Black Halo

Four

‘Pretty,’ he whispered.

‘Hmm?’ the voice replied.

‘I was simply noting the beauty of it all,’ Lenk replied as he stared out over the vast, dreaming blue around him.

The ocean stretched out, engulfing him in a gaping, azure yawn. A yawn seemed fitting, Lenk decided, for the sheer uncaring nature of it all. It did not move, did not ripple, did not change as the sky did. There wasn’t a cloud to mar his perfect view of the sprawling underwater world.

The sky had betrayed him too many times. It had hidden his sun behind clouds and sullied his earth with rain. The sky was a spiteful, wicked thing of thunder and wind. The ocean didn’t care.

‘The ocean … it loves me,’ he whispered. His face contorted suddenly and his eyes went wide, not feeling the salt that should be stinging them. ‘What did I just say?’

‘I wasn’t listening,’ the voice said.

‘No, I said the “ocean loves me.” What a deranged thing to say. I said the sky was spiteful, it betrayed me.’

‘You only thought that.’

‘I thought you weren’t listening.’

‘Not to your voice, no.’

‘Then …’ He clutched his head, not feeling his fingers on his skin. ‘It’s finally happened. I’ve gone insane.’

‘You didn’t stop to think that when you realised you weren’t breathing?’

Lenk’s hands went to his throat. The panic that surged through him left his heartbeat oddly slow and his pulse standing still. He knew he should be terrified, should be thrashing and watching his screams drift to the surface in soundless bubbles. But, for all that he knew he should, drowning simply didn’t bother him.

But it should, he told himself. I should be afraid. But I’m not … I feel …

‘Peaceful.’

The voice, or rather voices, that finished his thoughts were not his own, but they were familiar to his ears. Far more familiar, he knew, than he would have ever liked. He recognised them, remembered them from his dreams and heard them every time his leg ached.

It would have seemed redundant to call the Deepshriek by name, even as it drifted out of the endless blue and into his vision. Three pairs of eyes stared at him. The pair of soulless black eyes affixed to the massive shark that served as the abomination’s body was simply unnerving. He didn’t truly begin to worry until he looked into the glimmering golden stares of the two feminine faces with hair of red and black, swaying upon delicate, grey stalks from the beast’s grey back.

‘It could always be this way, you know,’ the one with the copper hair said. ‘Drifting. Endless. Peace. Lay down your sword.’

‘I can’t,’ he replied.

‘Why do you want to kill us?’ the black-haired one asked, her lips a pout. ‘We merely wish to deliver the peace you feel now to all who have been lied to by the sky.’

‘It deceives,’ the red one hissed. ‘Tricks. You are told to pray to it, to give your troubles to the sky.’

‘It gives warmth,’ Lenk noticed, seeing the beams of sun that even now sought to reach him below. It was warm down here, far too warm for the ocean he had come to know these past weeks.

‘Fleeting. When you need it most, where is the light? What does the sky offer then?’ the black one sighed. ‘Rain, thunder, sorrows. How can you trust something that is so fickle? So changing?’

‘It lied to you,’ the red one growled.

‘It sent you down here,’ the black one snarled.

‘But we embrace you,’ they both replied in discordant harmony. ‘We give you peace. We give you …’

‘Endless blue,’ Lenk finished for them. He narrowed his eyes. ‘I’ve heard that before.’

‘Have you?’

‘From every one of your demon servants, yes.’

‘Demons?’

‘What else would you call them?’

‘Interesting question,’ the black one muttered.

‘Very interesting,’ the red one agreed. It looked to its counterpart. ‘What would you call Mother Deep’s children?’

‘Hellspawn,’ Lenk chimed in.

‘Dramatic, but a bit too vague,’ the red one said. ‘Deeplings?’

‘A tad too predictable,’ the black one replied. ‘What are they, after all? Creatures returned from whence they were so unjustly banished. Creatures from a place far beyond the understanding of mankind and his sky and earth.’

‘They had a word for such things,’ the red one said.

‘Ah, yes,’ the black one said.

‘Aeon,’ they both finished.

Lenk felt he should ask a question at that, but found that none in his head would slide into his throat. He felt the ocean begin to change around him, felt it abandon him as he began to fall, his head like a lead weight that dragged him farther below. Above, the Deepshriek became a halo, swimming in slow circles that shrank with every passing breath.

It was getting warm, he noted, incredibly so. His blood felt like it was boiling, his skull an oven for his mind to simmer thoughtfully in. Every breath came through a tightened throat: laboured, heavy, then impossible.

Breath. His eyes widened at the word. Can’t breathe. His throat tightened, heart pounded, pulse raced. Can’t breathe, can’t breathe!

‘What a pity,’ came another voice, one he did not recognise.

This one was deep, bass and shook the waters, changing them as it spoke. It drowned the sky, doused the sun with its laughter. It sent the waves roiling up to meet him.

He tilted his head, stared down into a pair of glimmering green eyes that he knew well. They stared up at him from above a smile that was entirely too big, between long ears that floated like feathery gills, as a slender, leather-clad hand reached up to beckon him down.

‘But where we must all go,’ she whispered, her voice making the sand beneath her shudder, ‘we do not sin with breath.’

His scream was silent. Her stare was vast. The sun died above. The ocean floor opened up, a great gaping yawn that callously swallowed him whole.

*

After so many times waking in screams and sweat, Lenk simply didn’t have the energy to do it this time, even when his eyes fluttered open and beheld the eight polished eyes that stared back at him through a thin sheet of silk. His scream withered and died in his chest, but the dredgespider loosed a frustrated hiss before leaping off of his chest and scurrying away into the surf.

He stared up at the sky through the gauzy webs the many-legged creature had blanketed him in. Air, he thought as he inhaled great gulps. He remembered air.

He remembered everything, he found, between the twitches of his eyes. He remembered the Deepshriek, what it had said. He remembered Kataria … had that been Kataria? He remembered the ocean, uncaring, and the darkness, consuming. That had all happened. Hadn’t it? Was it some temporary, trauma-induced madness? His head hurt; he had been struck in the wreck, he recalled.

The wreck … They had been wrecked, destroyed, cast to the bottom of the ocean.

But he was alive now. He breathed. He saw clouds moving in a deceitful sky. He felt treacherous sunlight on his skin. He was alive. He forced himself to rise.

The pain that racked him with every movement only served to confirm that he was still alive. Unless he had arrived in hell, anyway. He doubted that, though. The tome had told him of hell. It had mentioned nothing of warm, sunny beaches.

Nor, he thought as he spied a slender figure standing knee-deep in the surf, did hell possess women. Not ones that didn’t sever and slurp up one’s testes, anyway. The sunlight blinded him as he squinted against the shimmering shore. He saw pale skin, long hair wafting in the breeze, a flash of emerald.

‘Kat …’ he whispered, afraid to ask. ‘Kataria?’

The gale carried a cloud across the sun that cloaked the beach with the cruel clarity of shadow. The figure turned to regard him and he saw green locks tumbling to pale shoulders, feathery gills wafting delicately about her neck, fins extending from the sides and crown of her head as she canted her head and regarded him.

‘Oh,’ he muttered, ‘it’s you.’

Greenhair was not her name, he remembered, but it was what they had given her. She was a siren, a servant of Zamanthras, the Mother. She had aided them in locating the tome. But she had fled afterwards, he recalled, fled from the duty to find the tome and slay the Abysmyths, fled from the duty she claimed was holy.

Why?

‘Young silverhair is awake.’ The siren’s voice was a melody, a lilting lyric in every syllable. He remembered it being more beautiful before, rather than the dirge it was now. ‘I feared you dead.’

‘I suppose it would have been a waste of time, then, to keep the bugs off of me,’ Lenk muttered, pulling the dredgespider’s webbing from his body.

‘They feed where they can, silverhair,’ she replied. ‘It has been a long time since they found something substantial and alive on this island.’

‘Except me?’

‘Except you,’ she said, sounding almost disappointed. Seeing his furrowed brow, she forced a weak smile. ‘But you live. I am glad.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m awfully pleased, myself,’ he said, trying to rise, ‘but-’

A shriek ripped through him alongside the fire lancing through his leg. He collapsed back to the sand, looking to his thigh. Or rather, to the scaly green mass that had once been his neatly-stitched and bandaged thigh. The wound had been ripped open, the meat beneath the skin glistening and discoloured at the edges.

‘Do not tax yourself,’ Greenhair said, wading out of the surf. Her webbed fingers twitched as she approached him. ‘Your wound festers. Your life flows with your protest. The scent is sweet to predators.’

He glanced out over the sea. The dredgespiders skimmed across the surface, casting eight-eyed glares at his unsportsmanlike decision to live. The pain coursed through him with such agony that he absently considered lying back and letting them have him.

Still, biting back both the agony and the obscenities accompanying it, he rose to one foot, fighting off the dizziness that struggled to bring him back down.

‘Where am I?’ he asked.

‘The home of the Owauku,’ she replied. ‘Dutiful servants of the Sea Mother, devout in their respect for her ways.’

‘Owa … what?’ Lenk twitched. ‘No, where am I? What is this place?’

‘Teji.’

‘Teji …’ The word tasted familiar on his tongue. The realisation lit up behind his eyes, gave him strength to rise. ‘Teji. Teji!’ At her baffled glance, he grinned broadly, hysteria reflected in every tooth. ‘This is where we’re supposed to be! This is where Sebast is going to meet us, who will take us back to Miron, who will pay us and then we’re done. We did it! We made it! We’re … we …’

We.

That word tasted bitter, sounded hollow on the sky. He stared across the shore. Empty sand, empty sea met him, vast and utterly indifferent to the despair that grew in his belly and spread onto his face.

‘Where are they?’ he asked, choked. ‘Did you find no one else?’

She shook her head. ‘Teji is not where people go to live, silverhair.’

‘What? It’s a trading post, Argaol said.’

She fixed him with a dire gaze. ‘Silverhair … Teji is a tomb.’

She levelled a finger over his head. At once, he felt a darkness over him, a shadow that reached deeper into him than the clouded sky overhead. He turned and stared up into the face of a god.

The statue looked back down at him from where it leaned, high upon a sandy ridge. A right hand wrought of stone was extended, palm flat and commanding all who beheld it. A stone robe wrapped a lean figure set upon iron, treaded wheels. In lieu of a face, the great winged phoenix sigil of Talanas was carved, staring down at Lenk through unfurled wings and crying beak.

The monolith was a vision of decay: wheels rusted and sand-choked, stone rumbling in places, worn where it was intact. Against that, the pile of skulls that had been heaped about its wheels seemed almost insignificant.

‘What?’ he gasped. ‘What is this place?’

‘It is where the battle between Aeons and mortals began in earnest,’ Greenhair replied. ‘The servants of the House of the Vanquishing Trinity opposed the Aeons, the greed-poisoned servants of the Gods. Ulbecetonth, most spiteful and vicious of them, was driven back before their onslaught. Her children and followers faced them down here. They died. The mortals died. And when the last drop was spilled, the land died with them.’

‘Died …’ he whispered. ‘My companions …’

‘Unfortunate’ she said, moving closer to him. ‘The Akaneeds are vigilant, voracious. They leave nothing behind.’

‘Nothing …’

‘Even if your companions survived, there is nothing here to feed them. They would die, too. They would find nothing here.’

Nothing.

The word was heavier than the whisper it was carried on, loading itself upon Lenk’s shoulders and driving him to the earth. He collapsed in the shadow of the monolith, the sigil of Talanas looking down upon him without pity, as he was certain the god Himself did at that moment.

‘I am sorry,’ Greenhair whispered, her voice heavy in its own right as her lips drew close to his ear. ‘I found nothing of them.’

‘Nothing.’

‘No one …’

‘No one.’ Lenk swallowed hard. ‘The others … all of them …’ The next word felt like forcing razors up through his throat. ‘Kataria.’

‘You survive, silverhair,’ she whispered, placing hands upon his shoulders, sitting down. ‘No fear for you now. There is no danger. Rest now.’

‘Rest … I must rest.’ He was suddenly aware of how tired he was, how his bones seemed to melt inside him. She gently eased his head in her lap. ‘This …’ he muttered as he felt the coolness of her ivory skin. ‘This seems … feels strange.’

‘Worry will cause you nothing but pain,’ Greenhair whispered. Her voice seemed to rise now, the whispering crescendo to a melodic choir. ‘You need only rest, silver-hair. Fear for them later. Close your eyes … You need only worry about one thing.’

‘What’s that?’ he asked, barely aware of the yawn in his question, barely aware of the iron weight of his eyelids.

‘Where is it?’ she whispered, a gentle prod in his ear.

‘Where’s what?’

‘The tome,’ she prodded again. ‘Where is it?’

‘This,’ another voice, harsh and cold against her melody, hummed inside his head, ‘is wrong. We must search, not rest.’

‘The Akaneeds leave nothing …’ Lenk repeated, his own tone listless.

‘How does she know of the serpents? Why does she want us to sleep?’

‘You must have had it,’ Greenhair whispered. ‘You have read it. You know where it is.’

‘She does not know that,’ the voice growled, drowning out her whisper. ‘She cannot know that.’

‘How,’ Lenk muttered, ‘do you know that?’

He felt her tense beneath him, even as he felt his head tighten.

‘I … I do not …’ she began to stammer, the melody breaking in her voice.

‘She’s in our head,’ the voice roared, echoing off his skull. ‘Get out! Get out! GET OUT!’

‘OUT!’

He shot up like a spear, whirling around just as she scrambled to get away from him. Her pale, slender arm was held up in pitiful defence before a slack-jawed, wide-eyed face full of terror. He was unmoved by the display, as he was unmoved by the hot agony in his leg. That pain quickly seeped away, replaced with a chill that snaked through his body, numbing him to pain, to fear.

To pity.

From beneath the emerald locks, a large, crested fin rose upon the siren’s head. The same coldness that numbed his muscles now drove him forward as he leapt upon her and wrapped his hands about her throat, slamming her to the ground.

‘No more songs, no more screaming.’ It was not Lenk’s voice that hissed through his teeth, nor his eyes that stared contemptibly down upon her. ‘You … betrayed us.’

She choked out a plea, unheard.

‘All you care about is the tome! Pages! Nothing but pages of demonic filth! Kataria … the others …’ He felt his teeth threaten to crack under the strain of his clenched jaw. ‘They mean nothing to you!’

She beat hands against his arms, unfelt.

‘Those things, the Akaneeds,’ he snarled, his breath a fine mist, ‘they didn’t attack immediately. They didn’t act like beasts at all! Someone sent them!’ He slammed her head upon the ground. ‘Was it you? Did you do this to us? Did you kill Kataria?’

She drew back a hand. Tiny claws extended from her fingers, unnoticed.

His next words were a startled snarl as she drew her hand up and raked the bony nails across his cheek. He recoiled with a shriek and she slithered out from under him like an eel. Before he even opened his mouth to curse her, she was on her feet and rushing to the sea. In a flash of green and a spray of water, she vanished beneath the waves.

‘You can’t run,’ Lenk growled as he staggered to his feet. The agony in his leg made its presence known with a decidedly rude sear of muscle. He collapsed, reaching out for the long-gone figure of the siren. ‘I’ll … kill …’

A glint of viscous liquid upon his fingers, tinged with his own blood, caught his eye. He brought it close, watched it swirl upon his hand even as he felt it swirl inside his cheek. His eyelids fluttered, pulse pounded, body failed.

‘Poison,’ the voice hissed inside his head. ‘You idiot.’

He made a retort, lost in a groan and a mouthful of sand as he collapsed forward and lay unmoving.

The cold, Lenk decided, when he regained consciousness, was sorely missed. When he managed to realise that he had a rather impolite crab scuttling over his face, pinching at tender flesh in search of something to devour, he also realised that his skull was on fire.

Or felt like it, at the very least.

He cast a look up at the sky, saw the shroud of clouds that masked the sun. Yet he still burned. Even the mild light that filtered through in rays that refused to be hindered seared his eyes, his flesh.

Fever.

He felt an itch at his leg, reached down to scratch and felt moist and scaly flesh under his nails. However long he had been out, the sun had suckled at his wound and left a mass of green-rimmed skin weeping tears of blood-flecked pus.

That would explain it.

He looked around for Greenhair, wondering if perhaps she might be able to make another makeshift bandage to stem the flow. He felt an itch on his cheek quickly followed by a sting of pain.

Oh, right …

The urge to chase her down and beat a cure out of her was fleeting; even if she hadn’t vanished into the sea like the shark-whoring ocean-bitch she was, he couldn’t very well search the whole beach on a limb that begged for a merciful amputation.

He was so very tired.

Perhaps, he reasoned, it would be better to just wait for Gevrauch’s cold hand on his shoulder. Perhaps it would be better to be the final period in the Bookkeeper’s last sentence on a page marked: ‘Six Imbeciles who Fought for Gold and Were Eaten by Seagulls. Big, Ugly Seagulls. With Teeth.’

Yes, he thought, better to die here, wait for it. Wait to see the others … wait to see my family. Following that thought came his grandfather’s words, with no voice to accompany them.

‘Gevrauch loathes an adventurer,’ he had said to him once, ‘because they never know when to die. We don’t return the bodies we were loaned when the Bookkeeper asks for them. Recognise when it’s your time to die. Suffer it. Say a prayer to Him and maybe He’ll forgive you refusing your space in His ledger all these years.’

Sound advice, he thought.

His boat was likely at the bottom of the sea, along with the fortune he had chased. His companions likely weren’t far away, drifting either as half-chewed corpses or long, sinewy Akaneed stool. After both of those images, the fact that he had no food or water didn’t seem quite so worrying.

He would not like to upset the Gods and be sent to hell; he had seen what came out of that place. No, no, he told himself, it’s over now. All the suffering, all the pain he had experienced in his life all led up to this: a few moments of heat-stricken delirium, then off to the sea to be picked clean by crabs and eels.

Sound plan.

A wave washed over his leg; he felt something bump against his bare foot. He explored it with his toes, expecting to find splintered driftwood, maybe from his craft. Or, he thought, perhaps the remains of his companions: Asper’s severed head, Denaos’ chewed leg. He chuckled at the macabre thought, then paused as he ran a toe against the object.

It was not so soft as flesh, not even as wood. He felt firmness, a familiar chill as blood wept from his toe.

He fought to sit up, fought to reach into the surf and was rewarded with hands around wet leather. Almost too scared to believe that he was touching what he thought he was, he jerked hard before fear could make him do otherwise.

His sword, his grandfather’s sword, rose with all the firm gentleness of a lover in his hands. Its naked steel glittered in the sunlight, defiant of its would-be watery grave. The sun recoiled at its sight; there would be no angelic glow of deliverance from this sword, he thought. This was a sword for grey skies and grim smiles.

None had smiled grimmer than Lenk’s grandfather.

‘Remember, though,’ he had finished, ‘you and I, we’re men of Khetashe, men of the Outcast. He has no place in heaven for his followers. He loathes us for the reputation we cast on him. So why should we die when He wants us to?’

Lenk felt his own smile grow as he struggled to his feet. It might very well be his time. The sword’s arrival might have been coincidence, might have been charity from the Gods: an heirloom to take to his grave. He followed the Outcast, though, and Khetashe had never sent him a divine message he would be expected to listen to.

He turned and looked over his shoulder, toward a distant wall of greenery. A forest, he recognised. Forests were plants. Plants needed water. And so did he.

Water first, he thought as he stalked toward the foliage, sword clenched against his body. Water first, then food, then find Sebast and keep him around long enough for me to find the others.

His smile grew particularly grim.

Or at least something to bury.