When the talons broke his skin, Steven struck with a fiery current. ‘No you don’t,’ he said, grabbing the demon’s wrist. ‘I just needed you to stand still for a second – and now you’re fucked.’
Paralysed, the tan-bak gaped, unable to kill the annoying creature and unable to break free. It couldn’t change form, or breathe, nor could it summon the strength or the speed to retaliate. The tan-bak, one of the most dangerous and powerful creatures to haunt the Fold, was frozen in space and time – two of its favourite killing fields.
Gilmour had been watching. ‘You all right?’ he asked, sounding strained.
‘Fine, you?’
‘I’m afraid we lost Kanthil.’
‘Sorry about that,’ Steven said. ‘It took me a bit of time to come up with this.’
‘How are you holding her still like that?’
‘Remember the almor, and how surprised I was that a demon would be made of actual, physical flesh? I was gambling that this thing would be the same. I figured that unless Mark dropped this sonofabitch right on the deck, it either flew here or swam here – but I don’t see any fins, feathers or gills on it now, do you?’
‘No,’ Gilmour said, peering more closely at the demon.
‘Exactly,’ Steven went on. ‘So judging from the way it was leaping about, and from how quickly it caught up with us after I kicked it off the ship, I guessed it must have some way of adjusting to its environment, and doing it in a hurry.’ The monster was limp in Steven’s hand. ‘By the way, why do you keep calling it her?’
‘It’s a tan-bak,’ Gilmour whispered.
‘A what?’ Garec had joined them, leaving the others to tend to Marrin.
‘Tan-bak. It’s a legend. Tan-bak and tan-bek are creatures that haunt the nether regions of the Fold. The tan-bak, the female, is the hunter.’
‘So you’ve known about these things and you failed to mention them?’ Steven said, sweating, but forcing a smile. ‘I’ve been here over five months, Gilmour, and you’re just mentioning them now?’
‘Sorry.’
‘I guess I was right, though,’ Steven said. ‘It was a lucky guess, but I figured if it was made of flesh, then I could paralyse it with a direct current.’
‘How’s that?’ Garec came a bit closer, still holding his bow.
‘As close as I can get to lightning,’ Steven said. ‘It’s a way to paralyse muscle; I hoped it would work with any kind of muscle.’
‘What do we do with it now? Can we kill it?’
‘Actually, we can,’ Steven said, ‘but I’m betting Mark will know if we do, so we have to keep it alive, but also keep it from following us or attacking again later on.’
‘Oh, grand,’ Garec sighed. ‘And I thought this would be a tough one.’
Gilmour raised an eyebrow. ‘So?’
‘This is another gamble, but if I’m right, this thing has an astonishingly advanced brain and nervous system. It can change its physical features with a thought, or just a few moments’ exposure to a new environment. So we pith this bitch like a frog and we toss her over the side. She’ll sprout gills without trying, and she’ll float around out there for a few days, unable to think enough to grow webbing and swim, or even if she does grow webbing, she won’t know what to do with it. She won’t have any idea where she is or why her body is keeping itself alive. Eventually, she’ll die of exposure or starvation, or something nasty will swim along and eat her on a cracker. Best of all, Mark will still be able to find her, feel her, track her and, hopefully, not have any clue that she’s adrift on the tide without a brain.’
Garec smiled. ‘You know, Steven, your whole compassion campaign has lost some of its lustre.’
‘This is a monster,’ Steven said, ‘a killing machine. She doesn’t get compassion.’
With one finger, he felt for the base of the tan-bak’s skull and loosed a powerful arc of mystical current which lanced into the monster’s brain, killing the stem and paralysing much of the cortex. The shape-shifter spasmed, then fell limp again in Steven’s hands. He shut down the current and dumped the tan-bak’s body onto the deck. It lay in a greasy heap as the others came over to watch.
‘What now?’ Garec said.
‘Now we test it.’ Steven conjured up a small fireball, no larger than a penlight, and guided the orb in front of the tan-bak’s unnerving eyes. The pupils shrank away and Steven grinned coldly. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I think it worked. Gilmour, help me toss her over the side.’
Marrin grimaced as the two sorcerers disposed of the inanimate body. They watched her leathery flesh bob in the swells until she passed out of sight. Captain Ford, as if slapped, cried, ‘Rutting Pragans, the helm!’
The spell was broken. Everyone moved at once.
Garec and Kellin took Kanthil’s body below. Brexan, catching the captain looking at her worriedly, followed him aft and they both started shouting for Sera.
Gilmour climbed into the rigging to retrieve a large piece of Olren Tubbsward, the Morning Star’s veteran seaman.
Steven kept the lights burning long enough for the captain and his remaining crew to restore order and return the brig-sloop to her northerly course. Then, dousing the flames, he stepped alone into the bow and looked towards Pellia.
Behind him, the Morning Star found the wind and corrected her course as the much reduced crew followed Captain Ford’s orders, hauling in sheets and belaying lines until the sails filled, the lines pulled taut and cracked and the brig-sloop groaned as if waking from a deep sleep.
Below, the tan-bak’s tiny emissaries took shelter and waited.
Rob Scott Jay Gordon
The Larion Senators
CAPEHILL
Sharr Becklen huddled over one of Stalwick’s inextinguishable fires, clutching his cloak tightly around him, and shivered. It was raining again this morning; he forced a smile at a bedraggled Markus Fillin and nodded towards the sky. ‘Right on time.’
Markus ducked beneath the porous canvas tent that provided mean shelter at their guard post. He missed his family and worried about them often, especially during quiet moments, like this one. The rain, turning to sleet, wasn’t helping. Markus was young and handsome, but today his hair hung about his face in dripping strands and he looked like a warmed-over cadaver. ‘Lovely. This place goes from light grey to dark grey and back with the predictability of the tides. Bright and cheery, Sharr – and you live here?’
‘All my life,’ Sharr said, ‘and most days, I’m on the water, hauling nets or traps.’
‘In this? Markus rubbed his cramped fingers. ‘You’ve got ice in your bones, old man.’
‘Nah, it’s only dismal during this Twinmoon. Be glad this isn’t snow.’
‘Hoorah!’ Markus sniffed and asked, ‘Where’s our next meeting? Your friend, right? The harbourmaster’s mate or something?’
‘Assistant,’ Sharr nodded. ‘The harbourmaster is Malagon’s man to the core, but this fellow, Lan Hernesto, a Pragan if you believe him, has been with us all along. He makes life a bit more livable for those of us working nets or long lines offshore.’
‘Yes, well, he’s late,’ Markus said, ‘and it’s bloody cold out here. Tell me again why we aren’t meeting these people inside someplace warm and dry, like a tavern, or a nice comfy cathouse?’
‘Because we’re standing a post, Markus. Come on; this is soldiering.’
‘I thought we were officers.’
‘We’re Resistance, and that makes us full-on revolutionaries,’ Sharr said. ‘Call it Gita’s progressive leadership style.’
‘Progressive? I don’t even know what that means.’ Markus draped a blanket over a chair, then pulled the chair close to the fire. ‘Need to keep these dry,’ he mumbled, then said, ‘I don’t see her out here standing post.’
‘Markus, do you know where the occupation brigade went?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know if there is a regiment of cavalry or a fleet of naval frigates coming here to slaughter us?’
‘No.’
‘Has anyone shown us anything that leads you to believe that we’re going to live through the Twinmoon?’