed picked up speed, unable to do anything else in its agony. For a moment, Gariath wondered if he might simply ride the beast out into the middle of nowhere until it died and then, as starvation and fatigue set in, he would die with it.
But as the mist began to thin and, in the distance, a great gray wall of looming, unblemished stone arose, that particular fear was dashed. Along with his brains, he was sure, if he didn’t think of something.
Options being limited as they were atop the back of a violently thrashing sea serpent swimming at full speed toward a sheer wall of stone, thinking didn’t count so much as action. And his actions didn’t count nearly as much as the Akaneed’s.
Thus, when its back twisted and snapped like a whip, he had little choice but go flying ahead of it to land in the water with an eruption of froth. And when it came surging up behind him, jaws gaping in an agonized roar, he had little choice but to try and keep from sliding down its gullet a second time as he was washed into its open mouth.
And when he saw the wall looming ever closer to them, growing ever huger with each fervent breath, he had but one choice.
And he chose not to soil himself.
Of the many, many negatives that came with being surrounded by two dozen tattooed, scaly, bipedal lizards with clubs, arrows, machetes, and yellow, wicked stares fixated upon him, Lenk had never once thought that the worst of them would be that they didn’t attack.
But then again, Lenk never once thought that he would be in this position.
Not alone, anyway.
He glanced back up to the fallen monolith behind him and the empty space that Kataria had just occupied. He didn’t know why she left. He didn’t know why she hadn’t come back. He didn’t know why the Shen were apparently taking their sweet time in getting down to the dirty business of smashing his head into his stomach.
