Black Halo

There were only their lips pressed together, their tongues tasting each other, their hands, off weapons, on each other.

And the unending sigh of the ocean.

She pulled back, just as swiftly as she had embraced him. Her body still shook, her fingers still dug into his skin, her ears were still flat against her head. But her eyes were steady, fixed on his, unblinking.

‘I can’t change,’ she whispered, ‘anything.’

And she turned.

And she walked away.

And he stared after her, long into the night.

Forty-Two

THE ICE SPEAKS TRUE

Island of Teji

The Aeons’ Gate

Time is irrelevant

I lived on a farm before I became an adventurer. I had a mother, a father, a grandfather and a cow. None of those are important. What is important is that I don’t remember much about them.

Not much … but a little.

I remember that time seemed to stand still on a farm. We lived, we ate, we planted, we harvested, we watched births, we watched deaths. The same thing happened the next year … for as long as I was there.

This I remember. I remember it too well. Granted, the adventuring life was not too different: we lived, mostly; we ate things that we probably shouldn’t have; we stabbed; we burned; we once force-fed a man his own foot …

Some part of me, I think, still suspected life was that way, still thought that the world would never change.

But I’m learning all kinds of things lately.

Things change.

Weeks ago … gold seemed everything. Gold was everything. It would lead me back to the farm, back to living, planting, harvesting, birthing, dying. That part of me that thought the world would continue as it always had wanted me to go back, to prove it right.

That part of me is gone, though. It was cast out. It was a blanket, something thick and warm that kept me sleeping. I’m awake now.

The cave … I remember it. I remember it too well. I don’t know his name. I don’t know if he had family, if he ever planted anything or saw a child born. I don’t know how he lived.

But I know who he was. And I know how he died.

He fought the demons, back during the war with the Aeons in which the mortals triumphed against Ulbecetonth. He inspired fear in his enemies and the House of the Vanquishing Trinity that he marched with, even as they called him ally. He killed many. His purpose was to kill.

His companions feared him: what he said, what he knew, what he was. They went into that cave. They killed him. They died with him. I stared into his eyes. I knew this. Some part of me remembered it, some part that I’ve been trying to ignore. I knew him.

And he knew me. And he spoke to me. And I listened.

And it all began to make sense. I’ve seen the way they look at me, the way they look away when I stare at them. When they need order, when they need direction, they turn to me. When I needed them, they abandoned me, betrayed me.

Maybe it was stupidity on the surface. Maybe it was their selfishness, as I had suspected. Those might have been the shallows, but not the purpose. They had been waiting for that moment, the moment in which they could watch me die without retaliation.

They wanted me to die. They wanted to kill me. To kill us, but they couldn’t.

The voice told me this. It’s speaking so clearly now. It doesn’t command me. I talk to it; it talks back. We discuss. We learn. We reason. It told me everything about them, about their purpose. It made sense.

Things change.

They don’t.

I learned this too well tonight.

The voice was speaking clearly, but I was still doubting it. I didn’t see how they could hate me … well, no, I could see how they could hate me, sure. They’re assholes. But her … I didn’t believe it, not after that day.

So I watched her, as the voice told me to. I watched her go away. I followed her. I couldn’t, too closely, of course; she would hear me. She would know. So I followed her as far as I could. I heard her. I heard her talk with other voices.

I glanced out from my hiding spot and saw him.

Greenshict.

My grandfather told me stories of them. Manhunters. Skinners. Seven feet and six toes of hatred for humans. I learned more about shicts than I ever thought I would; I learned that they weren’t all bad; I learned about Kataria …

But Kataria is a puppy. Greenshicts are wolves. They kill humans. This is their sole purpose. I know this. Everyone does. She knows it, too. And she told me nothing of them.

I couldn’t tell what they were talking about. I didn’t need to know. The voice did. It told me they were plotting my murder, that she would never be able to change her purpose, her desire to kill me for what I am, for what she was. She was speaking with a creature born to kill humans.

I believed it.

I left.

And everything became clear after that.

The tome is the key. The man in the cave told me that. There’s more written on it than Miron would have me believe. His purpose was to lie and to obscure. Maybe there’s something worse written in it than I would imagine. But maybe … maybe there’s something in it I need to see, no matter the danger.

And there is plenty.

The Shen are numerous, Togu has told me. They relentlessly patrol their island home of Jaga. They tattoo themselves with a black line for each kill they make, a red line for each head they’ve crushed. I’ve never seen one without at least three red lines upon it, the rest of them in black. They are violent; they are watchful; they live on an island that no one knows the location of.

And they have the tome.

I will go after it. I will find it. I will learn the truth inside it. I will take them, the betrayers, with me.

I won’t give them another chance to kill me.

I will follow my purpose.

I will kill them all.

Epilogue

THE STIRRING IN THE SEA

Mesri had been a holy man, once: a revered speaker of the will of the Zamanthras. He had guided his people through many trials and many hardships. He was the chain that had held Port Yonder together. He was a leader. He was a man of the Gods. He was good.

And now, he was a fast-fading memory, his eyes shut tight and drifting beneath a cloak of shimmering blue as his body was commended to the depths. The last body to go under, the other victims of the longfaces’ attack having since been offered to the ocean. It had begun reverently enough, with the ritual candles burned and the holy words spoken.

But the candles had been extinguished by a stray wave. The people did not know all the words. Mesri did. Mesri was dead. So was half of Port Yonder. And once that reality became too apparent, the funerals lasted as long as it took to identify the bodies and drop them into the harbour.

By the time they sent Mesri to Zamanthras, only two remained to watch him sink beneath the blue. Only Kasla. Only Hanth.

The girl peered out over the edge of the dock. ‘Do we say something?’

‘To who?’ he asked.

She glanced around the empty harbour. ‘To Zamanthras?’

‘Feel free,’ he said.

Kasla inhaled deeply and looked for inspiration. She looked to the sky, grey and thundering. She looked to the sea, glutted with corpses. She looked to the city, its blackened ruin and blood-spattered sands. And so, she looked out over the ocean and spat.

‘Thanks for nothing.’

They continued to stare at the sea, saying nothing. Neither of them felt an obligation to stay, to remain silent. Neither of them knew where they would go, what they would say.

‘Are you going to stay?’ Kasla asked.

‘I am returning home,’ he replied.

‘You say that, but you don’t look like you’re from around here. Your skin is too white and your eyes are too dark to be Tohanan. And you very clearly don’t follow Zamanthras.’

‘Zamanthras doesn’t tell me who I am. Neither do your people.’

She shrugged. ‘I guess not. Still, you kept everyone safe while we rescued them from the longfaces. They’ll welcome you for that.’

‘That’s fine,’ he replied. ‘I’m glad they’re safe for now.’

‘They are. We all are.’ She reached out, slid a hand into his robe and smiled. ‘Heartbeat.’

He turned on her. ‘What?’

‘I can feel it through your skin,’ she said, running her fingers over his chest. ‘You must be stressed.’

‘I … am …’ he said, nodding weakly.

‘You need food. Fortunately, the cooks survived.’ She patted him on the back and began walking to the wreckage of Port Yonder. ‘Come on.’

He turned and began to follow. The water lapped at the docks. The sky rumbled. And between the voices of the storm and the sea, Hanth heard a whisper reach his ears from the waves.

‘Ulbecetonth honours her promises, Mouth.’

He forced himself to keep going, to keep his eyes forward. He didn’t dare look behind him for fear of seeing four golden eyes peering at him from the depths, a grey dorsal fin splitting the waters.

On the sands below, the females were joyous. The air was rife with the shrieking of Those Green Things as they were driven under lash and blade to chop more wood and haul it to the shore to be built into ships. The slightest excuse – a pause to take a drink, a load moving too slow – was used to justify an immediate execution.

‘Shouldn’t you stop them?’ a rasping voice asked from behind him.

Sheraptus scowled; between the shriek of Those Green Things, the laughter of the females and the cackle of the sikkhuns as more and more corpses were hurled into their pits, the sound of the Grey One That Grins was just somehow even more grating.

‘It’s quite wasteful, you know,’ his companion said. ‘If you have no slaves, you will have no ships and you will have no way to find the tome.’

‘No,’ Sheraptus said, pointedly.

‘No?’

‘I’m bored with that. I found your stupid tome and it cost me dearly.’

‘You’ve never given a concern for cost before.’

‘That was before I lost my best warriors, my First Carnassial and my ship for the sake of a few pieces of pressed wood. This is no longer interesting.’

‘There is still more to learn.’

‘Of what? Overscum? They show up where you don’t want them to and ruin everything. That’s as much as I need to know and as much as I care to know. I’ve decided … we’re returning to the Nether. There are plenty more wars to be fought there.’

‘But so little power to be gained,’ the Grey One That Grins urged. ‘Consider all that you have found here; consider all that we have given you to fight Ulbecetonth’s children on our behalf. The martyr stones, the poison …’

‘The power I’ve found here is weak and fleeting. I’ve not yet met anyone who can best me.’

‘No. Only those who can best your ship.’

‘You are aggravating me,’ Sheraptus growled. ‘Consider my gratitude for the stones to be my aversion to killing you.’

‘Most appreciated. However, I feel you may be a little shortsighted.’

‘I also feel that way. I was apparently too hasty in offering such gratitude.’

‘I simply mean to imply that you are letting your mood sour the potential for one of the greatest powers you’ve yet to see.’

‘Power … is that all you think me concerned with?’

‘No. This power, however, you might be … considering it comes in a form you will find most pleasing.’

Sheraptus paused, a smile growing across his lips as the Grey One That Grins drew the words out between his long teeth.

‘The priestess.’

‘What of her?’ Sheraptus asked.

‘Did you not sense something awry last night on your ship? A strength you have not tasted before?’

‘I did … on the beach, as well. Her?’

‘She possesses something not yet seen in nethra. Perhaps you are interested?’

‘Passingly. In her, though …’

‘She attracts your ire?’

‘We were interrupted. She did not scream for me.’

‘I see. I can show you how to find her. I can show you how to harness her power for your own ends.’

‘And in return?’

‘The tome.’

‘As you wish. The Screamer is out seeking its whereabouts right now. I suspect Those Other Green Things that sank my ship will be involved.’

‘The Shen are powerful. It may take many females to wrench it from their grasp.’

‘I have many females.’

‘And the artifact,’ the Grey One That Grins said, ‘you returned it from Port Yonder?’

‘Yldus arrived not long ago. I hardly see what you want with a pile of bones, though.’

‘It will become clear, in time.’

‘You say that often, I note.’

‘I have little time to explain. My presence is needed elsewhere.’

‘Of course. Vashnear will tend to your needs.’

He heard the Grey One That Grins turn on his heels and begin to walk away. Without turning around, Sheraptus called after him.

‘This power she has … and how to harness it …’

‘It will be a long process,’ his companion said. ‘Long … and slow.’

And without a word, Sheraptus smiled, returning his gaze to the island below. The sikkhuns fed. The ships bobbed in the surf as supplies were loaded onto them. And the females were joyous.

So many steps, Mahalar thought as he climbed down. Were there always this many?

Not for the first time, he thought about turning around, returning to the top and sleeping for a few more hours. But his people were waiting for him below. They had requested his guidance.

He found the Shen gathered in a throng at the bottom of the massive stone staircase; he felt their yellow eyes upon him, heard the quiet hiss of their breath. At the fore of them, he recognised Shalake, heard the towering Shen’s breath louder and angrier than the rest.

He bowed his scaly head to them as he was about to ask what they had summoned him for. That reason became clear as he recognised another presence amongst them: small, kneeling, quivering with fear.