“Seen them. Everywhere. Coming.”
“Want death? Give them death. All of them.”
“Blood. So much. . blood. .”
The more he listened, the clearer they became. The clearer they became, the more he listened.
And as he did, he found his eyes drawn up to the ridge, to the naked and pale skin of a slender back that was turned to him. To long, twitching ears that couldn’t hear the voices.
The voices that grew louder when he stared at her.
“Traitors. Closing in. Kill them all.”
“They hate us. Fear us. Good reasons. Make them suffer.”
“Why do they make us hurt them? Never wanted to kill anyone. No choice.”
He waited for them to say more. He waited for them to speak just an octave higher, to speak just a little clearer, to tell him what to do to make them go away. To make this terrible pain that grew in his chest whenever he looked at her go away.
As he looked at her now. As she didn’t look at him.
And they said nothing. The light extinguished, the moths flew away on their whispers. He held his breath for fear of missing a precious word over the sound of his own exhale. Air and patience ran out as one.
“Well?” he asked.
And, in a voice that whispered into his ear with a humid breath, the wind answered.
“It won’t stop, Lenk.” It spoke, in a voice uncomfortably familiar, uncomfortably close. “Not with blood.”
He blinked.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“What,” another voice, the only one he recognized, the one with ice and hatred said, “is what supposed to mean?”
As one of the few moments of pride for a man who could describe schizophrenia as routine, Lenk had always consoled himself by saying he had never truly felt the desire to bash his own head on a rock and try to find out exactly what it was in his skull that made him think it was at all logical to hope the disembodied voices would make sense.
But he supposed everyone had bad days.
His had gotten worse once he heard that voice. That voice that had spoken to him, rather than just having spoken. That voice that spoke to him like it knew him, rather than like it could command him.
He hadn’t heard it in his head or his heart. It spoke to him like he wasn’t insane. In a voice so comfortable, so familiar, so warm that it hurt that he couldn’t hear it anymore.
And that made him want to lie down and die quietly.
But, it wasn’t the first time he had felt that way. It wasn’t the first time he had tried to ignore it, either, as he shouldered his sword and trudged up the ridge to join her.
He found Kataria where he had left her, staring out over the ridge, slowly making up curses after she had long run out of real ones.
“Bloody, reeking, skunk-slathered balls,” she spat into the air off the ridge. “Maybe the best thing to do would be to squeeze through and come out on the other side as a pile of blood and guts.”
He didn’t have to ask. The small break in the forest of coral and kelp they had found had lasted as long as it took to find the small clearing. Past that, things got more complicated.
Before them, a jagged garden grew. Red thorns twisted over themselves in their eagerness to reach the companions. Jagged yellow fans twisted out of one another, rising like razor-edged suns. Pale-blue spears jutted out in clusters like the petals of flowers grown large on blood.
In those few gaps surrounding the clearing where the coral did not grow out with vengeful sharpness, kelp rose in walls of green, swaying impassively, unmoved by Kataria’s frustration as she continued to search for a way out that didn’t involve leaving behind several pounds of flesh and blood.
“It just goes on for miles,” Lenk observed. “Makes you wonder what the point of having the Shen around is.”
“I don’t know,” she spat back, “maybe so they’ll make you stop asking questions.”
“Oh.”
“By shooting you.”
“Right.”
“In the head.”
“Yeah,” he said, “I get it.”
He spoke loudly, clearly, trying to drown out the other voices.
“Want to kill us? US?”
“Make them suffer. Make them die.”
“Gods will understand. Had no choice.”
It wasn’t working.
He opened his mouth to speak a little louder before she held up a hand to silence him, head bowing with the weight of her sigh.
“Sorry,” she said. “That came out wrong.”
“How. . how else was it supposed to come out?”
“Less. . shooty.” She waved her hand at him, turned back around. “Look, just don’t talk to me for a while. I need to figure it out.”
“Figure what out?”
“How they got through here in the first place. .”
She didn’t emphasize the word, didn’t so much as blink as she said it. All the same, his blood ran cold as he looked intently at her and asked.
“Who are ‘they’?”
She wasn’t listening. Not to him, anyway. Her ears did not twitch so much as turn on her head, sweeping slowly from side to side like her eyes. They would stop momentarily, fixed on some direction, and her head would follow. Whatever she heard, she wouldn’t tell him.
Someone else did.
“Going to kill us. Going to try.”
“Fear us. Should fear us. Will fear us.”
“Make them stop. . make them stop. .”
He resisted the urge to shake his head as he stalked away from her, noting with only mild relief that they faded the farther away he drew.
“She waits. .”
Most of them, anyway.
“She will strike soon,” the voice, his voice, spoke in cold clarity. “She bides her time. She would strike you down. He would, as well.”
“Who?”
Absorbed in his own thoughts, he only realized Gariath was standing in front of him once he collided with the dragonman’s massive winged back. The young man staggered backward, snarling at his companion.
“What the hell are you doing there?” he demanded.
“Standing in one place, waiting patiently for someone useless to bump into me so I can hear him say something annoying,” Gariath replied without turning to face Lenk. “Or maybe just resting, having just spent a day lodged in a snake’s throat.”
“Or,” Lenk spat back, “maybe you intentionally got in my way just so you could beat me about the head with what you think is witty.”
Gariath cast the slightest sliver of a disinterested stare over his shoulder. “You’re touchy today, as well as stupid.”
“Why shouldn’t I be?” Lenk said. “I’m surrounded by. .”
“Betrayers.”
“Murder.”
“Blood. Everywhere.”
“Coral,” he muttered.
“Probably not,” Gariath muttered. He held up a hand with a fresh cut upon it. “I tried breaking it earlier. It’s sharp and hard as teeth. If it is coral, it’s not the kind we know.”
“And we’ve got no way out. That’s what’s bothering me. Kataria’s acting strange, too.”
“So are you,” Gariath grunted. “And you were both strange yesterday. How is it any different today?”
“I’m not strange.”
“You can’t go forty breaths without being strange.”
“You’re not helping things. I’m a little. .” Lenk hesitated to finish the sentence.
“Hate them.”
“Fear.”
“Never wanted this.”