Black Halo

Thirty-One

SUBTLETY IS FOR THE DEAD



I was supposed to have given this up …

There was no doubt in his step as he darted low under a wild swing from a purple arm, shoving his blade up into purple skin, stared up into a purple face. The light leaked out of her white eyes in swift order, the last moments of her life spent spewing a blood-slurred curse from her teeth before she collapsed to the deck of the ship.

Wasn’t I?

‘Unique circumstances.’

He felt his hands driven of their own accord, twisting the blade inside her to extinguish the last sparks.

You’re not supposed to be so chatty, either.

‘You’re supposed to deny us more powerfully.’

And yet …

‘Clarity is a wonderful thing. Behind you.’

‘QAI ZHOTH!’

He whirled and saw the pair of longfaces charging. While he might not have heard Dreadaeleon’s arcane verse over their war cry, he certainly heard the roaring crackle of fire that followed. A great red plume preceded the boy like a herald as he strode forward, arm outstretched to sweep his fiery harbinger over the pair. They writhed, shrieking as they attempted to press forward, then fall back, before they simply fell, blackened and smoking.

‘Nice work,’ Lenk remarked.

‘Well, I do it all for your approval,’ Dreadaeleon replied, panting. ‘This wasn’t a good idea. I’m strong enough to do that, but not for much longer. Not without …’ He glanced at Lenk, then grunted. ‘We should have opted for another strategy.’

‘The other strategy was to leave Kat and Asper to die.’

‘We could have tried something else. Subtlety, perhaps.’

‘We are a pubescent magic-spewing freak, a man with a disembodied screaming head and four hundred pounds of angry reptile. What about that suggests “subtlety” to you?’

A thunder of boots rumbled through the ship’s black hull; alien war cries rose through the planks of the deck. At the bow of the ship, the purple shapes of the netherlings began to emerge from the shadows of a companionway.

The shriek that met theirs was shrill and terrified.

A green shape came hurtling over Lenk’s shoulder like a scaly meteor, colliding with the lead longface with a resounding cracking sound. She collapsed into her companions as Togu, bound and squealing, rebounded from her chest and rolled along the deck.

Lenk had wondered why Gariath had insisted on bringing him along up until now.

Gariath followed, charged on all fours, complementing Togu’s strike with one from his own horns. He struck the longface’s purple torso, rose to his feet and continued to press her back into her fellows, choking their rush in the companionway’s darkened throat.

‘Five hundred pounds, maybe. He’s looking healthy today,’ Lenk said, cringing at the flurry of claws and teeth and noting the wisdom in keeping his distance. ‘Subtlety is where Denaos comes in.’

‘Pointless,’ Dreadaeleon muttered. ‘The moment the heretic even looks at him sideways, he’s dead and we’ll follow. Did you not see what he can do? What he did?’

‘I saw,’ Lenk replied. ‘If I was duly frightened of everything that makes you faint, however, I’d never get anything done. This is the only chance we have.’ He shoved the boy forward. ‘Now, do something useful.’

The boy’s eyes narrowed and, whether because of Lenk’s command or in spite of it, blossomed with crimson light. He swept his hands toward the companionway, the fire in his palms blooming with the murmur from his mouth. He placed them both upon the deck and, with a resounding word, sent serpentine flame racing to meet in the companionway and erect a wall of crackling orange to segregate the dragonman and the netherlings.

Gariath stared at the sudden obstacle with undue contemplation, as though wondering whether to leap through the fire and continue the assault or perhaps just break Dreadaeleon’s hands to bring it down first.

Lenk was more prepared for either of those than to see the dragonman reach down, scoop up Togu’s bound form, and drag him back with unnerving patience. At Lenk’s apparent surprise, he shrugged.

‘I’ve killed a lot so far,’ he said. ‘I can wait for a few more.’

‘The point is not to kill them,’ Lenk replied, ‘but to distract them until Denaos can do what he needs to.’ He glanced over the edge of the ship. ‘Then we leap off, reunite with Hongwe and paddle off before anyone can kill us.’ He glanced to Togu, wide-eyed and squealing behind a gag. ‘What’d you bring him for, anyway?’

‘He caused this, as you say. He should see it to the end,’ the dragonman replied. ‘The end being that you all die, of course.’

‘Not you?’

‘Not yet.’

‘You seem in good spirits. How have you been, anyway?’

‘Not dead yet.’

‘Nor us.’

‘Yet.’

‘Right, yet. It’s a bit strange to see you so enthusiastic.’

‘I could leave, if you want.’

‘Not yet.’

Gariath said nothing in reply, sweeping his gaze up and down the ship. Aside from Dreadaeleon’s murmuring chant holding the flames up and the netherlings back, the deck was quiet from companionway to the looming cabin at the ship’s stern.

‘And you’re waiting for what?’

It happened in an instant. Sound died, wary of being heard. Clouds covered the moon, terrified to be seen. Pressure settled over the deck as the sky sank low and tried to hide beneath the sea.

‘That,’ Lenk whispered.

Dreadaeleon’s voice was choked from him, his chant and the flames it conjured extinguished in an instant. The netherlings emerged from the companionway slowly, all their bloodlust and hatred still present in their white stares, but restrained behind shields and nocked arrows.

Keeping baleful stares on the companions as they defensively backed up against the ship’s great mast, the netherlings filed out silently, uttering no more than a curse or growl as they took positions, surrounding their prey, but making no move to raise blade or draw bow. The yearning to do so was frighteningly plain on their faces, but they were restrained by some unheard command, a cautious calm settling over them that Lenk found unsettling.

He had seen this before.

‘Can I help you?’ a voice, deep and rolling, bade Lenk to turn.

Against the purple pillars of muscle and iron that flanked him, the longface didn’t look too imposing at a glance. It didn’t take long for Lenk to become reacquainted with the eyes ablaze and the halo of black iron wrapped about Sheraptus’ brow, however. It took even less time for him to raise his sword cautiously and slip a hand to his belt and the burlap sack hanging from it.

‘If he’s got only one arm,’ Gariath whispered, ‘that will keep him busy, right?’

‘Yes, but—’

The dragonman didn’t wait. Hurling Togu at the long-face, he howled and fell to all fours, charging after the squealing green projectile. The females made no movement to intervene as Sheraptus lifted a hand and casually waved it.

The air quivered with force. A gale unseen and unheard spawned from nothingness and swept over the deck, striking both Togu and Gariath from sky and deck alike and sending them hurtling over the ship. Lenk stared in astonishment as his companions’ roar ended in a brief splash. Sheraptus didn’t spare nearly as much shock, glancing disinterestedly over the ship’s edge and then back to Lenk.

‘Well?’ he asked. A moment later, recognition dawned on his face. ‘Oh, it’s you. Still alive?’

Lenk nodded weakly, only just beginning to pull himself from his shock.

‘I assume my females are dead, then?’

Another nod. Sheraptus regarded them carefully before canting his head to the side.

‘And?’

Lenk recoiled, having expected nearly any other response.

‘And … what?’ he asked.

‘Did you need something else?’

‘What? We …’ He shook the confusion from his face, replaced it with as steely a resolve as he could manage. ‘We came for our friends.’

‘That hardly seems fair,’ Sheraptus said, looking offended.

‘Fair?’ Lenk asked, the incredulity of the statement shocking him into inaction.

‘I left close to two fists of females on the beach and you killed them all,’ Sheraptus said before gesturing to the deck. ‘You killed three more here and who knows how many more in Irontide.’ He frowned. ‘I take two of yours and you come onto my ship and make such a ruckus as to draw me out of enjoying them?’

‘Of … of course we did.’

‘Fascinating. Why?’

‘Because …’ Lenk blinked, his face screwing up. ‘What?’

‘Kindly don’t live up to your stereotype. You know exactly what I mean. To have come here, you would have to be led here, thusly you knew what awaited you. It would have been more pragmatic to flee … yet you came here, into a ship brimming with my warriors under my limitless control, into certain death. For what? Two females? You could have found more somewhere else.’

Kataria, he thought.

‘Duty,’ the voice insisted.

‘What is it you hoped to accomplish, then?’ Sheraptus asked.

‘Realistically?’ Lenk replied.

‘Of course.’

The young man shrugged, seeing no particular point in lying. ‘The idea was to keep you busy until the other fellow who was with us could sneak into your cabin and escape with the females.’

Sheraptus nodded, seeing no particular point in reacting. ‘And ideally?’

‘Kill you and render the rest of the situation something akin to making gravy.’

‘I apologise to say that the metaphor is lost, though I grasp the meaning,’ Sheraptus sighed. ‘No matter how lofty the goals, no matter how staunch the ideal, it always ends in base instinct: eat, breed, die. It’s so …’ He glanced at a nearby female and frowned. ‘The sole difference between you and them is that you try so hard to deny it.’

He waved his hand. Bows creaked, arrows levelled at the companions as his eyes smouldered with burning contempt.

‘I’m not sure there’s anything to be learned from you, sadly.’

‘Now,’ the voice said inside Lenk’s head. ‘NOW!’

Lenk’s hand slipped into the burlap sack, fingers wrapping around thick locks as he pulled the object within free. Strings sang, arrows flew as he held the severed head aloft and spoke a word.

‘Scream.’

And it obeyed.

The air shuddered in an explosion of sound as the mouth found a macabre life and sprang open, eyes flaring with golden awareness. The arrows found no soft flesh, but a wall of noise that shuddered out of him and tore the air apart, sending the missiles twisting away, scattered like rats before a flood.

With a shriek unheard, Dreadaeleon hurled himself to the deck as Lenk turned, levelling the head and the quavering wail tearing itself free from its mouth towards the surrounding longfaces. In great waves, it swept over them. Hands were clenched to bleeding ears, shields rose in futile defence, the truly unprepared were sent sprawling over the railings, their screams lost in the shrieking onslaught.

Unable to bear it any longer himself, he lowered the head. His ears rang; his heart throbbed as the echoes of the shrieking lingered in the sky on distant, fading thunder. Dreadaeleon rose on shaking legs, breathing heavily. The longfaces rose not at all as they groaned and bled on the deck.

All save one.

‘You didn’t mention that in your plan, I note,’ Sheraptus said, twisting his little finger inside his ear.

‘Surprise?’

‘You are adorable.’

Sheraptus flung his hand out, the wave of force rippling from his fingertips to strike Lenk and hurl him towards the mast. He struck it with an angry cracking sound, letting out a breathless cry before he collapsed, unmoving.

As Dreadaeleon stared at his companion’s unconscious body, he began to feel it. His breath sought to flee his lungs, his eyes his head, his legs out from under him, regardless of whether or not the rest of him decided to come. It was painfully familiar: the same sensation that had driven him into darkness a week ago, rendered him helpless only an hour before, showed him to be nothing more than an impotent weakling …

In front of Asper, he added mentally, twice.

He felt it now – that sensation of power, that great light that never extinguished, that unnatural presence that made nature go still. He felt the burning stare, from eyes and stones alike, and knew that the curiosity behind it was all that kept him conscious at the moment.

‘Little moth?’ Sheraptus asked, a smile tugging at his lips. ‘I thought that might be you. Apologies, between the screaming and the distraction, I hardly noticed you.’

‘Don’t talk to me,’ Dreadaeleon hissed, painfully aware of his breaking voice.

‘That would make me a terrible host.’

‘You’re a heretic, a renegade,’ the boy snarled. ‘You disregard the laws of magic, the laws of the Venarium. You will be stopped.’

Sheraptus stared at him for a moment. ‘By you?’ He held up a hand. ‘No … no, don’t answer that. Don’t even think about it, if you can help it. The strain might put you under. Again.’

‘That last time, you … you cheated,’ Dreadaeleon growled. ‘Somehow, I don’t know. That’s why you have to be stopped.’

‘I have to be stopped because you don’t understand how I did it? How will you ever learn?’

‘Shut up,’ Dreadaeleon snarled.

His voice came with all the conviction of a constipated cow, the pressure around him threatening to shatter his jaw. Breath came harder; standing came with great difficulty. But he still breathed. He still stood. He forced his fingers straight, levelled them at Sheraptus. He forced his eyes open through the sweat dripping down his face. He forced the words to a mind that sought to shut itself down, into lips that sought to seal themselves shut. Electricity, however faint, danced in blue sparks on his fingertips.

‘Really?’ Sheraptus asked, levelling fingers of his own. ‘You know how this will end.’

‘I do,’ the boy grunted.

‘You want to go ahead with it?’

‘I do.’

‘For your … Venarium?’

‘Not them.’

Sheraptus glanced over his shoulder, towards his cabin, and smiled. ‘Ah, I see. The tall one?’

‘If you touched her …’

‘I did,’ he said, turning his smile upon the boy. ‘There’s more to her than you could know, little moth. There’s more I will learn from her. And I will do it slowly.’

It was a scream that tore itself from Dreadaeleon’s lips: unfocused, angry, wild. The electricity that launched from his fingers was no different, snaking out in a wild, twisting tongue. It was only the sheer inaccuracy of his aim that allowed the sparks to fly past a purple hand meant to ward it off and lash against a shoulder.

The longface hissed and recoiled. It had done no damage that Dreadaeleon could see: barely anything more than a black mark, barely visible against the longface’s ebon robe. He supposed it was the indignity of the blow, an electric slap in the face, that caused Sheraptus’ visage to screw up in fury, his eyes to become two angry miniature suns.

‘Pity,’ he hissed as he raised a hand and levelled it at the boy, ‘that she didn’t see that.’

It occurred to Dreadaeleon that such a blow shouldn’t feel quite as satisfying as it did. Even if it had done any discernible damage, his victory was dampened by the groans heralding the rise of the netherlings.

Slowly, shaking blood from their ears, grinding curses between their teeth, those remaining staggered to their feet with murder in their eyes. His companions remained lost to unconsciousness and the sea respectively. Sheraptus’ fingers began to crackle with blue sparks just as his eyes went alight with red.

He was going to die, Dreadaeleon realised. And all he had done was sully a robe a little.

Still, he thought with a smile, considering he had been in a coma induced by the man’s stare alone just moments ago, this didn’t feel like such a bad note to end on.

His only concern was why it was taking so long.

Sheraptus’ face twitched, neck jerked, as though a gnat were buzzing in his ear every moment he thought to discharge the lethal electricity and reduce Dreadaeleon to a smouldering husk. That same buzzing lingered in the boy’s head, too annoying to allow him to feel fear or a need for flight. It chilled him, burned him, alternating and intensifying with each breath.

Even before he felt the shadow sail over the deck, he recognised the presence of another wizard.

That hardly kept his jaw from going slack as his eyes rose to the sky, followed by a dozen wide whites and two narrowed orange slits. The presence of the newcomer felt an anathema to Sheraptus’ power, bidding the seas to churn and the moon to peer out from behind the clouds and shed light on him.

Beneath a broad-brimmed hat, a pair of hard eyes stared down at the deck from high in the sky. A coat fanned out into leathery wings behind a tall and slender body, flapping to keep him gracefully aloft above the carnage on the deck. At his hip hung a dense tome supported by a silver chain, its cover marked with a sigil of authority.

A sigil of the Venarium.

‘Oh, hell,’ Dreadaeleon whispered, ‘a Librarian.’

‘It’s quite rude to come announcing yourself with that particular presence, sir,’ Sheraptus snarled to the man. ‘Come down and let us speak without you buzzing in my head.’

Not possible, Dreadaeleon recognised. The power roiling from the Librarian was faint, but constant, worn like the easy mantle of authority that settled about his features. It was a power that came from no crown or stone, but from years of practice and merciless discipline.

‘Bralston,’ the man spoke by way of callous introduction. ‘Librarian under the authority of Lector Annis of the Cier’Djaal Venarium branch, unlimited jurisdiction, all treaties foregone, lethal force authorised and pre-absolved.’ His eyes ran over the scene with cool surveillance. ‘I have come seeking a violator of the laws of Venarie. A heretic.’

His gaze shifted from the sweaty boy in a filthy coat before settling on the purple creature with electricity dancing effortlessly on his fingers and the fire burning on his brow and in his eyes. Sheraptus recoiled, offended.

‘What makes you so sure it’s me?’ he asked.

‘Violators are offered a singular chance for absolution,’ Bralston said, descending to the deck. ‘Surrender your body for research and your crimes will be considered absolved.’

‘No one,’ a nearby netherling snarled, stalking to impose herself between Sheraptus and the Librarian, ‘speaks to the Master like—’

‘Offered and declined. Noted.’

With one smooth movement, Bralston doffed his hat and uttered a word before tossing it gently at the longface. The steel ring within instantly sprouted several glistening thorns that gnashed together with harsh, grating noise. It caught the netherling in the face, her screams muffled behind the leather as its brim wrapped about her head and the headgear’s teeth began to noisily chew.

‘Carnivorous hat,’ Sheraptus noted as the female staggered off, clawing at the garment. ‘Impressive.’

‘Librarian!’ Dreadaeleon called out, finding his nerve and voice at once. ‘Wait!’

‘All involved parties will be questioned pending execution,’ Bralston replied, his eyes burning with crimson as he extended an arm glistening with flame.

‘I recognised two of those words,’ Sheraptus said, matching the Librarian’s burning gaze and hand alike. ‘Oh, my friend, I have so much to learn from you.’