Black Halo

‘I don’t understand what’s happening.’

‘You will.’

An urge, not his own, rose within him and bid him to turn around. He beheld the figure instantly, standing upon a nearby ridge. A man, it appeared, cloaked in shadow with white hair. Lenk took in his harsh, angular features immediately, ignoring them as soon as he spied the hilt of a sword peeking over the man’s shoulder.

But before Lenk could even recall he didn’t have a weapon of his own, he found himself arrested by the man’s stare. His eyes were a vast blue that seemed to take in Lenk as a shark swallows fish. They stared at him: intense, narrow …

Bereft of pupils.

The man approached. Lenk found it hard to keep track of him as he walked down the ridge. His form was there, and not there, vanishing each time he stepped into a shadow, appearing when the wind blew dust that became his body. He took a step and was somewhere else, moving with an erratic fluidity Lenk had only seen in dreams.

He did not move as the man approached, held by his great stare. He did not move as the man walked right through him, unflinching. He turned and watched him disappear into the shadows of the cavern, vanishing completely the moment his foot touched gloom.

‘This … this isn’t real,’ he told himself. ‘But it feels so …’ His head began to ache. ‘Have I seen this before?’

‘One of us has.’

He turned and saw more figures approaching over the ridge: more men, though softer of body and eye than the one that had just come. They approached in the same winking step, and each time they appeared in his vision, their faces were harder set. There was fear there, hate there, intent there.

They were clad in old armour, carried old blades, old spears. Their cloaks trailed behind them, stained and battered and torn. Clasping them together upon their breasts, Lenk saw a sigil.

An iron gauntlet clenching thirteen obsidian arrows.

‘The House,’ he whispered. He hadn’t seen it since he had first accepted the task of pursuing the tome, but at a glimpse, he recalled it instantly. ‘The House of the Vanquishing Trinity, the mortals who marched against the demons.’

‘Mortals have the capacity to march against many things. Enemies and allies alike.’

‘They’re going to …?’ Lenk began to ask.

‘You know the answer to that.’

‘They’re going into the cave.’

‘Answers lie in there.’

‘Should I …?’

The voice said nothing. He was left standing, watching as the men vanished, one by one, into the cavern. He was left standing as the river fell silent. He was left standing, watching, wondering. Wiser, he thought, not to follow ghostly hallucinations into lightless caverns born of dead forests.

But he did. Going back, after all, was not an option.

It never was.

Thirty-Eight

THE DEAD, HONOURED AND IMPOTENT

Gariath did not fear silence. Gariath feared nothing.

Still, he found himself deeply uncomfortable with it. Ordinarily, discomfort wasn’t such a problem; the source of it, after a few stiff beatings, would eventually become a source of much more manageable anger, which would warrant further beatings until only tranquillity remained.

But those sources of anger and discomfort were frequently made of flesh, meat. Silence was not. And he could not strangle the intangible.

He had tried.

And he had failed, so he remained in uncomfortable, awkward, intangible, fleshless silence as he stalked through the forest.

Occasionally he paused, fanning out his ear-frills to listen for an errant whisper, a trace of muttered curse, even a roach’s fart. He heard nothing. He knew he would continue to hear nothing.

Grandfather had left him.

He wasn’t sure what had happened to cause it, but he was certain of it now. Not merely because he hadn’t seen, heard or smelled the ancestor since he had dragged himself out of the surf last night. It was a deeper absence, the perpetual, phantom agony of a limb long lost.

Or a relative …

He continued on through the forest. The silence continued to close in around him, seething on his flesh as though it were new, raw. Not so unreasonable, he thought; he had lived his life without silence thus far. As near as he remembered, the Rhega were a people of perpetual noise, living in a world that thundered against them: the barking of pups met with the roar of rivers, the mutter of elders accompanied by the rumble of thunder.

Since then, he had experienced any number of howls, groans, shrieks, screams, grunts, cackles, chuckles and countless, countless bodily noises. That, too, seemed long ago, though.

For the first time, he heard silence.

He didn’t like it.

And yet, he pressed ahead, instead of returning to the cheerful, stupid noises and their fleshy, meaty sources. Theirs was silence of another loud and useless kind, though today it had become a melancholy, self- loathing silence.

He had smelled them in a musky cocktail of guilt, hatred, despair and abject self-pity. All of them carried it, some daubed with scant traces of it, others wearing it like a mane about their heads.

Well, he corrected himself. Almost all of them.

It was unusual enough to find Lenk without a smell that it had given Gariath pause when they briefly crossed paths that morning. Usually, the young man bore the most varied odours, usually varying scents of exasperation. Today, when they brushed past each other without a word and exchanged a fleeting glance, he knew the young man was different. Today, the dragonman had inhaled deeply and scented nothing. Today, he had felt a chill when he met Lenk’s eyes.

Just a fleeting sensation, there and gone in less than an instant; the human was the same human who had cried out like a coward last night, the same human who had fallen into useless babble, the same human whom Gariath had graced with one and only one glance before he leapt overboard to pursue the Shen.

But it had been clear in Lenk’s eyes, in a silence that struck the whistle of the breeze dead, that Gariath was not the same dragonman from that night.

And that dragonman had told him nothing, about the pointy-eared one’s plot to kill him, about the demons on the island, about the longfaces, about anything. Because the man he had seen was not the man from that night, and the man he had seen would brook nothing but silence.

He snorted to himself; too much silence, too little meaning in it all. It was starting to aggravate him. Absently, he began glancing around for things that would make the most noise when struck. Trees, rocks, leaves: all defiantly, annoyingly mute.

He pressed forward, stomping his feet on the earth as he did, crunching leaves under his soles. He needed to break the silence, he thought as he pushed through the underbrush and stepped into a great clearing amidst the forest. He needed something to speak to.

And, in the instant he felt the sun upon his skin, he knew he had found it.

He craned his neck up to take it all in: its massive, unblemished grey face; its weathered, rounded crown; its