‘There’s no need to get all smarmy about it.’
‘He gets smarmy over everything. The little runt could pull a gerbil out of his pants and he’d somehow manage to end up in a coma and complain about it.’ Gariath snorted, prodding the boy in the chest. ‘I’ve got a knife in my back, but I don’t go crying about it. You don’t get hugs for doing things right.’
‘What do I get for killing that last longface?’
‘Punched in your ugly face.’
‘The fact that you’re decidedly unbothered about a knife in your back and the troubling questions it raises does not concern me now.’ The wizard swept a glare about the carnage. ‘Where is the heretic?’
‘The what?’
‘The renegade,’ Dreadaeleon hissed. ‘The defiler of law. The male. Where is he?’
Answer came in the form of a sudden pyre that cast the room into a glowing orange hell. A vast circle formed within the battle, charred black figures collapsing around its centre. The male longface, however, seemed to pay these no mind as he turned the plume of flame that leapt from his palm upon the pulsating sacs infesting the hall.
With methodical patience, he reduced them to ash. With contemptuous casualness, he flitted a hand at any frogman that rushed towards him, sending them spiralling against the stones.
‘Ah,’ the dragonman replied, ‘there he is.’
‘Incredible.’
The male, having torched one cluster of the fleshy sacs, strode across the water upon stepping stones of ice, smirking slightly as he drew back curtains of frogmen to make a path for himself towards the next.
‘Simply incredible,’ the boy repeated, narrowing his eyes.
‘How so?’ Asper asked. ‘You can do the same thing, can’t you?’
‘Not like that,’ the boy muttered. ‘I made a boat out of ice and almost lost consciousness.’ He pointed a trembling finger. ‘He’s channelling three schools of magic at once after doing what he did to the Omens and he’s not even sweating.’
‘So. . he’s better than you.’
‘It’s simply not possible!’ His protest came as a wheeze. ‘Spells can’t just be hurled about without regard! There are laws! There must be pause, there must be rest, there-’ He stiffened suddenly, turning the expression of a scolded puppy upon Asper. ‘Wait, you think he’s better than me?’
‘Well. . I mean, you said he was.’
‘I said he did something different. That doesn’t make him better than me.’
‘I’m sure you’re very talented in other respects, but. .’ She scowled suddenly. ‘Does it really matter now?’
‘No,’ Dreadaeleon muttered. He studied the male through a scrutinising squint, his lip crawling further up his face with every spell cast. ‘If his magic were just stronger, I’d sense it. I’d know it.’ With cognitive suddenness, he slammed a fist into a palm. ‘He’s cheating.’
‘Cheating.’ Asper raised a brow.
‘Well, he is!’ Dreadaeleon stamped a foot. ‘Even in the most skilled hands, magic is a controlled burn. It strains the body, but not his. He’s not even breathing hard. He’s … I don’t know. . using something.’
‘Search him when he’s dead,’ Gariath growled.
With a low snarl, he reached behind him. His body jerked, spasmed, then relaxed at the sound of particularly thick paper being torn. Asper cringed as dark rivers poured down his back, then fought violently against the rising bile as he thoughtfully flicked a glistening fragment of red from one of the blade’s sharp prongs.
‘For now,’ the dragonman grunted, ‘there’s plenty to kill. If you’re smart, you’ll sit back and wait for a real warrior to finish it.’ He looked over the pair contemptuously. ‘Being that you’re human, though-’
‘Naturally.’ Dreadaeleon’s fingers tensed, beads of crimson glowing at their tips. ‘I don’t care who kills him. The laws of the Venarium must be upheld.’
With grim nods exchanged, the dragonman and not-yet man turned and stalked grimly towards the melee, ready to rend, to freeze, to bite and to burn. The battle raged with a yet-unseen fury, tides of pink and purple flesh colliding as the Abysmyths waded through to leisurely pluck opponents up and dismember them with disinterest.
Beautiful, Gariath thought.
The dragonman snorted. The wound felt good in his back. He would not be walking away from this fight, he knew. All that remained was to make certain that he got there before nothing was left to kill.
‘Wait!’
His eyelid twitched at the shrill protest. He scowled at Asper over his shoulder, meeting her objecting befuddlement with abject annoyance.
‘What about the others? Lenk, Kataria, Denaos-’
‘Dead, dead, dead quickly,’ he replied. ‘Honour them. Give them company in the afterlife.’
‘But I. .’ she whimpered, ‘I can’t fight.’
‘So die.’
‘I left my staff behind.’ Her excuse was as meek and sheepish as her smile. ‘I’m not much use. I. . could remain here and tend to you, though. You are bleeding quite badly and I-’
‘Moron!’ he roared, turning on her. ‘There will be nothing for you to tend to here. Nothing will survive if I can help it.’ He stomped towards her, scowling through his mask of gore. ‘You cried about wanting to fight.’ He thrust the jagged blade into her hands, staining her robes red. ‘Now prove if you’re worthy of life.’
‘I. . no, it’s not that.’ She tried to return the blade, her grasp trembling. ‘I don’t want to. . I mean, I can’t. My arm, you see, it-’
‘I don’t care,’ he snarled in reply. ‘No one will ever care what you did while you’re still alive.’ He snorted, spraying a cloud of red into her face. ‘Your life will be nowhere near as great as your death, if you manage to do it right.’
Her eyes were those of an animaclass="underline" frightened, weak, quivering. But she held on to the blade, he thought, and more importantly, she stopped talking. For the moment, that was enough for him; if she managed to do something worthwhile in the time she still breathed, it would be a pleasant surprise.
She disappeared from his thoughts and his sight as he turned his back to her, stalking towards the throng. He ignored her cries of protest, ignored the boy who had already disappeared into the battle, ignored the thought of the other dead humans. He would mourn for Lenk later, laugh at the rest of them with his last breath.
The wound in his back felt good, the chill that filled him refreshing. The sound of his life spattering onto the ground was a macabre reassurance that he would not be walking away from this fight, that he would be seeing his ancestors before the day was done.
And he would not be going alone, he resolved.
When the first of the longfaces looked up at him, pulling her spike out of a pale corpse and loosing a war cry, it was not death that he smelled, nor sea, nor salt, nor fear. There was only the scent of rivers as she charged him.
Rivers and rocks.
Twenty-Seven
‘ Kat?’
That was her name, wasn’t it? No shict had ever called her that, of course; shicts had full, proud names that all meant something. Kat meant nothing, Kat was not a name, Kat was not a word.
‘Kat!’
Kat was her name, she remembered. Not her true name, not her shict name. Kat was a name that some silver-haired little girl had called her. No, she remembered, he had been a man. A human.
‘Kataria!’
She remembered him now. Skinny fellow, not at all impressive to look at; but she looked at him often, didn’t she? She followed him out of a forest, a year ago. Where was he now?