An affinity for steel, p.59
An Affinity for Steel, page 59
Denaos twitched, convulsed, tore apart as the shadowy tendrils raked and whispered at his body.
‘I want—’
‘Your wants are meaningless. Our duty is all. They are hindrances. ’
Kataria’s body was pale against the gloom as they lifted her up to the black sky, as if in offering. The fingers shivered and trembled against her skin, flowing over her stomach, wrapping about her neck, snaking over her legs as she was cocooned in the gloom. Her head rolled, limp, to expose her eyes, bright and green, locked on to his. She stared at him as she vanished into the darkness.
And smiled.
‘NO!’ Lenk roared, collapsing to his knees. ‘No, no, no . . .’
When he opened his eyes again, he was in a vast field of darkness, no flames, no death. All that remained were him, and the two great blue eyes focused upon him, pitiless and cold.
‘The gift shall not be wasted,’ the voice whispered. ‘The duty is all encompassing. Do what must be done.’
Lenk opened his mouth to scream, his voice silenced as the darkness flooded past his lips and filled him completely.
He awoke not with a start, but with a snap of eyes. Not with fear, but with a cold certainty. Not with thunder in his heart, but a single drop of sweat that slid down his brow and murmured as it dripped past his ear.
Do what must be done, it uttered, voice mingling with the murmur of the surf, if more suffering is needed . . .
And his hand was slow and steady, balling up into a determined fist as he understood what the voice told him.
But he did not rise, suddenly aware of the weight upon his chest. He didn’t even see her until she peered down at him through a pair of hard, green eyes, glittering in the darkness. Her knees were on his chest, hands on his shoulders, the knife dark and grey against the moonlight.
‘Hey,’ Kataria muttered.
‘Hey,’ Lenk replied, blinking at her. ‘What are you doing?’
‘What I have to.’
She means to kill us, he heard within his own mind, but paid the warning no heed. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing. He eyed the blade in her hand, its edge a line of silver in the darkness. No, he told himself, no, you can’t ask her to do that.
‘Can it wait?’ he asked.
The shict’s face twisted violently, her eyes softening as her mouth fell open, as if she hadn’t expected that one answer of all of them. ‘Wha-what?’
‘I need to do something,’ he said, placing a hand on her naked midriff. Her body shuddered under his touch, like a nervous beast. ‘Get off, please.’
She complied, falling off him as though she was pushed. On shaking legs, his arms barely strong enough to draw him, he got to his feet. He suddenly felt very weak, his body pleading with him to lie back down, to return to sleep and think upon this in the light of day. He could not afford to listen to it, could not afford to listen to his instincts or his mind.
They, too, were tainted, speaking with a voice not their own.
No, he told himself while he could still hear his own voice inside him, before it was drowned out completely, this is what it has to be. He staggered forwards, nearly pitching to the earth. He maintained his footing, his shaking hand rising and reaching for the sword lying upon the sand. This is how it has to end. There’s no other way to get rid of it . . .
‘Hey,’ he heard a voice call from behind him.
Do what must be done.
‘Hey!’
This is how it must be.
‘HEY!’
‘WHAT?’ he roared, turning upon her. She stood before him, ears bristling, teeth bared. ‘What do you want?’
‘I could have killed you there!’ she snapped, pointing to the knife. ‘I . . . I could have—’
‘You didn’t,’ he said simply. ‘You had every chance in the world, but you didn’t.’
So I have to, he finished mentally, turning back to the sword.
‘No,’ she whispered, eyeing the weapon. ‘You can’t do that.’ I have to, she finished mentally, reaching out.
This is how it has to be, he told himself.
How else could it end? she asked herself.
One blow. He reached out for the weapon.
Clean and quick. She reached out for him.
Her hand fell upon his shoulder.
This is what has to be done.
They both froze, each one suddenly aware of the other as they connected, hearing each other’s breath upon the night wind, feeling each other’s heart beat through each other’s skin. They felt so weak, all of a sudden, his legs barely able to keep him up as he turned to regard her, her arm barely able to hold up the knife above her head.
Her eyes glittered in the darkness, so soft suddenly, quivering like emeralds melting. His shimmered in the gloom, so warm, ice under sunlight. Her arm shook, the knife trembling in her hand as he stared at her, not with challenge, not with threat, but with a pleading he wasn’t even aware of. Her teeth clenched behind her lips, body shaking.
The blade fell to the earth, crunching into the sand, as his body fell into hers. She caught him in her arms, wrapped them about his waist and drew him in closer, tighter. Against each other, they found a strength too weak to keep them up, enough to keep their arms about each other, but not enough to keep them from falling to their knees, the earth’s pull suddenly so strong.
‘I could have killed you,’ she whispered, running a hand down his hair.
‘Yeah,’ he said, feeling her heartbeat through his hands. ‘You could have.’
‘I didn’t,’ she said.
‘Thanks,’ he whispered.
The surf yawned against their legs, as if disappointed that it ended in such a way. The moon waned with a staggering breath of relief and the stars allowed themselves to blink. They rested there, upon their knees, barely aware of the world moving again beneath them.
Thirty-Six
TRAGIC
The Aeons’ Gate
The Island of Ktamgi
Summer, late . . . date unknown . . . who cares?
No one picks up a sword because they want to.
It’s a matter of need. People are called to wrap their hands about the hilt, even if they can’t hear what calls them. The noblest of us do it out of what they call duty, the desire to serve their country, their lord if they have one, or their God. The pragmatic amongst us do it out of a need for work, for coin, for respect.
And the lowest, meanest of trades picks up a sword because that’s all we know how to do. Violence is all we know, all we will ever know, everything else having long been burned away and fled to the shadows. The irony of it is that the mercenary, the soldier, the knight must all carve their own way through life, but there’s always enough violence and hatred in the world that it will make room for the adventurer.
I remember now, if only in fleeting glimpses, when the rest of it was burned away for me.
Not shadows, but men, who swept into Steadbrook with candles, not torches, and set the dry hay ablaze. They killed while the flames still whispered, vanished when the fire started to roar. That was enough time for them. Mother, Father, Grandfather ... all dead ... me, still alive. I don’t know why.
Maybe that’s how adventurers are made, maybe an act of suffering and violence is necessary as the forge that shapes the metal or the knife that shapes the wood. To that end, I don’t suppose anyone can blame us for doing what we do, even if they don’t like it. I don’t suppose I can blame anyone for thinking what they think of us, even if I don’t like it.
At the moment, I have larger problems than other people’s opinions.
The tome is ours, but so many questions are unanswered. Will we even be able to get to Teji? If we do, will Argaol have kept up his end of the deal? Does Miron have that sort of sway over him? Does Miron even care?
And what of the demons? Do so many of them just let their precious book escape without a fight? If not their book, will one of them come back for their head? I’m not stupid. I know they haven’t just rolled their shoulders, given up and gone back to hell for tea and toast. But will they at least stay in the shadows until we can reach dry land?
On a deeper level, should I even give this tome to Miron? Does any one man have the right to carry such a thing?
I don’t have the answers. Really, I don’t care. Someone else can worry about them on their time. My time is worth exactly one thousand pieces of gold. Past that, I don’t really mind what the demons, longfaces or beasts of the world do. The world will continue without the actions of adventurers, long after the profession has died out.
My companions are solemn as we set out for Teji, untalkative, not even mustering the will to fight with each other, for once. At the moment, our humble little vessel resembles something of a flower with half its petals missing. Each of us stares over the edge into the water, watching ourselves, not even aware of the people next to us.
I should be pleased, I know. After so long spent in prayer, the Gods have answered me and finally taken their tongues. But now . . . I want them to talk. I want to hear a distraction, another noise, if only to divert me from the other ones.
The voice . . . is not gone. I know because it murmurs to me, still, in the time between my breaths. But it is quieted, put down slightly. I don’t know why and, again, I don’t care, so long as it’s quiet again.
Another few days until we reach Teji. A haven, supposedly, friendly to us, our kind. Is that true? I’m not too sure, really. Argaol doesn’t really seem the type to make himself useful to us, in any way possible. But I can deal with that when I come to it.
Kataria just looked up at me. She seems to be doing that a lot tonight. I try to smile at her . . . no, I want to smile at her, but she doesn’t make it easy. But it’s not because of all those questions, oh no. The demons, longfaces, Argaols, Mirons, Deepshrieks, Xhais and tomes of the world can all go burn.
I’ve got bigger problems.
Acknowledgements
This book was made with no small help from people with more scrutinizing eyes than myself. Danny Baror, my extremely canny agent, was able to get the book to Lou Aronica, an exceedingly savvy editor who helped shape and skin this story to a point where Danny could get it to Simon Spanton, my other editor, for even further and finer hammering. It’s because of these fine fellows that the book is what you’re reading right now.
Along the way, though, my gurus of quality, psychology and evisceration helped in no small part: Matthew ‘Danger King’ Hayduke, John ‘Duke of Branle’ Henes and Carl Emmanuel ‘Mighty Thesaurus’ Cohen all contributed their diverese and violent qualities to help fine-tune the story.
None of this would be possible without the help of many people, and one in particular. Hopefully, they will all burble with as much pride as I do over the finished story.
BLACK HALO
Prologue
The Aeons’ Gate
The Sea of Buradan … somewhere …
Summer, getting later all the time
What’s truly wrong with the world is that it seems so dauntingly complex at a glance and so despairingly simple upon close examination. Forget what elders, kings and politicians say otherwise, this is the one truth of life. Any endeavour so noble and gracious, any scheme so cruel and remorseless, can be boiled down like cheap stew. Good intentions and ambitions rise to the surface in thick, sloppy chunks and leave behind only the base instincts at the bottom of the pot.
Granted, I’m not sure what philosophical aspect represents the broth, but this metaphor only came to me just now. That’s beside the point. For the moment, I’m dubbing this ‘Lenk’s Greater Imbecile Theory’.
I offer up myself as an example. I began by taking orders without question from a priest; a priest of Talanas, the Healer, no less. If that weren’t impressive enough, he, one Miron Evenhands, also served as Lord Emissary for the church itself. He signed the services of myself and my companions to help him find a relic, one Aeons’ Gate, to communicate with the very heavens.
It seemed simple enough, if a bit mad, right up until the demons attacked.
From there, the services became a bit more … complicated should be the word for it, but it doesn’t quite do justice to describe the kind of fish-headed preachers that came aboard the vessel carrying us and stole a book, one Tome of the Undergates. After our services were required to retrieve this – this collection of scriptures wrought by hellbeasts that were, until a few days ago, stories used to frighten coins into the collection plates – to say that further complications arose seems rather disingenuous.
Regardless, at the behest of said priest and on behalf of his god, we set out to retrieve this tome and snatch it back from the clutches of the aforementioned hellbeasts.
To those reading who enjoy stories that end with noble goals reached, lofty morals upheld and mankind left a little better for the experience, I would suggest closing this journal now, should you have stumbled upon it long after it separated from my corpse.
It only gets worse from here.
I neglected to mention what it was that drove such glorious endeavours to be accomplished. Gold. One thousand pieces. The meat of the stew, bobbing at the top.
The book is mine now, in my possession, along with a severed head that screams and a very handy sword. When I hand over the book to Miron, he will hand over the money. That is what is left at the bottom of this pot: no great quest to save humanity, no communication with the Gods, no uniting people hand in hand through trials of adversity and noble blood spilled. Only money. Only me.
This is, after all, adventure.
Not that the job has been all head-eating demons and babbling seagulls, mind. I’ve also been collecting epiphanies, such as the one written above. A man tends to find them bobbing on the very waves when he’s sitting cramped in a tiny boat.
With six other people.
Whom he hates.
One of whom farts in her sleep.
I suppose I also neglected to mention that I haven’t been alone in this endeavour. No, much of the credit goes to my companions: a monster, a heathen, a thug, a zealot and a savage. I offer these titles with the utmost respect, of course. Rest assured that, while they are undoubtedly handy to have around in a fight, time spent in close quarters with them tends to wear on one’s nerves rather swiftly.
All the same … I don’t suppose I could have done it without them. ‘It’ being described below, short as I can make it and ending with a shict’s ass pointed at me like a weapon as she slumbers.
The importance of the book is nothing worth noting unless it is also noted who had the book. In this case, after Miron, the new owners were the Abysmyths: giant, emaciated demons with the heads of fish who drown men on dry land. Fittingly enough, their leader, the Deepshriek, was even more horrendous. I suppose if I were a huge man-thing with a fish-head, I would follow a huge fish-thing with three man-heads.
Or woman-heads, in this case, I’m sorry. Apologies again; two woman-heads. The third rests comfortably at my side, blindfolded and gagged. It does have the tendency to scream all on its own.
Still, one can’t honestly recount the trouble surrounding this book if one neglects to mention the netherlings. I never saw one alive, but unless they change colour when they die, they appear to be very powerful, very purple women. All muscle and iron, I’m told by my less fortunate companions who fought them, that they fight like demented rams and follow short, effeminate men in dresses.
As bad as things got, however, it’s all behind us now. Despite the fact that the Deepshriek escaped with two of its heads, despite the fact that the netherlings’ commander, a rather massive woman with sword to match escaped, despite the fact that we are currently becalmed with one day left until the man sent to pick us up from the middle of the sea decides we’re dead and leaves and we really die shortly after and our corpses rot in the noonday sun as gulls form polite conversation over whether my eyeballs or my stones are the more tasty part of me …
One moment, I’m not quite sure where I intended to go with that statement.
I wish I could be at ease, really I do. But it’s not quite that easy. The adventurer’s constant woe is that the adventure never ends with the corpse and the loot. After the blood is spilled and the deed is done, there’s always people coming for revenge, all manner of diseases acquired and the fact that a rich adventurer is only a particularly talented and temporarily wealthy kind of scum.
Still … that’s not what plagues me. Not to the extent of the voice in my head, at least.
I tried to ignore it, at first. I tried to tell myself that it wasn’t speaking in my head, that it was only high exhaustion and low morale wearing on my mind. I tried to tell myself that …
And it told me otherwise.
It’s getting worse now. I hear it all the time. It hears me all the time. What I think, it knows. What I know, it casts doubt on. It tells me all sorts of horrible things, tells me to do worse things, commands me to hurt, to kill, to strike back. It gets so loud, so loud lately that I want to … that I just—
Pardon.
The issue is that I can make the voice stop. I can get a few moments respite from it … but only by opening the tome.
Miron told me not to. Common sense told me again. But I did it, anyway. The book is more awful than I could imagine. At first, it didn’t even seem to say anything: its pages were just filled with nonsensical symbols and pages of people being eviscerated, decapitated, manipulated and masticated at the hands, minds and jaws of various creatures too awful to re-create in my journal.
As I read on, however … it began to make more sense. I could read the words, understand what they were saying, what they were suggesting. And when I flip back to the pages I couldn’t read before, I can see them all over again. The images are no less awful, but the voice … the voice stops. It no longer tells me things. It no longer commands me.
It doesn’t just make sense grammatically, but philosophically as well. It doesn’t speak of evisceration, horrific sin or demonic incursion like it’s supposed to, despite the illustrations. Rather, it speaks of freedom, of self-reliance, of life without a need to kneel. It’s really more of a treatise, but I suppose ‘Manifesto of the Undergates’ just doesn’t have the same ring.
