But he had not come to survey the damage; there were always more warriors. Rather, he had come seeking something else.
What it was, he wasn’t entirely sure. Why he felt drawn to it, he was only barely certain. That made his ire rise.
But it was here, amidst a rotting feast uneaten.
And so he slipped across the floor, searching. In the stagnant pools of water that remained, in the flock of the crushed and beaten and drained of blood, he found something.
Not what he was looking for.
Cahulus. Male. Once, a loyal and devoted member of his inner circle, brother to the other two loyal and devoted members. Once, reckless with his nethra, hurling fire and spewing ice with whimsical abandon. Once, in command of the warriors sent to take this fortress.
Now, dead. The gemstone he once wore, like the three set in Sheraptus’s own crown, was gone.
Dead. With eyes sunken into rotted flesh, with a dried torrent of blood staining his filthy and salt-stained robes, with his lower jaw lying eight feet away from his face.
Dead.
Like the rest of them.
Like the ones back on his ship that was now at the bottom of the ocean.
The ship from which he had escaped. The ship he had survived. And they hadn’t.
“Good afternoon.”
The Gray One That Grins spoke clearly, as always. His voice was soft and lilting, bass and clear; music that slid easily out between teeth as long as fingers. His voice did not echo; music that Irontide did not want to hear.
He turned to regard his companion. Thin and squatting upon long, slender limbs, the light of the sinking afternoon sun painted him black against the gaping hole that wounded Irontide’s granite walls. His namesake teeth remained starkly visible.
“It is afternoon, isn’t it,” Sheraptus observed. “It was morning when I came here.”
“Apologies. It was not my intent to keep you waiting.”
“Accepted, with full gratitude, of course.”
Sheraptus never had cause to cringe before. Hearing his own voice, echoed a thousand times and welcomed into the deathly halls, was certainly a poor cause to have now.
The Gray One That Grins tilted his head. “Your voice betrays discomfort. Pardon the observation.”
“And your notice compounds it,” Sheraptus muttered, waving a hand. “Apologies. It’s this place. It reeks of death.”
His associate tilted his head again, thoughtful. “I suppose it might. I really hadn’t noticed.”
Sheraptus glanced down at Cahulus, who looked like he found that hard to believe. Then again, it was hard to gauge the expressions of a man with half a face.
“Oh,” the Gray One That Grins said. “You look and see the corpses.”
“There are so many of them.”
“I had thought such things would not perturb you.”
“I merely see them.”
“Ah. The issue is, at last, uncovered.”
“Surely, you are not blind to them.”
“A lack of sight, fore or current, has never been attributed to me. Rather, I see somewhere else when I look upon these halls. I see somewhere long ago, somewhere much more preferable.”
He rose, suddenly no longer squat, but frighteningly tall. He became more so as he straightened his back with the sound of a dozen vertebrae cracking into place, a sickening eternity between each. Upon spindly shadows for legs, he walked down the hall.
“This was where the tapestry walked,” he said. “A long and decadent thing of many names and deeds, each one exaggerated as a tapestry should be. It walked between pillars, each one carved from marble in the shape of a virgin, holding flame in hands unscarred.”
Sheraptus found himself watching the space where the Gray One That Grins had just been, or where he was about to walk. Never did he look at those long, thin legs. Never did he even think about looking higher.
“That’s where it ended.” A long sliver of a finger pointed at the far wall. “That’s where the altar lay. That’s where I knelt in prayer, side by side with the woman that would come to be called Mother.”
“I misunderstand or you misremember,” Sheraptus said. “I was told this was a stronghold for overscum. Pirates, like the ones that allied themselves with our foe.”
“It was. After that, it was a house of prayer for that Mother again. Before that, it was a house of war for those who drove her from it. Irontide is but one more meaningless name. It has existed in a cycle: worship, then slaughter, on and off since its creation.”
Sheraptus looked to Cahulus. Then to the frogman beside him, the thing’s ivory skin stained pink with the rotting bundle of intestines split so neatly from its belly. Then to the netherling who still held the blade, even as the fragmented cord of her spine jutted from the shredded purple of her back.
“And now, a house of charnel.”
“There will be more. Possibly this one again. Such is their nature.”
“Demons?”
“Demons.” The Gray One That Grins’s laugh was less pleasant this time. “It is not a demon’s nature to destroy, but to reclaim. For them, it is a choice. The same is not said with any great conviction for humans.”
“Humans?”
“Humans.”
“The lack of specificity is dreadfully unhelpful.”
“Specificity?”
“Just learned it.”
“It is impressive.”
“Thank you.”
“You are welcome.” The Gray One That Grins tilted his head to the side, settled down on his haunches. “As to your complaint. . how many humans do you know?”
Sheraptus looked again to the corpses for as long as he could stand. When he looked back to his associate, seated in merciful shadow, his face wore disgust and disbelief on either side.
“They did not kill this many.”
“Your warriors and demons killed each other, true. The humans did not kill this many.” His voice dropped. “But they have killed many.”
Many.
Sheraptus turned the word over in his head, contemplated every quantity that could bear such a title. How many had been in Irontide that were struck down by those overscum? How many had blood spilled upon the sand by their blades? How many had the humans sent to the bottom of the ocean when the ship was destroyed?
The answer was simple, and grim.
“But not me,” Sheraptus whispered.
“Pardon?”
“I survived.”
“You are possessed of immense power, as well as the Martyr Stones to fuel it and the confidence to wield it.” The Gray One That Grins’s voice dropped. “Your surprise at your own survival. . concerns. As does your inability to deal with these humans.”
“You doubt me?” Sheraptus imagined the threat might have sounded more forceful if he could bear to face the creature.
“Apologies for dancing around the issue, but. . my associates are concerned. They have insisted upon moving forward with your assault.”
“We have been gathering the forces necessary for pressing the attack. All our information suggests Jaga is not a place to be traipsed into with a few fists of warriors.”
“Information?”
“Specifically, the kind of information that comes from sending thirty warriors out and finding pieces of them washing up on shore days later. We don’t even know where the island lies, much less how many reptiles infest it or how well it’s defended.”
“Hence part of the reason for my insisting upon this meeting.” The Gray One That Grins swept a glance about the ruined halls. “Your insistence on meeting here, though, comes as a surprise.”
“It is difficult to explain.”
“To a man that cannot see the field of corpses before him for his seeing the past behind him?”
Sheraptus clicked his tongue. “I suppose I felt. . called here.”
“Called.”
His voice was darkening with each moment. Sheraptus had never felt a twinge creep up his spine at that. Then again, he considered, his associate’s voice had never been anything but music before.