Not for lack of opportunity, of course. He darted through a web of iron and curses, batting away clumsy blades, suffering the blows of those too cunning or lucky for him to avoid. Every metal favour bestowed upon him he reciprocated with claws and teeth, forcing his assailants back.
He was vaguely surprised that he could feel the many cuts on his body. He didn’t remember the longfaces being quite so strong as they had been when he first encountered them. But Irontide, and the flesh he had rent in suicidal frenzy, had been many eternities ago.
He was less aware of death this time, and so was aware of many more things as he caught an errant blade in his hand and tore it free from the offending longface’s grasp.
Pain was among them, but so, too, were the humans.
What had began as a chaos of fire and thunder on the deck had since degenerated into a chaos of fire, thunder, steel, cursing, spitting and screaming.
Arrows fell from the sky in intermittent fiery drizzles, longfaces scrambling to seek cover from them or return fire with hasty shots. Those few who simply couldn’t be bothered to hide had either sought another target or clung by their master’s side, occasionally intervening between him and a lightning bolt thrown from the dark-skinned human.
Of their sacrifice, the longface with the burning eyes took no notice, consumed wholly with his target. Whatever bemusement had been present on his face had been consumed in the vivid anger with which his eyes flared. He was no longer even making an attempt at appearing as though he was swatting a gnat. Now, he displayed the anger appropriate to a man swatting at a gnat that spewed fire and frost at him.
Those netherlings that had decided to seek easier prey had found them in the leaking weaklings pressed against the deck. Lenk refused to move, clutching his shoulder and staring quietly into nothingness, murmuring something equally stupid. The squeaky little human seemed torn between uselessly trying to get him on his feet and uselessly trying to assist the flying human, apparently by squealing and occasionally hurling something limp-wristedly at the longface.
Impotent, drained, useless and otherwise weak; they deserved to die, he knew.
What he didn’t know was why the netherlings seeking to kill them found him imposed between them. Such a thought rose to him again as he caught a rampaging blade in his palm and snarled, shoving the wielder back and meeting her grin with a scowl. After all, it wasn’t as though there weren’t bigger problems to handle.
Bigger problems with tremendous teeth.
Such a problem made itself known in a shadow that blossomed like a flower over the netherling, blackness banished by the resounding thunder of blue jaws snapping, a scream leaking out between teeth, purple legs flailing wildly as a great serpentine head swept up and shook back and forth to silence its writhing, shrieking prisoner.
No guttural roar that boiled behind its teeth could drown out the noise of flesh rending as an errant leg went flying before the rest of the sinewy mass disappeared behind fangs and down a throat.
The Akaneed, far from sated, levelled its yellow stare at Gariath. The dragonman forgot his other foes in that instant, as the great serpent seemed to forget its other meals. Their gazes went deeper into each other, curiosity turning to respect turning to anger in an instant. In each other, they saw something familiar.
In the great serpent, Gariath saw sharp teeth stained with blood, narrowed yellow slits glowing in the night. He saw in them now what he had seen a week ago, upon a beach he had intended to be his grave: hunger, hatred, an end.
To everything.
In Gariath, the Akaneed saw something distinctly different.
This was made violently clear as its neck snapped, sending gaping jaws hurtling towards him. The dragonman lunged backwards as the serpent’s snout speared the deck, shattered the wood and scattered the living and the dead.
The ship shook and groaned as the serpent tried to pull its maw free from the ship’s hull, sending combatants rolling about the deck as they struggled to keep their footing. Gariath clung to the deck, his claws embedded in wood as he swept a fervent gaze about the deck.
A good chance to escape, he noted. Lenk won’t move. The runt won’t leave. You could make them, though. They’re small, stupid. You want to protect them, don’t you? Life is precious now, right? Worth saving and all that. The snake is distracted. The longfaces are distracted. The Shen are …
Watching, he noticed, dozens of yellow eyes staring from canoes.
Waiting, he realised, their bows lowered, bodies tense.
For him, he knew, as he found a single amber eye in the throng of lizardmen and met Yaike’s gaze.
They were watching him. Waiting to see what this red thing was. Waiting to see if what they knew of Rhega was true or if they had all died long ago.
He would show them.
He rushed forward, striding over the dead, trampling the living, sliding on claws as the Akaneed pulled itself free, its jaws tinted red and brimming with shards of wood. He leapt, flapped his wings to pull him aloft and towards the creature’s snout. He fell upon it with a snarl, sinking claws into blue flesh.
In an eruption of splinters and a thunderous roar, the dragonman became an angry red tick, clinging tenaciously with claws dug firmly into the tender flesh of the creature’s nostrils as its serpentine neck twisted and writhed like a whirlwind as it struggled to dislodge this clawed, fanged parasite.
Gariath could not let that happen. His path became all the clearer as he clawed his way, arm’s length by arm’s length, up the creature’s snout, hands digging fresh wounds, feet thrust into old ones. Each time, for a moment, he knew it would be easy to let go and fly into dark water, to sink until he could see, feel, breathe no more. Each time, he continued to claw forward.
He was Rhega. They would see. They would know.
‘I haven’t met you,’ he growled to the Akaneed. ‘There was another one. I took much from him. Eyes, teeth …’ It replied with a roar and a futile attempt to shake him off. ‘You, you’re going to give me more. The fight, the blood … it means a great deal more than eyes and teeth.’ He clawed his way up to eyes which burned yellow hate. ‘Thank you.’ He drew back a fist. ‘I’m sorry.’
Through the squelch of membrane and the ensuing, wailing howl, Gariath’s first thought was that an eye was very much like a hard-boiled egg, in both texture and the way yellow crumbled into sopping goo. His second thought was for the feeling of air beneath him and the ocean rising up before him as the Akaneed threw him from its head.
He flapped furiously, found a writhing blue column as he fell and twisted himself to meet it. His claws found rubbery skin, shredding it and drawing forth red blood and echoing howls from the beast as he slid down the Akaneed’s hide, struggling to slow his fall. His hands tensed to the point of agony, claws threatening to rip from his fingers.
When he slowed to a halt, the beast had no more agony to spew forth, its roar becoming a low growl. It swayed dizzily upon the waves, fighting the pain inside it, struggling to stay awake, afloat, alive.
Gariath felt a pang of sympathy. It was only momentary, though, as he turned to face the dozens of yellow eyes fixated upon him. They were wide with appreciation … or he thought, or he wanted to think. It was so hard to see their stares at this range, swaying on the serpent’s hide, his own eyes veiled by pain and weariness.
‘I am alive,’ he cried to them, his voice hoarse. ‘The Rhega is alive. The Rhega still live.’ He slammed a fist to his chest. ‘I am alive. Look. Look at me.’ He couldn’t hear the shrill desperation in his voice, couldn’t feel the tears welling up in his eyes. ‘I am Rhega. Answer me!’ He forced the words through a choked throat. ‘Talk to me!’
They said nothing, showed nothing behind their yellow stares. One by one, the fires of their arrows were snuffed into darkness. One by one, each Shen disappeared into gloom, bodies lost among the shadows.
‘No!’ Gariath roared at them. ‘You can’t leave now! Not when I’m so close!’
They continued to wink out, ceasing to exist as their flames did, giving no sign that they heard him, or cared what he had to say. He continued to shriek at them, as though they might provide an answer, any answer, before they vanished completely.
‘How do you know the Rhega?’ he howled at them. ‘Where are they? How do you speak the language? Where are they? What happened to them?’ His voice became a whining, wailing plea. ‘WHY WON’T YOU ANSWER ME?’
They continued to say nothing, continued to disappear until all that remained was a single, flickering flame, illuminating a single yellow eye. Yaike stared, expressionless, the ruin of what had once been his eye seeming to stare far deeper, speak far louder, than his whole eye or his rasping voice.
‘Jaga, Rhega,’ he spoke. ‘Home. All that we do, we do for it.’
‘And what does a Rhega do? Tell me.’
And the last light sizzled out, cloaking the lizardman in darkness, leaving nothing but a voice on lingering wisps of smoke.
‘I am Shen.’
Gariath stared at the darkness, listening for the sound of oars dipping into water through the distant carnage of the deck and the flesh-deep groan of the Akaneed. And through it all, he could hear the voice of the grandfather, speaking with such closeness as to suggest the spirit was right next to him.
‘What does a Rhega do, Wisest?’
His answer came slowly, his eyes and voice cast into the darkness.
‘Life is precious,’ Gariath whispered. ‘A Rhega lives.’
‘Is it, Wisest?’
Gariath became distinctly aware of the two creatures alone on the ship behind him, so weak, so helpless. He had fought to defend them moments ago. He had chosen them, moments ago. He had been one of them moments ago.
Now, he was Rhega.
‘Life is precious, Wisest,’ the grandfather reminded him.
Without looking back, Gariath muttered, ‘To those who earn it.’
And then hurled himself into the water, pursuing the darkness.
Dreadaeleon couldn’t think.
Ordinarily, he would chastise himself for such a thing. He was, theoretically, the smart one and took an immense amount of pride in living up to that expectation.
Still, between the lingering crackle of electricity and the deep-throated groan of the wounded Akaneed, the stench of brimstone caked with the coppery odour of blood and the vast, vast number of corpses on the deck, he found himself hard-pressed to assign himself any blame.
His senses were overwhelmed, not merely blinded and deafened by the chaos of the deck, but struck dull in the mind. The continuous clash of magical energies of lightning, fire, frost and the occasional exploding paper crane had bathed his brain in a bright crimson light that he sought to force a thought through.
Moments ago, he had felt something else: a surge of something that he had never felt before, a bright inky black stain on the endless sheet of red. It was new, carrying a stinging, clean pain that always came attached to unknown agonies.
And yet … had he never felt this before? he wondered.
He recalled vague hints of it, here and there: errant black patches in his vision that came, agonised, and left instantly. He recalled it in Irontide before, on the beach with Asper …
Asper, he thought. I should be saving Asper, shouldn’t I? That’s what we came here to do … Where is she? What was the plan? Damn it, why can’t I think straight?
He cursed himself, despite the fact that he knew only an insane person could think straight in these conditions and Gariath had already leapt overboard. Lenk, however …
Where was he, anyway? There was something wrong with him, surely, but what had it been?
Clearly, if anything was to be done, it was going to have to be done by someone with a rational mind, keen intellect and preferably enough power to level a small ship.
Bralston, however, seemed a tad preoccupied, if the sudden shape of his cloak-clad body hurtling towards Dreadaeleon was any indication.
He darted to the side as Bralston struck the mast bodily, his form, singed and smoking, sinking to the deck. The fire in his eyes waned and flickered as he struggled to keep them and the power within them conscious.
Dreadaeleon nearly jumped when the Librarian turned them upon him.
‘Your thoughts?’ Bralston asked.
‘Run,’ Dreadaeleon said.
‘Venarium law permits no retreat.’
‘He … uh … he’s not getting tired.’
‘Confirming my hypothesis. The stones feed him.’
‘Their power can’t be limitless.’
‘They seem to be.’
‘No,’ Dreadaeleon said, shaking his head. ‘That can’t be right, I’ve seen them—’
‘Seen them what, concomitant?’
It was too late to lie, Dreadaeleon knew the instant he saw the subtle, scrutinising narrowing of the Librarian’s eye. It would have seemed a good time to tell everything about the red stone, how it drained him of his power, how it had tainted his body, how he, too, had broken the Laws by using it.
That might have been a matter to discuss when there were decidedly less flaming-eyed wizards approaching, however.
Truly, aside from an added slowness to his step, Sheraptus looked no worse for wear as he strode toward them. Of course, Dreadaeleon thought, that’s probably just how he always moves, all slow and confident, the asshole.
‘I find myself running out of things to learn about your breed,’ the longface said calmly.
Whether Bralston saw an opportunity in the longface’s easy stride, or was merely desperate and stubborn, he acted regardless. His hand whipped out, sending a paper crane fluttering from his grasp.
Even if Sheraptus hadn’t seen the movement, someone else had. A longface previously motionless upon the deck rose suddenly with a wordless cry of warning for her master. The paper crane found her, latched upon her throat and began to glow bright red, a tick gorging itself with blood. In one moment, it sizzled upon her flesh. In one more, she whimpered another meaningless phrase to Sheraptus.
