Black Halo

Twenty-Nine

THE SCENT OF MEMORY



The grandfather wasn’t speaking to him anymore.

Unfortunately, that didn’t mean he wasn’t still there.

Gariath could see him at the corner of his eyes, held the scent of him in his nostrils. And it certainly didn’t mean he had stopped making noise.

‘We had to have known,’ he muttered from somewhere, Gariath not knowing or caring where. ‘At some point, we had to have known how it would all end. The Rhega were strong. That’s why they came to us. They were weak. That’s why we aided them. That was what we did, back then.’

Of all the aimless babble, Gariath recognised only the word Rhega. How far back, who ‘they’ were, when the Rhega had ever helped anyone weak was a mystery for people less easily annoyed. He wasn’t even sure who the grandfather was speaking to anymore, either, but it hadn’t been him for several hours, he was sure.

The shift had begun after they had left the shadow of the giant skeleton and its great grave of a ravine behind them. The grandfather suddenly became as the wind: elusive, difficult to see, and constantly flitting about.

He talks more, too, Gariath thought, resentfully. Much more annoying than the wind.

He had long given up any hopes for communication. The grandfather vanished if Gariath tried to look at him, met his questions with silence, nonsensical murmurs or bellowing songs.

‘We used to sing back then, too,’ the grandfather muttered. ‘We had reason to in those days. More births, more pups. We killed only for food. Survival wasn’t the worry it is today.’

Granted, Gariath admitted to himself, he wasn’t quite sure how the effects of senility applied to someone long dead, but he was prepared to declare the grandfather such. The skeleton had obviously been the source, but further details eluded both Gariath’s inquiries and, eventually, his interest.

The grandfather had faded from his concerns, if not from his ear-frills, hours ago. Now, the forest opened up into beach and the trees lost ground to encroaching sand. Now, he ignored sight and sound alike, focused only on scent.

Now, he hunted a memory.

It was faint, only a hint of it grazing his nostrils with the deepest of breaths, an afterthought muttered from the withered lips of an ancestor long dead. But it was there, the scent of the Rhega, drifting through the air, rising up from the ground, across the sea. It was a confident scent, unconcerned with earth and air and water. It had been around longer, would continue to be when earth and air and water could not tell the difference between themselves.

And he wanted to scream at it.

He craved to feel hope again, the desperate yearning that had infected him when he had last breathed such a scent. He wanted to roar and chase it down the beach. He resisted the urge. He denied the hope. The scent was a passing thought. He dared not hope until he tracked it and felt the memories in his nostrils.

There would be time enough to hope when he found the Rhega again.

‘Wisest,’ the grandfather whispered.

Gariath paused, if only because this was the first time he had heard his name pass through the spirit’s spectral lips in hours.

‘Your path is behind you,’ he whispered. ‘You will find only death ahead.’

Gariath ignored him, resuming his trek down the beach. Even if it wasn’t idle babble, Gariath had been told such a thing before. Everyone certain of his inevitable and impending death had, to his endless frustration, been wrong thus far.

And yet, what his ears refused to acknowledge, his snout had difficulty denying.

Broken rocks, dried-up rivers, dead leaves, rotting bark – the scents crept into his nostrils unbidden, tugged at his senses and demanded his attention. The scent he sought was difficult to track, the source he followed difficult to concentrate on.

Each time they passed his nostrils, with every whiff of decay and age, he was reminded of the hours before this moment, of the battle at the ledge.

Of the lizard …

His mind leapt to that moment time and again, no matter how much he resisted it, of the tall, green reptile-man coated in tattoos, holding a bow in one hand, raising a palm to him. He saw the creature’s single, yellow eye. He heard the creature’s voice, understood its language. He drew in the creature’s scent and knew its name.

Shen.

How could he have known that? How could he still know that? The creature had spoken to him, addressed him, called him Rhega. How was that possible? There weren’t enough Rhega left on the mainland, let alone on some forsaken floating graveyard, for the thing to recognise him. And he was certain he had never seen it before.

And yet, it had intervened on his behalf, saved him from death. Twice, Gariath admitted to himself; once with an arrow and again with the surge of violent resolve that had swept through him afterwards. That vigour had waned, dissolving into uncomfortable itches and irritating questions.

Questions, he reminded himself, that you have no time for. Focus. If you can’t feel hope, you sure as hell can’t feel confusion until you find them.

‘Find what, Wisest?’ the grandfather murmured. ‘The beach is barren. There is nothing for us here.’

‘There must be a sign, a trace of where they went,’ Gariath replied, instantly regretting it.

‘There are no Rhega here.’

‘You’re here.’

‘I am dead.’

‘The scent is strong.’

‘You have smelled it before.’

‘And I found Grahta.’

‘Grahta is dead.’

The grandfather’s words were heavy. He ignored them. He could not afford to be burdened now. He pressed on, nose in the air and eyes upon the cloud-shrouded moon.

Thought was something he could not carry now. It would bow his head low, force his eyes upon the ground and he would never see where he was going.

‘The answer lies behind you, Wisest,’ the grandfather said. ‘Continue, and you will find something to fear.’

The spirit was but one more thing to ignore, one more thing he couldn’t afford to pay attention to. So long as he had a scent to track, answers to seek, he didn’t have to think.

He wouldn’t have to think about how the beach sprawled endlessly before him, how the clouds shifted to paint moonlight on the shore. Still, he made the mistake of glancing down and seeing the shadows rising up in great, curving shards farther down the beach.

Bones, he recognised. More great skeletons, more silent screaming, more shallow graves. How many, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t have the wit to count, either, for in another moment, the stench of death struck him like a fist.

It sent him reeling, but only that. What made him stop, what made his eyes go wide and his jaw drop, was the sudden realisation that he had been struck with no singular aroma. Another scent was wrapped up within the reek of decay, trapped inside it, inseparable from it.

Rivers. Rocks.

Rhega.

No.

That was not right. The scent of the Rhega was the odour of life, strong, powerful. He seized what remained of his strength, throttled it to make himself stagger forward. He would get a better scent, he knew, smell the vigour and memory of the Rhega that undoubtedly lingered behind it. Then everything would be fine. He would have his answers. He could feel hope again and this time, he’d—

He struck his toe, felt a pain too sharp to belong to him. A white bone lay at his feet, too small to belong to a great beast, too big to be a hapless human corpse. Its scent was too … too …

‘No …’

He collapsed to his knees; his hands drove themselves into the dirt and began digging. He sobbed, begging them not to in choked incoherencies. Thought weighed him down, fear drove his hands, and with every grain removed, white bone was exposed.

No.

An eye socket that should have held a dark stare looked up at him.

No!

Sharp teeth worn with use and age grinned at him.

NO!

A pair of horns, indentations where ear-frills had been, a gaping hole in the side of its bleached head …

He was out of thought, unable to think enough to rise or look away or even touch the skull. He knelt before it, staring down.

And the dead Rhega stared back.

‘That’s why the scent is faint.’

Gariath recognised the voice, its age and depth like rocks breaking and leaves falling. He didn’t look up as a pair of long, green legs came to stand beside him and a single yellow eye stared down at the skull.

‘It’s in the air, the earth.’ He squatted beside Gariath, running a reverential hand across the sand. ‘So is death. No matter how many bones we find and return’ – he paused to sigh – ‘there are always more.’

Gariath’s stare lingered on the skull, afraid to look up, more afraid to ask the question boiling behind his lips.

‘Are they …?’ he asked, regardless. ‘All of them?’

The Shen’s head swung towards him, levelled the single eye upon him. ‘Not all of them.’

Words heavy with meaning, Gariath recognised, made lighter with meaninglessness. ‘If a people becomes a person, there are none left.’

‘If there is one left, then there is one left. Failure and philosophy are for humans.’ He glanced farther down the beach. ‘They have been here.’

Gariath had not expected to look up at that word. ‘Humans?’

‘Dragged through here, earlier, by the longfaces,’ the lizardman muttered, staring intently at the earth. ‘We had hoped Togu would take care of their presence, but not by feeding them to purple-skinned beasts. He encourages further incursions.’ He snorted. ‘He was always weak.’

‘You have been tracking them? You are a hunter, then?’

‘I am Yaike. I am Shen. It matters not what I do, so long as I do it for all Shen.’

‘You can hunt with one eye?’

‘I have another one. I am still Shen. Other races that teem have the numbers to give up when they lose one eye.’ He hummed, his body rumbling with the sound. ‘Tonight, we hunt longfaces. Tonight, we kill them. In this, we know we are Shen.’ He glanced at Gariath. ‘More bones tonight, Rhega. There are always more.’

‘There is a lot of that on this island.’

‘This?’ Yaike gestured to the skull. ‘A tragedy. The Shen were born in it, in death. We carry it with us.’ He ran a clawed finger across his tattooed flesh. ‘Our lives are painted with it, intertwined with it. In death, we find life.’

‘In death, I have found nothing.’

‘I am Shen.’ Yaike rose to his feet. ‘I know only Shen. Of Rhega, I know only legends.’

‘And what do they say?’

‘That the Rhega found life in all things. I am Shen. For me, all things are found in death.’

Yaike’s gaze settled on Gariath for a moment before he turned and stalked off, saying nothing more. Gariath did not call after him. He knew there was nothing more the Shen could offer him, as surely as he knew the name Shen. And because he was not sure at all how he knew the name, he felt no calm. Thought felt no lighter on his shoulders.

Answers in death, he thought to himself. I’ve seen much death.

‘And you haven’t learned anything, Wisest,’ the grandfather whispered, unseen.

Death is a better answer than nothing.

There was no response to that from the grandfather. No sound at all, but the hush of the waves and the sound of boots on sand.

‘Is that it?’ a grating voice asked, suddenly. ‘It’s pretty big, isn’t it?’

His nostrils quivered: iron, rust, hate.

He turned and regarded them carefully, the trio of purple-skinned longfaces that had emerged from the night. They clutched swords in hands, carried thick, jagged throwing knives at their belts. How easy it would be, he wondered, to stand there and let them carve his flesh. How easy would it be to find an answer in his own blood, dripping out on the sand.

He hadn’t learned anything that way so far.

‘You have humans,’ he grunted. ‘I will take them.’

‘They yours?’ one of them asked. ‘How about we burn what’s left of them and what’s left of you in a pile? Fair?’

He stepped forward and felt refreshed by an instant surge of ire welling up inside him. It might not have been the most profound of solutions, but then, this was not the most difficult of problems.

For this question, for any question, violence was an answer he understood.

The netherlings shared this thought, bringing their swords up, meeting his bared teeth with their jagged grins.

Humans were nearby, he knew, and they were likely dead. Netherlings were closer, he knew, and they would soon be dead. He would find answers tonight, answers in death.

Whose, he wasn’t quite sure he cared.

Lenk felt the chill shudder through his body, seizing his attention.

‘They have come to a decision.’

The sight of drawn swords and grins of varying width and wickedness confirmed as much. The netherlings’ brief argument over who was going to kill whom had lasted only as long as it took for words to give way to fists, with the least battered picking their prey. The one most bloodied settled with a grumble for Dreadaeleon’s unconscious form, still beside Lenk.

The one with the broadest grin and the bloodiest gauntlet advanced upon him, pursued by scowls from the ones with the most knuckle indentations embedded in their jaws. There were many of those, he noted. She had wanted him badly.

‘She shall never have us,’ the voice muttered. ‘We will find her first, show her revelation, show them all.’

‘Revelation,’ Lenk whispered, ‘in blood, steel. We will show them.’

‘Show us what?’ the advancing netherling asked, tilting her head to the side.

‘He could show us his insides,’ one of the longfaces offered.

‘Rather, you could,’ another replied, kneeling beside the prone form of Denaos. ‘I intend to make this one die slowly. Xhai is going to be pissed.’

‘Die?’ the voice asked of Lenk.

Lenk shook his head. ‘Not us.’

‘Not if she is to survive.’

A sudden heat engulfed Lenk, bathed his brow in an instant sweat. ‘And what of your survival? Save her, even try to, and you’ll die, you’ll rot and she’ll be—’

The sweat turned cold, froze to rime on his skin. ‘Meaningless. Duty above survival. Duty above life. Duty above all. They are coming. They will die, as these ones here die.’

‘As all die,’ Lenk murmured.

‘Now you’ve got it,’ the netherling said, grinning as she levelled her sword at the young man’s brow. ‘This is just how it is, as Master Sheraptus says. The weak give all, the strong take all.’ Her grin grew broader. ‘Master Sheraptus is strong. We are strong.’

‘Weak enables strong. Strong feed on weak. Not incorrect.’

‘Her perception is wrong, though,’ Lenk muttered.

‘What?’ The netherling smiled with terrible glee. ‘Oh, wait, are you going to do one of those dying monologues that pinkies do? I’ve heard about these! Make it good!’

His stare rose to meet hers. Instantly, her smile faded, the wickedness fleeing her face to be replaced with confusion tinged by fear. His eyes were easy as her sword arm tensed, his voice emerging on breath made visible by cold as he stared at her and whispered.

‘We are stronger,’ he said evenly. ‘We will kill you first.’

She recoiled at that, as if struck worse than a fist could. ‘I hoped to enjoy this,’ she growled, drawing her blade back, ready to drive it between his eyes. ‘But you ruined it, you stupid little—’

A roar split the sky apart, choking her voice in her throat. Her arm steadied as a new kind of confusion, fear replaced with curiosity, crossed her face. She looked over her shoulder, milk-white eyes staring down the beach, seeking the source of the fury.

‘That’s …’ another longface hummed, squinting into the gloom, ‘that’s one of the low-fingers, isn’t it? That the Master sent out?’

‘It is,’ the voice answered in Lenk’s head, ‘what we have waited for.’

He felt his eyes drawn to the beach. Movement was obvious, even in the darkness: purple flesh shifting beneath moonlight as a netherling charged down the beach. But her gait was awkward, bobbing wildly as she rushed forward. The peculiarities grew the closer she drew: the jellylike flail of her arms and legs, the hulking shadow behind her body.

By the time Lenk saw the longface’s head lolling on a distinctly shattered neck, it was clear to him and everyone else what was about to happen.

‘Oh, hell, it’s that … that red thing!’ a netherling snarled. ‘What are they called?’

‘It was supposed to be dead, wasn’t it?’ another snarled. ‘The screamer said!’

‘It’s not,’ the third laughed, hefting her jagged throwing blade. ‘This day just gets better and better.’

‘What about the pink things?’

‘Kill ’em if you want. Don’t expect any scraps.’

A cackle tore through the longfaces. A chorus of whining metal followed as jagged hurling blades flew, shrieking to be heard over the war cry that chased them.

‘QAI ZHOTH!’

With each meaty smack, the longface’s corpse shuddered as the blades gnawed into lifeless flesh and stuck fast, leaving the creature behind it unscathed. It rushed forward, trembling as a roar emerged from behind the shield of sinew. Lenk saw flashes of red skin, sharp teeth and dark, murderous eyes. He found he could hardly help the smile creeping upon his lips.

And behind the corpse, Gariath’s grin was twice as long, thrice as unpleasant.

‘AKH ZEKH LAKH!’ the longfaces threw chants instead of knives, hefting their swords and shields as they charged forward to meet the dragonman’s fury with their own.

‘Distracted. Escape possible. Death inevitable. Duty will be fulfilled.’

‘My hands are tied,’ he whispered.

‘Move or die.’

‘Fair enough.’ He pulled at the ropes; he knew little of knots, but it seemed reasonable that the netherlings would not plan to hold prisoners any longer than it took to gut them. With a little guidance, he was sure he could break free. ‘Denaos, can you—’

‘He can,’ the voice replied. ‘He did.’

The slipped bonds on the earth where the rogue had lain was evidence enough of that.

‘We did not need him. Do not need any of them. Focus. Time is short.’

A challenging howl confirmed as much. Gariath had dropped his corpse to the earth, seizing it by its ankles and dragging it to meet his foes. Their anticipation was evident in the gleam of their swords, the grin on their faces.

‘QAI ZHOTH!’ the leading one howled, leaping forward. ‘EVISCERATE! DECAPITATE! ANNIHILA—’

The chant was shattered along with her teeth as two thick skulls collided. He swung the corpse like a club of muscle and flesh. Limp arms flailed out to smash ironbound hands into chanting jaws. Bones cracked against bones, casting the attackers back as Gariath grunted and adjusted his weight for another swing.

‘Ignore,’ the voice hissed, its freezing tone bringing Lenk’s attention back to his wrists. ‘Duty is at hand. We must free ourselves. We must kill.’

‘I can’t,’ he snarled, tugging at his wrists. ‘I can’t!’

‘Can’t what?’ Dreadaeleon replied. ‘Gariath seems to have the matter in hand.’

‘If you cannot, then she dies. All die. Because of you.’

‘I can’t help it … I can’t get free!’

‘I can.’

‘You … can?’

‘Who can?’ Dreadaeleon asked, glancing at the young man. ‘Lenk … really? Now?’

‘Say it.’

Somehow, within the icy recesses of a mind not his own, he knew what he must say. And somehow, in the shortness of his own breath, he knew the consequences of saying it.

‘Save her,’ he whispered.

The voice made no vocal reply. Its presence was made manifest through his blood going cold and a chill sweeping over him. His skull was rimed in ice, numbing him to thought, to fear, to doubt. His muscles became hard, bereft of feeling or pain as he pulled them against the rope. They did not ache, did not burn, did not protest. They were ice.

He should worry, some part of him knew.

His hands pulled themselves free. He felt blood, cold on his skin, could not find the thought to hurt. He rose up on numb legs and staggered forward. The palanquin was before him, his sword upon it, its leather hilt thrust toward him invitingly. He clutched it and for a brief moment felt a surge of vigour, a piece he had been missing thrust violently into him and made whole.

‘You have a sword to defend yourself, the means to escape,’ another voice whispered feverishly. ‘Escape! Run now! Save yourself! You don’t need to die here!’

Words on numb ears; he would not die here. He staggered forward, the blade dragging on the earth behind him. Gariath swung the corpse back and forth wildly; he was unimportant. The netherlings darted about him, seeking an opening in his defence; they were insignificant. One of them hung back, the one that had failed to kill him, the one that would enable him.

She was first.

She heard him approach, felt his breath on her neck, knew his presence; that was all so unimportant. She whirled about, the blade in her hand, the curse on her lips, the shield rising; that was just insignificant.

His own blade rose swiftly. He could see himself in its reflection, see the dead, pupilless eyes staring back at him. Then, he was gone, vanished in a bath of red. He couldn’t remember when the blade had found her neck. He couldn’t remember what he had said that made her look at him with such pain in her mouth, such fear in her eyes.

But he remembered this sensation, this strength. He had felt it in icy rivers and in dark dreams, in the absence of fever and the chill of wind. He remembered the voice that spoke to him now, as it melted and seeped out of his skull. He remembered its message. He heard it now.

‘Strength wanes, bodies decay, faith fails, steel breaks.’

‘Duty,’ he whispered, ‘persists.’

Life returned to him: warm, burning, feverish life. The body fell to the ground, the netherling gurgling and clutching at the gaping wound in her throat. The others whirled around, staring at her, then turning wide eyes up to Lenk.

‘Shtehz,’ one of them gasped, ‘the damn thing just turned grey ag—’

The ensuing cracking sound would have drowned out the remark, even if the netherling’s mouth wasn’t reduced to a bloody mess as a red claw seized her by the back of her head and smashed her skull against her companion’s.

Gariath stepped forward, regarded Lenk curiously for a moment. He snorted.

‘Still alive?’ he grunted.

‘Still alive,’ Lenk replied.

‘I thought you’d be.’ Gariath reached down and took one of the netherlings by her biceps. ‘The others are dead?’

‘Still alive,’ Lenk repeated. ‘For the moment, at least. There was another longface, Sheraptus, he took the women.’

‘A problem,’ Gariath replied as he placed a foot between the moaning female’s shoulder blades. ‘What do you want to do about it?’

‘They took them by boat, to a ship,’ Lenk replied, gesturing over the sea. ‘It can’t be far away.’ He quirked an eyebrow at the dragonman. ‘Why do you care, though?’

‘I killed two of these things earlier. Didn’t find any answers. I’ll give it a little more time.’

‘I see … Should I ask?’

Gariath didn’t reply. His muscles tensed as he drove his foot downward, pulling the netherlings’ arms farther behind her. She screamed, long and loud, but not nearly loud enough to disguise the sound of arms popping out of their sockets, not nearly long enough to drown out the deep cracking sound borne from her chest. She drew in several sharp, ragged breaths that quickly turned to gurgling, choking noises before collapsing into the sand.

‘I wouldn’t,’ Gariath grunted.

‘Fine … that’s fine.’ They both glanced to see the remaining netherling, staggering to her feet, growling as she raised her sword towards the two. ‘It doesn’t matter if I die here. It’s never mattered. It doesn’t mean you won’t still die; it doesn’t mean the Master won’t—’

In a flash of motion, a dark stripe appeared across her throat framed by two trembling fists. Her sword dropped, her eyes bulging out of their sockets as she reached up to grope helplessly at the garrotte’s thick, corded kiss. A grin appeared at her ear, brimming with far more malice than Lenk thought Denaos could ever have mustered.

‘It’s an ideal situation,’ the rogue explained to no one in particular. ‘The more you struggle, the tighter it goes, faster it’s over. Perfect for putting down animals. It’s all but useless against someone who just sits tight and thinks.’ He gave her a quick jerk, silencing her choked gurgling. ‘As I said, for the circumstances, ideal.’

She collapsed to her knees, but he refused to relinquish his grip on the garrotte, stalwartly absorbing each elbow she thrust behind her. It was a valiant effort, Lenk thought, awestruck by the rogue’s tenacity, though not enough to avoid a sudden thought.

Wait … where’d he get the rope?

The question lingered only as long as it took for the hate to leak out of the netherling’s eyes, whereupon Denaos loosed his grip and let her drop. Lenk stared down at the rope, recognising it as far too furry to be anything but what the man had been wearing moments ago.

It took a strong perception for Lenk to realise the imperative need to not look back up. It took a decidedly stronger resolve not to scream when he invariably did.

Denaos certainly didn’t help matters by placing his hands on his naked hips and setting a triumphant foot on the netherling’s back.

‘Take it all in, gentlemen,’ he replied, gesturing downward and tapping his foot. ‘What do you suppose? The biggest one here?’

Gariath stalked past him, casting a glance and offering a snort.

‘I’ve seen bigger.’

‘Well, this is all highly disturbing,’ came a shrill voice. They glanced over to see Dreadaeleon sitting upright, looking at them inquisitively. ‘I assume, once someone sees fit to untie me, we’ll be giving chase?’

‘Were you not dead a moment ago?’ Denaos asked.

‘Coma,’ Dreadaeleon replied, pausing only to sit still long enough for Gariath to shred his bonds and hoist him to his feet. ‘A momentary overwhelming of the senses, not unlike deeply inhaling a pot of mustard.’

‘Mustard doesn’t do that,’ Denaos pointed out.

‘Surprisingly enough, I use these childish metaphors for the benefit of your diminished comprehension,’ the boy spat back, ‘not so we can waste time. We have to go after the renegade … the longface.’

‘They’re out at sea,’ Lenk muttered. ‘We don’t know where.’

‘We will shortly,’ Denaos replied.

Before anyone could ask, the rogue slipped behind a nearby bone and returned, shoving what appeared to be a walking, bound, bruised melon before him. Togu did not raise his head, his yellow eyes cast down. Shame, Lenk thought, or perhaps just out of a sense of protection as Denaos drew his loincloth-turned-garrotte tightly between his hands and looked to Lenk for approval.

‘No,’ Lenk said, sighing. ‘We’ve got to find out what he knows first. The sea is a vast place, his ship could be anywhere and—’

‘Two leagues that way,’ Dreadaeleon interrupted, pointing out over the shore.

‘Huh?’

‘He leaks magic,’ the boy replied. ‘He’s a skunk in linens to me.’

‘Oh.’ Lenk glanced over at Denaos and shrugged. ‘Go nuts, then.’

‘STOP!’

The Gonwa chased his own voice, emerging from the gloom before Denaos’ wrists could even twitch. They regarded him as warily as he did they, though he seemed to be under no delusions that the sharpened stick in his hand was any match for the bloodied sword in Lenk’s. Still, his eyes carried a suspicious forthrightness that Lenk instantly recalled.

‘Hongwe,’ he muttered the creature’s name. ‘If you’re here to finish the betrayal …’

‘He’s not,’ Gariath grunted.

‘I’d believe that if anyone else had said it,’ Denaos replied.

‘What makes you so sure?’ Dreadaeleon asked, quirking a brow.

‘I know,’ the dragonman said.

‘The Rhega speaks the truth, cousins,’ Hongwe said softly. ‘I am no friend to the longface.’ He gestured to Togu. ‘And neither is Togu.’

‘He sold us to them,’ Denaos growled.

‘For survival,’ Hongwe replied sharply. ‘He had choices … He made the wrong one.’

‘How is this not reason enough to kill him again?’

‘Because I can’t watch him die,’ Hongwe replied, ‘and don’t ask me to look away. Togu saved the lives of me and my people. I trusted him, and if you want my help, I ask you to spare him.’

‘What help?’ Denaos asked, sneering. ‘We know where the ship is. We’ve now got our weapons back as well as our monster – no offence, Gariath – so the only thing lacking is a loose end which I’ve already tied up and am about to strangle with my loincloth.’

Hongwe shrugged. ‘You got no boat.’

‘He has a point,’ Dreadaeleon replied, eyeing Denaos. ‘What do you care, anyway? Death is nearly assured. Not really your ideal situation, is it?’

‘Prepubescent men in loincloths,’ Denaos replied, ‘are in a universally poor position to choose their help.’

‘Postpubescent.’

‘So you say.’

‘Shut up, shut up, shut up,’ Lenk snarled. He whirled a scowl upon Hongwe. ‘You can get us to the ship?’ At the Gonwa’s nod, he looked to Gariath. ‘You coming?’

‘People will die,’ Gariath replied.

‘They will.’

‘Then yes.’

‘Great, fantastic, good,’ Lenk muttered, waving an arm about in swift instruction. ‘Get the boat. Get ready. We sweep in, start killing, hopefully come out of this all right.’

‘That’s a plan?’ Denaos asked. ‘Not to prove the boy’s point, but a fire-leaking wizard is something to take a moment about in regards to how we’re going to attack this.’

‘Faith fades, steel shatters, bodies decay,’ Lenk replied, hurrying to the palanquin. ‘Duty remains.’

‘What does that even mean?’

‘Khetashe, I don’t know, you stupid protuberance! Just shut up and help me get my pants on,’ he snarled, tearing through the palanquin’s array. ‘If I’m about to go charging onto a ship brimming with purple psychopaths who worship someone who leaks fire, I’m not doing it with my balls hanging out.’

‘That’s a good first step, at least,’ Dreadaeleon replied. ‘What next?’

Lenk’s fingers brushed against something thick and soft. He plucked the severed head from the assorted tribute, holding it by its golden locks and staring into its almost serene, closed eyes.

‘I’ll think of something,’ he said softly.