‘Shut up!’
Lenk’s swing bit nothing but air, its metal song drowned out by the chattering screeches and laughter of the creatures above. He swung his gaze up with his weapon, sweeping it cautiously across the branches, searching for his hidden opponent.
Back and forth, back and forth …
‘It’s very bad form to give up the argument when someone presents a counterpoint,’ Lenk snarled. ‘Are you afraid to engage in further discourse?’ He shrieked, attacked a low-hanging branch and sent its leaves spilling to the earth. ‘You’re too good to come down and fight me, is that it?’
‘Now,’ a voice asked from the trees, ‘why is it that you solve everything with violence, Lenk? It never works.’
‘It seems to work to shut people up,’ Lenk replied, backing away defensively.
‘That’s not a bad point, is it? After all, Gariath isn’t talking anymore, is he? Then again, neither are Denaos, Dreadaeleon, Asper … Kataria …’
‘Don’t you talk about them! Or her!’
He felt his back strike something hard and unyielding, felt a long and shadowy reach slink down toward his neck. He whirled around, his sword between him and the demon as it stared at him with great, empty whites above a jaw hanging loose.
‘Abysmyth …’ Lenk gasped.
The creature showed no recognition, showed nothing in its stare. Its body – that towering, underfed amalgamation of black skin stretched tightly over black bone – should have been exploding into action, Lenk knew. Those long, webbed claws should be tight across his throat, excreting the fatal ooze that would kill him.
‘Good afternoon,’ Lenk growled.
The Abysmyth, however, did nothing. The Abysmyth merely tilted a great fishlike head to the side and uttered a question.
‘Violence didn’t work, did it?’
‘We haven’t tried yet!’
The thing made no attempt to defend himself as Lenk erupted like an overcoiled spring, flinging himself at the beast. My sword can hurt it, he told himself. I’ve seen it happen. Even if nothing else could, Lenk’s blade seemed to drink deeply of the creature’s blood as he hacked at it. Its flesh came off in great, hewed strips; blood fell in thick, fatty globs.
‘Is the futility not crushing?’ the creature asked, its voice a rumbling gurgle in its rib cage. ‘You shriek, squeal, strike – as though you could solve all the woes and agonies that plague yourself and your world with steel and hatred.’
‘It tends to solve most problems,’ Lenk grunted through a face spattered with blood. ‘It solved the problem of your leader, you know.’ His grin was broad and maniacal. ‘I killed her … it. I took its head. I killed one of your brothers.’
‘I suppose I should be impressed.’
‘You’re not?’
‘Not entirely, no. The Deepshriek has three heads. You took only one.’
‘But—’
‘You killed one Abysmyth. Are there not more?’
‘Then I’ll take the other two heads! I’ll kill every last one of you!’
‘To what end? There will always be more. Kill one, more rise from the depths. Kill the Deepshriek, another prophet will be found.’
‘I’ll kill them, too!’ Lenk’s snarl was accompanied by a hollow sound as his sword sank into the beast’s chest and remained there, despite his violent tugging. ‘ALL OF THEM! ALL OF YOU!’
‘And then what? Wipe us from the earth, fill your ears with blood and blind yourself with steel. You will find someone else to hate. There will never be enough blood and steel, and you will go on wondering …’
‘Wondering … what?’
‘Wondering why. What is the point of it all?’ The creature loosed a gurgle. ‘Or, more specifically to your problem, you’ll never stop wondering why she doesn’t feel the way you do … You’ll never understand why Kataria said what she did.’
Lenk released his grip on his sword, his hands weak and dead as he backed away from the creature, his eyes wide enough to roll out of his head. The Abysmyth, if it was at all capable of it, laughed at him with its white eyes and gaping jaw.
‘How?’ he gasped. ‘How do you know that?’
‘That is a good question.’
The Abysmyth’s face split into a broad smile.
Abysmyths can’t smile.
‘A better one, however,’ it gurgled, ‘might be why are you attacking a tree?’
‘No …’
Words could not deny it, nor could the sword quivering in its mossy flesh. The tree stared back at him with pity, wooden woe exuding through its eyes.
Trees don’t have eyes. He knew that. Trees don’t offer pity! Trees don’t talk!
‘Steady.’ His breathing was laboured, searing in his throat and charring his lungs black inside him. ‘Steady … no one’s talking. It’s just you and the forest now. Trees don’t talk … monkeys don’t talk … people talk. You’re a people … a person.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Steady. Things are hazy at night. In the morning, everything will be clearer.’
‘They will be.’
Don’t turn around.
But he knew the voice.
It was her voice. Not a monkey’s voice. Not a tree’s voice. Not a voice inside his head. Her voice. And it felt cool and gentle upon his skin, felt like a few scant droplets of water flicked upon his brow.
And he had to have more.
When he turned about, the first thing he noticed was her smile.
‘We never get to watch the mornings, do we?’ Kataria asked, sliding a lock of hair behind her long ear. ‘It’s always something else: a burning afternoon, a cold dawn, or a long night. We never get to sit down at just the right time when normal people get up.’
‘We’re not normal people,’ he replied, distracted.
It was difficult to concentrate with every step she took closer to him. The moonlight clung to her like silk slipped in water, hugging every line of her body left exposed by her short green tunic. Her body was a battle of shadow and silver. He felt his eyes slide in his sockets, running over every muscle that pressed against her skin, counting every shallow contour of her figure.
His gaze followed the line that ran down her abdomen, sliding to the shallow oval of her navel. His stare lingered there, contemplating the translucent hairs that shimmered upon her skin. The night was sweltering.
And she did not sweat a single drop.
When he returned from his thoughts, she was close, nearly pressed against him.
‘We aren’t,’ she replied softly. ‘But that doesn’t mean we must be expected to not enjoy a morning, does it? Don’t we deserve to see the sun rise?’
His breath, previously stale with disease, drew in her scent on a cool and gentle inhale. She smelled pleasant, of leaves on rivers and wind over the sea. His eyelids twitched in time with his nostrils, as though something within him spastically flailed out in an attempt to seize control of his face and turn it away from her.