Black Halo

seeking an opening in his defence; they were insignificant. One of them hung back, the one that had failed to kill him, the one that would enable him.

She was first.

She heard him approach, felt his breath on her neck, knew his presence; that was all so unimportant. She whirled about, the blade in her hand, the curse on her lips, the shield rising; that was just insignificant.

His own blade rose swiftly. He could see himself in its reflection, see the dead, pupilless eyes staring back at him. Then, he was gone, vanished in a bath of red. He couldn’t remember when the blade had found her neck. He couldn’t remember what he had said that made her look at him with such pain in her mouth, such fear in her eyes.

But he remembered this sensation, this strength. He had felt it in icy rivers and in dark dreams, in the absence of fever and the chill of wind. He remembered the voice that spoke to him now, as it melted and seeped out of his skull. He remembered its message. He heard it now.

‘Strength wanes, bodies decay, faith fails, steel breaks.’

‘Duty,’ he whispered, ‘persists.’

Life returned to him: warm, burning, feverish life. The body fell to the ground, the netherling gurgling and clutching at the gaping wound in her throat. The others whirled around, staring at her, then turning wide eyes up to Lenk.

‘Shtehz,’ one of them gasped, ‘the damn thing just turned grey ag-’

The ensuing cracking sound would have drowned out the remark, even if the netherling’s mouth wasn’t reduced to a bloody mess as a red claw seized her by the back of her head and smashed her skull against her companion’s.

Gariath stepped forward, regarded Lenk curiously for a moment. He snorted.

‘Still alive?’ he grunted.

‘Still alive,’ Lenk replied.

‘I thought you’d be.’ Gariath reached down and took one of the netherlings by her biceps. ‘The others are dead?’

‘Still alive,’ Lenk repeated. ‘For the moment, at least. There was another longface, Sheraptus, he took the women.’

‘A problem,’ Gariath replied as he placed a foot between the moaning female’s shoulder blades. ‘What do you want to do about it?’

‘They took them by boat, to a ship,’ Lenk replied, gesturing over the sea. ‘It can’t be far away.’ He quirked an eyebrow at the dragonman. ‘Why do you care, though?’

‘I killed two of these things earlier. Didn’t find any answers. I’ll give it a little more time.’

‘I see … Should I ask?’

Gariath didn’t reply. His muscles tensed as he drove his foot downward, pulling the netherlings’ arms farther behind her. She screamed, long and loud, but not nearly loud enough to disguise the sound of arms popping out of their sockets, not nearly long enough to drown out the deep cracking sound borne from her chest. She drew in several sharp, ragged breaths that quickly turned to gurgling, choking noises before collapsing into the sand.

‘I wouldn’t,’ Gariath grunted.

‘Fine … that’s fine.’ They both glanced to see the remaining netherling, staggering to her feet, growling as she raised her sword towards the two. ‘It doesn’t matter if I die here. It’s never mattered. It doesn’t mean you won’t still die; it doesn’t mean the Master won’t-’

In a flash of motion, a dark stripe appeared across her throat framed by two trembling fists. Her sword dropped, her eyes bulging out of their sockets as she reached up to grope helplessly at the garrotte’s thick, corded kiss. A grin appeared at her ear, brimming with far more malice than Lenk thought Denaos could ever have mustered.

‘It’s an ideal situation,’ the rogue explained to no one in particular. ‘The more you struggle, the tighter it goes, faster it’s over. Perfect for putting down animals. It’s all but useless against someone who just sits tight and thinks.’ He gave her a quick jerk, silencing her choked gurgling. ‘As I said, for the circumstances, ideal.’

She collapsed to her knees, but he refused to relinquish his grip on the garrotte, stalwartly absorbing each elbow she thrust behind her. It was a valiant effort, Lenk thought, awestruck by the rogue’s tenacity, though not enough to avoid a sudden thought.

Wait … where’d he get the rope?

The question lingered only as long as it took for the hate to leak out of the netherling’s eyes, whereupon Denaos loosed his grip and let her drop. Lenk stared down at the rope, recognising it as far too furry to be anything but what the man had been wearing moments ago.

It took a strong perception for Lenk to realise the imperative need to not look back up. It took a decidedly stronger resolve not to scream when he invariably did.

Denaos certainly didn’t help matters by placing his hands on his naked hips and setting a triumphant foot on the netherling’s back.

‘Take it all in, gentlemen,’ he replied, gesturing downward and tapping his foot. ‘What do you suppose? The biggest one here?’

Gariath stalked past him, casting a glance and offering a snort.

‘I’ve seen bigger.’

‘Well, this is all highly disturbing,’ came a shrill voice. They glanced over to see Dreadaeleon sitting upright, looking at them inquisitively. ‘I assume, once someone sees fit to untie me, we’ll be giving chase?’

‘Were you not dead a moment ago?’ Denaos asked.

‘Coma,’ Dreadaeleon replied, pausing only to sit still long enough for Gariath to shred his bonds and hoist him to his feet. ‘A momentary overwhelming of the senses, not unlike deeply inhaling a pot of mustard.’

‘Mustard doesn’t do that,’ Denaos pointed out.

‘Surprisingly enough, I use these childish metaphors for the benefit of your diminished comprehension,’ the boy spat back, ‘not so we can waste time. We have to go after the renegade … the longface.’

‘They’re out at sea,’ Lenk muttered. ‘We don’t know where.’

‘We will shortly,’ Denaos replied.

Before anyone could ask, the rogue slipped behind a nearby bone and returned, shoving what appeared to be a walking, bound, bruised melon before him. Togu did not raise his head, his yellow eyes cast down. Shame, Lenk thought, or perhaps just out of a sense of protection as Denaos drew his loincloth-turned-garrotte tightly between his hands and looked to Lenk for approval.

‘No,’ Lenk said, sighing. ‘We’ve got to find out what he knows first. The sea is a vast place, his ship could be anywhere and-’

‘Two leagues that way,’ Dreadaeleon interrupted, pointing out over the shore.

‘Huh?’

‘He leaks magic,’ the boy replied. ‘He’s a skunk in linens to me.’

‘Oh.’ Lenk glanced over at Denaos and shrugged. ‘Go nuts, then.’

‘STOP!’

The Gonwa chased his own voice, emerging from the gloom before Denaos’ wrists could even twitch. They regarded him as warily as he did they, though he seemed to be under no delusions that the sharpened stick in his hand was any match for the bloodied sword in Lenk’s. Still, his eyes carried a suspicious forthrightness that Lenk instantly recalled.

‘Hongwe,’ he muttered the creature’s name. ‘If you’re here to finish the betrayal …’

‘He’s not,’ Gariath grunted.

‘I’d believe that if anyone else had said it,’ Denaos replied.

‘What makes you so sure?’ Dreadaeleon asked, quirking a brow.

‘I know,’ the dragonman said.

‘The Rhega speaks the truth, cousins,’ Hongwe said softly. ‘I am no friend to the longface.’ He gestured to Togu. ‘And neither is Togu.’