Lenk felt his heart go cold, despite the fires licking the ridge. He had seen this happen before, had watched them die before, his mother, his father, his grandfather. He could not recall their names, but he could remember their faces as they fell, nearly peaceful, herded to the darkness upon the whispers of shadows.
‘This . . .’ he gasped, ‘this is—’
‘How we were created,’ the man finished for him. ‘What we were created to stop.’
He caught sight of figures in the distance, out of place against the common folk lying in the streets. These figures fought, resisted the shadows. One by one, they looked up, and he saw the faces of his companions turn pleading gazes to him.
‘Look,’ the man commanded, and it was so. ‘They are lesser than us.’
Gariath howled, swinging his arms wildly before the shadows fell upon him, consumed in swathes of blackness. Lenk winced, eyes unable to shut themselves against the stinging smoke.
‘I don’t want to . . .’ he whimpered.
‘You do not have a choice,’ the man uttered. ‘We have our duty.’
Asper shrieked, fervently babbling indecipherable prayers as the shadows dragged her into the gloom. Lenk felt tears brimming upon his lids.
‘Please—’
‘And our duty,’ the man continued, unheeding, ‘is to cleanse. As we cleansed the Deepshriek, as we cleansed the Abysmyth, so we shall continue. We shall do as we must, for no one else can.’
Dreadaeleon collapsed, the fire in his eyes sputtering out to be replaced by blackness.
‘No, it can’t—’
‘It will. You cannot recall what suffering was necessary to create us. If more suffering is needed to remind you of our duty . . .’
Denaos twitched, convulsed, tore apart as the shadowy tendrils raked and whispered at his body.
‘I want—’
‘Your wants are meaningless. Our duty is all. They are hindrances. ’
Kataria’s body was pale against the gloom as they lifted her up to the black sky, as if in offering. The fingers shivered and trembled against her skin, flowing over her stomach, wrapping about her neck, snaking over her legs as she was cocooned in the gloom. Her head rolled, limp, to expose her eyes, bright and green, locked on to his. She stared at him as she vanished into the darkness.
And smiled.
‘NO!’ Lenk roared, collapsing to his knees. ‘No, no, no . . .’
When he opened his eyes again, he was in a vast field of darkness, no flames, no death. All that remained were him, and the two great blue eyes focused upon him, pitiless and cold.
‘The gift shall not be wasted,’ the voice whispered. ‘The duty is all encompassing. Do what must be done.’
Lenk opened his mouth to scream, his voice silenced as the darkness flooded past his lips and filled him completely.
He awoke not with a start, but with a snap of eyes. Not with fear, but with a cold certainty. Not with thunder in his heart, but a single drop of sweat that slid down his brow and murmured as it dripped past his ear.
Do what must be done, it uttered, voice mingling with the murmur of the surf, if more suffering is needed . . .
And his hand was slow and steady, balling up into a determined fist as he understood what the voice told him.
But he did not rise, suddenly aware of the weight upon his chest. He didn’t even see her until she peered down at him through a pair of hard, green eyes, glittering in the darkness. Her knees were on his chest, hands on his shoulders, the knife dark and grey against the moonlight.
‘Hey,’ Kataria muttered.
‘Hey,’ Lenk replied, blinking at her. ‘What are you doing?’
‘What I have to.’
She means to kill us, he heard within his own mind, but paid the warning no heed. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing. He eyed the blade in her hand, its edge a line of silver in the darkness. No, he told himself, no, you can’t ask her to do that.
‘Can it wait?’ he asked.
The shict’s face twisted violently, her eyes softening as her mouth fell open, as if she hadn’t expected that one answer of all of them. ‘Wha-what?’
‘I need to do something,’ he said, placing a hand on her naked midriff. Her body shuddered under his touch, like a nervous beast. ‘Get off, please.’
She complied, falling off him as though she was pushed. On shaking legs, his arms barely strong enough to draw him, he got to his feet. He suddenly felt very weak, his body pleading with him to lie back down, to return to sleep and think upon this in the light of day. He could not afford to listen to it, could not afford to listen to his instincts or his mind.
They, too, were tainted, speaking with a voice not their own.
No, he told himself while he could still hear his own voice inside him, before it was drowned out completely, this is what it has to be. He staggered forwards, nearly pitching to the earth. He maintained his footing, his shaking hand rising and reaching for the sword lying upon the sand. This is how it has to end. There’s no other way to get rid of it . . .
‘Hey,’ he heard a voice call from behind him.
Do what must be done.
‘Hey!’
This is how it must be.
‘HEY!’
‘WHAT?’ he roared, turning upon her. She stood before him, ears bristling, teeth bared. ‘What do you want?’
‘I could have killed you there!’ she snapped, pointing to the knife. ‘I . . . I could have—’
‘You didn’t,’ he said simply. ‘You had every chance in the world, but you didn’t.’
So I have to, he finished mentally, turning back to the sword.
‘No,’ she whispered, eyeing the weapon. ‘You can’t do that.’ I have to, she finished mentally, reaching out.
This is how it has to be, he told himself.
How else could it end? she asked herself.
One blow. He reached out for the weapon.
Clean and quick. She reached out for him.
Her hand fell upon his shoulder.
This is what has to be done.
They both froze, each one suddenly aware of the other as they connected, hearing each other’s breath upon the night wind, feeling each other’s heart beat through each other’s skin. They felt so weak, all of a sudden, his legs barely able to keep him up as he turned to regard her, her arm barely able to hold up the knife above her head.
Her eyes glittered in the darkness, so soft suddenly, quivering like emeralds melting. His shimmered in the gloom, so warm, ice under sunlight. Her arm shook, the knife trembling in her hand as he stared at her, not with challenge, not with threat, but with a pleading he wasn’t even aware of. Her teeth clenched behind her lips, body shaking.
The blade fell to the earth, crunching into the sand, as his body fell into hers. She caught him in her arms, wrapped them about his waist and drew him in closer, tighter. Against each other, they found a strength too weak to keep them up, enough to keep their arms about each other, but not enough to keep them from falling to their knees, the earth’s pull suddenly so strong.
‘I could have killed you,’ she whispered, running a hand down his hair.
‘Yeah,’ he said, feeling her heartbeat through his hands. ‘You could have.’
‘I didn’t,’ she said.
‘Thanks,’ he whispered.
The surf yawned against their legs, as if disappointed that it ended in such a way. The moon waned with a staggering breath of relief and the stars allowed themselves to blink. They rested there, upon their knees, barely aware of the world moving again beneath them.
Thirty-Six
TRAGIC
The Aeons’ Gate
The Island of Ktamgi
Summer, late . . . date unknown . . . who cares?
No one picks up a sword because they want to.
It’s a matter of need. People are called to wrap their hands about the hilt, even if they can’t hear what calls them. The noblest of us do it out of what they call duty, the desire to serve their country, their lord if they have one, or their God. The pragmatic amongst us do it out of a need for work, for coin, for respect.
And the lowest, meanest of trades picks up a sword because that’s all we know how to do. Violence is all we know, all we will ever know, everything else having long been burned away and fled to the shadows. The irony of it is that the mercenary, the soldier, the knight must all carve their own way through life, but there’s always enough violence and hatred in the world that it will make room for the adventurer.
I remember now, if only in fleeting glimpses, when the rest of it was burned away for me.
Not shadows, but men, who swept into Steadbrook with candles, not torches, and set the dry hay ablaze. They killed while the flames still whispered, vanished when the fire started to roar. That was enough time for them. Mother, Father, Grandfather ... all dead ... me, still alive. I don’t know why.
Maybe that’s how adventurers are made, maybe an act of suffering and violence is necessary as the forge that shapes the metal or the knife that shapes the wood. To that end, I don’t suppose anyone can blame us for doing what we do, even if they don’t like it. I don’t suppose I can blame anyone for thinking what they think of us, even if I don’t like it.
At the moment, I have larger problems than other people’s opinions.
The tome is ours, but so many questions are unanswered. Will we even be able to get to Teji? If we do, will Argaol have kept up his end of the deal? Does Miron have that sort of sway over him? Does Miron even care?
And what of the demons? Do so many of them just let their precious book escape without a fight? If not their book, will one of them come back for their head? I’m not stupid. I know they haven’t just rolled their shoulders, given up and gone back to hell for tea and toast. But will they at least stay in the shadows until we can reach dry land?
On a deeper level, should I even give this tome to Miron? Does any one man have the right to carry such a thing?
I don’t have the answers. Really, I don’t care. Someone else can worry about them on their time. My time is worth exactly one thousand pieces of gold. Past that, I don’t really mind what the demons, longfaces or beasts of the world do. The world will continue without the actions of adventurers, long after the profession has died out.
My companions are solemn as we set out for Teji, untalkative, not even mustering the will to fight with each other, for once. At the moment, our humble little vessel resembles something of a flower with half its petals missing. Each of us stares over the edge into the water, watching ourselves, not even aware of the people next to us.
I should be pleased, I know. After so long spent in prayer, the Gods have answered me and finally taken their tongues. But now . . . I want them to talk. I want to hear a distraction, another noise, if only to divert me from the other ones.
The voice . . . is not gone. I know because it murmurs to me, still, in the time between my breaths. But it is quieted, put down slightly. I don’t know why and, again, I don’t care, so long as it’s quiet again.
Another few days until we reach Teji. A haven, supposedly, friendly to us, our kind. Is that true? I’m not too sure, really. Argaol doesn’t really seem the type to make himself useful to us, in any way possible. But I can deal with that when I come to it.
Kataria just looked up at me. She seems to be doing that a lot tonight. I try to smile at her . . . no, I want to smile at her, but she doesn’t make it easy. But it’s not because of all those questions, oh no. The demons, longfaces, Argaols, Mirons, Deepshrieks, Xhais and tomes of the world can all go burn.
I’ve got bigger problems.
Epilogue
TEARS IN SHADOW
The silhouettes moved viciously against the cavern wall. There was no grace in them, nor gentleness as they twisted against each other. Between the snarls and cries emerging from the back of the cavern, the shadows found individual shapes. A man, tall and lean with long flowing hair. A woman, her curves indistinct as they quivered against the man’s movement.
Greenhair could not see the smile on the man’s face, nor the tears on the woman’s cheeks. But she heard his teeth grinding, her liquid pooling upon the floor in quiet splashes. It was the only noise she allowed herself.
And the siren cringed, the only one to hear them.
‘Cahulus is dead,’ one of them said at the fore of the cavern. ‘Over twelve of the warriors were lost in the battle. That’s nearly half of the force we sent.’
‘Nearly is not all. Nearly is not even half,’ a second, snider voice retorted. ‘We still emerged victorious, with the underscum cleared out.’ A thin body settled into a large chair. ‘Besides, Cahulus was an idiot.’
There was a terse silence before the other voice spoke. ‘He was your brother.’
Greenhair looked to the pair of longfaces seated before her. Clad in flowing robes of violet and red, respectively, they narrowed white eyes at each other from their black wooden thrones. A great, ebon mass separated them, obscured by shadows cast from torchlight.
This was once a sacred place, Greenhair remembered, a place of devotion to the Sea Mother. The holy writ upon the walls had been seared away by fire. The relics and offerings lay shattered upon the floor. The worshippers . . .
A scream burst from the cavern’s mouth, cut short by the crack of a whip and a snarling command. She was the only one to hear it echo on the stone.
‘Our brother,’ the longface on the right continued, heedless. This one was short and thin, his head swivelling back and forth with a rehearsed sense of ease, like a wispy plant. He smoothed the crimson robes over his purple body as he spoke. ‘And that does not change the fact that he was weak. The youngest is always the least talented.’
‘Talent or no, he shouldn’t have been able to die at all.’ The longface on the left, harder and broader than his brother, stroked a white goatee. ‘Our tools should have ensured that this did not happen. What good are the red stones if they fail?’
‘Netherlings can still die, if not stones, Yldus,’ the other pointed out. ‘Cahulus was cursed with weakness and stupidity. He was overconfident.’ He waved a hand and sighed. ‘But was it not the duty of Semnein Xhai to protect him?’
‘True enough, Vashnear.’ The one called Yldus looked up and over Greenhair’s head. ‘And, I ask again, Semnein Xhai, what is your explanation?’
Greenhair looked over her shoulder and saw that no explanation was forthcoming. The female longface did not so much as adjust her gaze to even acknowledge the two males. She stared instead at the shadows, grinding and jerking upon the wall. Her ears were pricked up, sensing every sound that emerged from the lit space behind the thrones.
And with every sound of ecstasy or agony, her white gaze grew more hateful.
‘She will not answer you.’ Vashnear sighed. ‘And why should we ask? It is clear by her wounds that she was as unprepared as Cahulus.’
The reference to the bandages wrapped about the female’s ribcage, hip and neck got her attention. Xhai’s stare jerked to the longface, her lip curling upwards in a snarl.
‘Cahulus was weak,’ she growled, ‘and he died sobbing. If it hadn’t happened this time, it would have happened in the next raid. Nothing I could have done would have cured his weakness.’ She folded her arms over her chest, drummed three fingers upon her biceps. ‘Be thankful he didn’t piss himself before he died.’
‘And yet, for all that sacrifice, you still don’t have the tome,’ Yldus said, steepling his fingers. ‘Nor did you even encounter the Deepshriek, much less kill it.’
‘An issue I will take up with Master Sheraptus,’ Xhai replied coldly, returning her attention to the shadows.
The red-clad netherling looked over his shoulder at the cavern wall and giggled. ‘He might be a while.’
Xhai’s mouth dropped open, her three fingers balling up into a fist. ‘You wretched little—’
‘And what of you, screamer?’ Greenhair felt Yldus’s hard gaze upon her. ‘We make no inconsiderable compromise to our worth by admitting you in here. What do you have to say for yourself?’
‘I . . .’ The siren hesitated, wincing. ‘What I speak is reserved for the greatest longface.’
‘His name is Sheraptus,’ Xhai growled, giving the siren a harsh shove. ‘You will call him Master.’
‘A-apologies,’ she said, feeling the blow ache between her shoulders. ‘But the information is great, it must be—’
‘Reserved for the greatest.’
All eyes looked up at the new voice. This one lacked the harshness of the others’, bearing no snideness, no hatred, no concern. It was slow and easy, like languid falls over smooth rocks, like . . .
Mine, Greenhair thought.
And this new longface looked nothing like the others. He was tall, but not menacing, lean, but not hungry-looking. His eyes sparkled instead of scowled and his smile was pleasant, not cruel. His robe hung open around a body developed to the point of attractiveness, not grotesque-ness.
Greenhair pursed her lips. If she hadn’t heard his smile, hadn’t heard the tears he caused, she might think him a good man on sight alone.
‘A sound policy,’ the new longface said, closing his robes and stepping out from the darkness.
He made a beckoning gesture and there was the sound of bare feet scraping against the stone. The human female who followed him did not bother to close her robe, nor even look up. She shuffled forwards as though her legs strained to die beneath her. Her eyes were wide and vacant, hands limp at her sides, hair hanging over her face like a veil to hide her shame.
Not nearly long enough to hide the tear streaks, Greenhair thought.
‘Now then,’ he said, taking a seat upon the black mass and gesturing for his consort to kneel beside him. ‘What is it that makes everyone so talkative during my private time?’
‘You could always order us out,’ Yldus muttered, pointedly looking away.
‘I like an audience,’ the longface said, smiling, ‘a respectful one, though. I can only assume it was pressing business that made you all so chatty.’ He steepled his long fingers and stared at Greenhair over them. ‘So . . . chat.’
‘Longface—’ she whispered, cut short by the blow to the back of her head.
‘Sheraptus,’ Xhai snarled. ‘Master Sheraptus.’ She delivered a booted kick to Greenhair’s legs, forcing her to the earth. ‘And you will kneel before your betters.’
‘Do calm down, Xhai,’ Sheraptus said, sighing. He directed a sympathetic smile to the siren. ‘Apologies. She and her fellow warriors are all so excitable. They learn a new word and they’re just dying to use it. I’m sure you’ve heard them with their chants: “eviscerate, decapitate” and so forth.’ He laughed, waving a hand. ‘Females, hm? You know how it goes . . . well, of course you know.’