The cheer that went up at his words was enthusiastic, if muted. Sensing this, Shalake turned to seek Gariath out in the crowd. One could rarely accuse the dragon man of trying to avoid detection, and one rarely did without detecting the dragonman’s fist in their face a moment later. But Gariath looked as though he attempted to shrink into the crowd, which would be impossible even if he weren’t tremendous and the color of blood. Shalake gestured to him with his club.
“And with the Rhega leading us,” he crowed, “the first to spill blood, the last to die, we will honor all the dead! Attala Jaga! Attala Rhega! Shenko-sa!”
“SHENKO-SA!” the Shen howled, vigorous and full of life they were desperate to spill.
Gariath was silent.
While it was difficult to read the face of a man who happened to have a snout instead of a nose and largely didn’t bother to convey emotions beyond rage, Lenk had known Gariath for some time. Lenk could see the shine in his eyes grow dull, the frown tug at the corners of his mouth, the tightness with which his earfrills were held.
“Gariath,” Lenk said hesitantly, “do you. . want that?”
He looked at the young man, straight into his eyes. Possibly for the first time, Lenk thought. Because for the first time, in his brutish companion’s eyes, he could see the same doubt he had seen in Kataria’s eyes, the same doubt he felt in his own, the doubt he had thought Gariath simply didn’t feel.
“I am. .” Gariath began to speak.
“Dead.”
Not that it was entirely unwarranted, but everyone turned up to see Mahalar, hunched and stooped and breathing heavily amidst the lizardmen. There was a direness to his stare that burned straight through his cowl.
“We are all dead.”
“Well, not yet,” Lenk said, glancing over his shoulder. “They’re moving kind of slow and-”
“And you have killed us.” He leveled a finger, half-sheathed in flesh, at Lenk. “You could have ended this. You could have saved us. You could have done something if only you had listened to me.”
“I don’t-”
“You didn’t,” Mahalar spat. “You didn’t and now it’s too late.” He pointed the finger at his temple. “Have you not heard it? Have you not felt it? She’s been calling to them this entire time.” The finger shifted overhead. “And now, he has come to answer.”
They looked, as one, to the darkness broiling overhead. No longer stormclouds, they were ink stains oozing out upon a pure gray sky. Thunder groaned overhead. The clouds split open. A single drop fell from above.
It plummeted to earth and splattered across Lenk’s face. Warm. Sticky. Red.
“Blood?” he whispered.
“Daga-Mer,” Mahalar said. “The consort comes to free his queen.”
The world was a riot of sound and color. The dawn had fled at the first sign of trouble and taken its gray draining with it. Now remained the broken purple and green flesh, the bloodstained coral, the howls from the netherlings and the roars sent up to meet them.
And through that, all the cacophonies and all the dizzying miasma, they could hear it in the echo of Mahalar’s words.
Somewhere, not far away enough: a single heartbeat. Slow. Steady. Inevitable.
“We must go,” Mahalar muttered, turning around to shuffle back up the stairs, “take the tome and-”
They didn’t even hear the arrow flying before it caught Mahalar in the shoulder. The elder collapsed to his knees with a hiss as a trail of earthen substance began to leak from the wound.
They turned and saw the line of netherlings bold and black and drawing closer. The crescents of their shields locked together defensively, the jagged heads of their spears pointed out like the legs of a great, shiny beetle.
“TOH! TOH! TOH!” they chanted with every careful step, not a crack in their great, black carapace showing.
Without breaking their march, two shields would occasionally pull apart. An archer would appear in the gap, fire off an arrow that flew noiselessly to send another Shen to the stones. The gap would slam shut as Shen arrows flew in retaliation.
Shen archers assembled as warriors with shields fell back to protect them. Lenk ducked one such missile, hearing it curse his name as it sped past his ear.
“Gods damn it, whose job was it to watch those things?”
“Nevermind that,” Mahalar snarled, swatting away the aid of a nearby Shen as he staggered to his feet. “They are coming.”
“They are here, you moron,” Kataria snarled, stringing an arrow.
“Not them, not them,” Mahalar gasped, shambling up the stairs. “They are coming. He is coming.” He made a fervent gesture. “Quickly. We must take the tome away. You must protect it. Follow me.”
“Follow you?” Lenk asked. “Up the mountain to the dead end? We stand a better chance here.”
“Even if we did trust you,” Kataria added.
“There’s more room to escape here,” Denaos said, nodding. “It doesn’t make sense to-”
“Doesn’t make sense?” Mahalar whirled on them, his eyes bright with anger. “Doesn’t make sense? The sky is raining blood! There is a heartbeat in the storm! Are you so stupid as to think that the person with the least idea of what’s going on is the lizardman that bleeds earth?”
The companions fell silent, exchanged brief, nervous looks.
“I mean,” Lenk said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I think that’s a good point?”
Another arrow hummed past, narrowly clipping Denaos’s shoulder. The rogue shrieked, clutched the grazing blow. “I’m for it.”
“They’re here!” Asper cried out. “Go. Go!”
They stole glimpses over their shoulders as they hurried up the stairs, the Shen closing in defensively behind them as Mahalar barked commands in their language. They could see the netherling line grinding to a halt. They could see one of the males suddenly break off and rush to the edge of the ring. It was the flash of red flesh that caught their eyes collectively, though.
“Gariath!” Lenk cried. “Come on!”
The dragonman looked up over his shoulder. A forlorn gleam flashed in his eyes before it died, replaced by a dull, black acceptance.
“His place is with us,” Shalake called back. “He dies with us as we died with him!”
“Oh dear,” Denaos said, rolling his eyes. “The Shen are insane and Gariath’s decided to stay behind and be insane with them in an attempt to kill himself. This is so unexpected. Oh dear, oh no, oh Gods, oh well.”
He took another ten steps before he was aware that his footsteps were the only ones he heard. He flashed an incredulous grimace at the companions standing stock-still upon the steps.
“Oh, for the love of. .” He sighed, seized Dreadaeleon by the shoulder and shoved him down the steps. “Go get him.”
After the boy had staggered several steps, paused to cough violently, he glowered up at Denaos. “Why me?”
“You’re the one that has the connection with him.”
“Since when?”
“Look, now’s not the time to argue. Just go get him.”
Resentfully, Dreadaeleon wormed his way between the Shen down to Gariath at the barricade. A glance over green shoulders and he could see the netherling line halted. Their shields held fast, barely quivering under the hail of arrows sent from the Shen.
Sheraptus was still there, somewhere behind the wall of shields. He could feel it in the burning of his brow, the chill in his veins, the great pressure bearing down on him. The mere hint of the longfaced male’s presence was enough to make him feel ill, enough to send the power in him spiking in response, a moth twitching around a burning flame.