‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘Strain,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘Magical strain.’
‘Bird magic, Denaos said.’
‘Bird magic,’ Dreadaeleon said, all but spitting. ‘Of course. It’s nothing so marvellous as seizing control of another living thing’s brain functions. It’s bird magic. What would he know?’ He found himself glaring without willing it, the words hissing through his teeth. ‘What would you know?’
‘Dread …’ She recoiled, as though struck.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Sorry, sorry. It’s just … a headache.’
In the bowels, he added mentally, the kind that makes you explode from both ends and probably kills you if it is what you think it is. He shook his head. No, no. Calm down. Calm down.
‘Of course,’ Asper said, sighing. ‘Denaos said you’d exerted yourself.’ She offered him a weak smile. ‘I trust you won’t begrudge me if I say I’m glad you did?’
You’re probably going to develop some magical ailment where you begin defecating out your mouth and choke on your own stool and she’s glad?
‘I mean, I know it was a lot,’ she said, ‘but you did save us.’
‘Oh … right,’ he replied. ‘The ice raft. Yeah, it was … nothing.’
Nothing except the inability to stand up on your own power. Good show.
‘It’s just a shame you couldn’t save the others,’ she said. ‘Or … is that what you were doing with your bird magic?’
‘Avian scrying,’ he snapped, on the verge of a snarl before he twitched into a childish grin. ‘And … yes. Yes, I was looking for them.’
‘Did you find anything?’
‘Not yet.’
‘I suppose you wouldn’t, would you?’ She sighed, looking forlornly over the sea. ‘We were lucky to escape, ourselves. Anything left by the wreck would be devoured.’
There was something in her that caused him to tense, or rather something not there. Ordinarily, her eyes followed her voice, always a sharp little upscale at the end of each thought to suggest that she was waiting to be proven wrong, waiting for someone to refute a grim thought. If enough time passed, she would, and often did, refute herself, citing hope against the hopeless.
But such an expression was absent today, such an upscale gone from her voice. She spoke with finality; she stared without blinking. And she looked so very, very tired.
‘They … they might be out there,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t Talanas watch over them?’
‘If Talanas listened, we wouldn’t be here in the first place.’
And then, he saw it, in the seriousness of her eyes, the firm certainty in her jaw. The idealistic hope was removed from her eyes, that whimsical twinge that he was always certain indicated at least a minor form of brain damage was gone from her voice. She was a person less reliant on faith, if she had any at all anymore.
She’s stopped, he thought. She doesn’t believe in gods. Not right now, at least.
There were a number of reactions that went through his mind: congratulate her on her enlightenment, rejoice in the fact that they could finally communicate as equals or maybe just speak quietly and offer to guide her. He rejected them all; each was entirely inappropriate. And nothing, nothing, he knew, was a less appropriate reaction than the tingling he felt in his loins.
Stave it off, stave it OFF, he told himself. This is the absolutely worst possible time for that.
‘Did you … feel something?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Absolutely not,’ he squealed.
She seemed to take no notice of his outburst, instead staring off into the distance. ‘Something … like I felt back at Irontide. Hot and cold …’
He quirked a brow; she had sensed magic back then, he recalled, but many were sensitive to it without showing any other gifts. And the source at the time, a fire- and frost-spewing longface, was a bright enough beacon that even the thickest bark-neck would have sensed it.
This concerned him, though. He could feel nothing in the air, none of the fluctuating chill and heat that typically indicated a magical presence. He wondered, absently, if she might be faking it.
Her left arm tensed and she clenched at it, scratching it as though it were consumed by ants. A low whine rose in her throat, becoming an agonised whisper as she scratched fiercer and fiercer until red began to stain the sleeve of her robe.
‘Dread,’ she looked up at him, certainty replaced by horror. ‘What’s happening?’
Eight
THE NATURALIST
The crawling thing picked its way across the sand, intent on some distant goal. It had six legs, two claws, two bulbous eyes and, apparently, no visible destination. Over the bones, over the tainted earth, over the fallen, rusted weapons it crawled, eyes always ahead, eyes never moving, legs never stopping.
Surely, Sheraptus reasoned, something so small would not know where it was going. Could it even comprehend the vastness of the worlds around it? The worlds beyond its own damp sand? Perhaps it would walk forever, never knowing, never stopping.
Until, Sheraptus thought as he lifted his boot over the thing, it became aware of just how small it was.
Then it happened: a change in the wind, a fluctuation of temperature. He turned and looked into the distance.
‘There it is again,’ he muttered.
‘Hmm?’ his companion asked.
‘You don’t sense it?’
‘Magic?’
‘Nethra, yes.’
‘I am attuned to higher callings, I am afraid.’
‘So you say,’ Sheraptus said.
‘You have no reason to distrust me, do you?’
‘Not as such, no.’ His lip curled up in a sneer. ‘That provides me little comfort.’
‘What is it that troubles you, if I may ask?’
‘You may, thank you. A signature, a fleeting expenditure of strength. It’s not what you’d call “big”, but rather … pronounced. It’s a moth that flutters before the flame and disappears before I can catch it in my hands.’
‘A moth?’
‘Yes. They do fly before flame, do they not?’
‘They do.’ The Grey One That Grins smiled, baring finger-long teeth. ‘You seem to be fascinated with all things insect today.’
‘Ah, but did you not say that this thing—’ He flitted a hand to the crawler.
‘Crab.’
‘This crab. It is not an insect?’
‘It is not.’
‘It has a carapace, many legs …’
‘It does.’
‘Why is it not an insect, then?’
‘Its identity is its own, I suppose.’
Sheraptus glanced down to the sand and the tiny crab. ‘Why does it exist?’
‘Hmm?’
‘A tiny thing that moves in the same, meaningless direction as other tiny things, that looks exactly like other tiny things, but is not the same tiny thing as the others?’ He quirked a brow. ‘I have never seen such a thing.’
‘They have no such things in the Nether?’
‘None. Females are females. Males are males. Females kill. Males speak with nethra. This is how things are.’ He sighed, rolling his eyes. ‘This is what makes them so … dull.’
‘Hence our agreement.’
‘Naturally,’ Sheraptus said. He adjusted the crown on his head, felt the red stones inside it burn at his touch. ‘And while I am not ungrateful for your donations, I have some reservations.’
‘Such as?’
‘This world … I have difficulty comprehending it. The Nether is dull, of course, but it is logical. It makes sense. This one …’
‘What about it?’
‘I suppose I’m mainly concerned with everyone’s decision to do whatever they want.’
‘Expound?’
‘This is supposedly an island of death, yes?’
‘The war between Ulbecetonth’s brood and the House of the Vanquishing Trinity left the land scarred. The taint of death is embroiled in its very earth. Nothing pure grows here. Nothing pure lives here.’
‘I believe you said, originally, that nothing lived here, period.’
‘Did I?’ The Grey One That Grins smiled. ‘It likely seemed more dramatic at the time, the better to catch your interest. Apologies for the deception.’
‘Please, think nothing of it. My interest is certainly caught. But as we see, things do live here.’ He glanced down the beach. ‘Or did, anyway.’
The earth there was a place of deeper death than even the ruinous battlefield of the beach could match. The earth was seared black, still smoking in places. Mingled amongst the burned earth were shapes consisting of two arms and two legs, their bodies twisted into ash that flaked off with each stray gust of wind. They were scarcely distinct from the blackened earth, let alone as Those Green Things they had started life as.
‘Truth be told, they are among the source of my worries.’
‘Go on.’
‘They came down. They attacked me.’
‘You were on their land.’
‘Their land that nothing lives on.’
‘It was still theirs.’
‘But why? Why bother over such a land? Would it not make more sense to depart to a place where life persists?’
‘If you’ll recall, and I mean no disrespect in reminding you, they did have such a land. You repurposed it.’
‘Your generosity is obliged, but I take no offence in the common term.’ Sheraptus shrugged. ‘The netherlings required their land. We took it.’
‘And why did you take it?’
‘Because we are strong. They are weak. Why did they not simply flee from us?’
‘Ah, I begin to see your puzzlement. May I pose a theory?’
‘By all means.’
‘The term you seek is “symbiosis”.’
‘Sym … bi … osis,’ he sounded it out. A smile of jagged teeth creased his purple lips. ‘I like that word. What does it mean?’
‘It is the condition in which, through mutual cooperation, one life-form supports another.’
‘Ah, now I am further confused. You’ll have to pardon me.’
‘Not at all. Consider them …’ The Grey One That Grins gestured to the burned corpses.
‘Those Green Things,’ Sheraptus said, nodding. ‘Well, not so green anymore. What of them?’
‘They did not abandon their land until they had no choice, because to abandon their land would mean their death. They cultivate the land, feed their trees, guard their waters. In return, the land provides them with fruit and fish to feed off of.’
‘Mm,’ Sheraptus hummed. ‘One almost feels poorly for what we did to them.’
‘Almost?’
‘As I said, we required their land if we are to return your generous contributions.’
‘Please, don’t make any mistake. The Martyr Stones are our gift to you.’ His companion gestured to the crown. ‘You have used them wisely thus far. We trust that you will use them wisely in days to come.’
‘Trust …’ Sheraptus gazed skyward for a moment, his milk-white, pupilless eyes lighting up. ‘Ah. I believe I understand. Do you mind if I theorise?’
‘Oh, please do.’
‘Symbiosis is what you believe us to be. You give us these stones, you lead us to this new green world and in return …’
‘Go on.’
‘We kill the underscum. This … Kraken Queen of yours.’
‘You seem to grasp it quite well.’
‘Yet I remain puzzled.’
‘Oh?’
‘Indeed. I am told there is a bigger, vaster world beyond these chunks of sand floating in this … it’s called an ocean?’
‘It is and there are.’
‘A bigger, vaster world filled with more beasts, more birds, more trees and more people and all their vast multitudes of invisible sky-people.’
‘Gods.’
‘Another word for “stupid”.’
‘Agreed.’
‘And there are …’ He looked to his companion, smirked. ‘Females there?’
‘Many.’
‘Then why are Sheraptus and Arkklan Kaharn here on this desolate place? Why are we not out and learning more of this world?’
‘I did request your presence here.’
‘Ah. I suppose the question then becomes, why are we listening to you?’
His vision was painted red as the nethra surged through him. Crimson light leaked from his eyes, painting his companion as a dark blob against the ruby haze. The Martyr Stones in his crown blazed, the black iron they were set in growing warm with their response.
It had been the last sight Those Green Things had seen before they were reduced to ash. They had shrieked in their language, tried to crawl over each other to escape. The Grey One That Grins did not try to escape, though. The Grey One That Grins never moved unless he had to.
He thought he didn’t have to move.
Sheraptus made people move.
Sheraptus was not pleased.
‘Ah, but how would you make this world work for you?’
‘I’d find a way.’
‘You did not find a way to reach this world. It was our searching that discovered the Nether before we found heaven.’
‘Heaven does not exist.’
‘Many suspect it does.’
‘Then they are weak.’
‘Weakness rules this world, Sheraptus. They believe in things that they themselves do not understand. You cannot hope to understand it, either. Not without us.’
‘And what do you provide?’ Sheraptus asked, narrowing his fiery stare. ‘You send us on errands against the underscum. They are weak. The females hunger for greater fights.’
‘You suggested that they were dull for their hunger.’