Black Halo

The voice came and went in a fleeting whisper, rising from the gooseflesh on his arm. It had grown fainter through the fevered veil that swaddled his brain, coming as a slinking hush that coiled around his skull before slithering into silence.

He supposed he ought to have been thankful. He had long wished to be free of the voice, of its cruel commands and horrific demands. Now, as he sat alone under the canopy, he silently wished that it might linger for a moment, if only to give him someone to talk to preserve his sanity.

He paused mid-chew, considering the lunacy of that thought.

He grumbled, continuing to chew. It’s not as though you could ever preserve your sanity talking to the others, either. If anything talking to Kat would only drive you madder in short order.

‘It matters not,’ the voice whispered. ‘She’s drowned, claimed by the deep. They all are. They all float in reefs of flesh and bone; they all drift on tides of blood and salt.’

Lenk had never recalled the voice being quite so specific before, but it slithered away before he could inquire. In its wake, fever creased his brows, sent his brain boiling.

That isn’t right, he told himself. The voice made him cold, not hot. It was the fever, no doubt, twisting his mind, making his thoughts deranged. Of course, your thoughts couldn’t have been too clear to begin with.

There was a rustle in the leaves overhead, a creak of a sinewy branch as something rolled itself out of the canopy to level a beady, glossy stare at him. It hung from a long, feathery tail, tiny humanlike hands and feet dangling under its squat body. Its head rolled from side to side, rubbery black lips peeling back in what appeared to be a smile as its skull swayed on its neck in time with its tail.

Back and forth, back and forth …

It’s mocking me, Lenk thought, his eyelid twitching. The monkey is mocking me. He put a hand to his brow, felt it burn. Keep it together. Monkeys can’t mock. They don’t have the sense of social propriety necessary to upsetting it in the first place. That makes sense, doesn’t it? Of course it does. Monkeys have no sense of comedic timing. It’s not in their nature …

He stared up, found his tongue creeping unbidden to his cracked lips.

Their juicy … meaty nature.

His sword was in his hands unbidden, glimmering with the same hungry intent as his fever-boiled eyes, licking its steel lips with the same ideas as he licked his own rawhide mouth.

The monkey swung tantalisingly back and forth, back and forth, bidding him to rise, stalk closer to the tiny beast, his sword hanging heavily. It wasn’t until he was close enough to spit on it that the thing looked at him with wariness.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ he growled. ‘This is nature. You sit there and swing like a little morsel on a string, I bash your ugly little face open and slurp your delicious monkey brains off the ground.’

The beast looked at him and smiled a human smile.

‘Now, doesn’t that seem a bit hypocritical?’ it asked in a clear baritone.

Lenk paused. ‘How do you figure?’

‘Are you not aware of how close the families of beasts and man are?’ the monkey asked, holding up its little paws. ‘Look at our hands. They both suggest something, don’t they? The same fleeting, insignificant, inconsequential lifespan through us both …’

‘We are not close, you little faeces-flinger. Mankind was created by the Gods.’

‘That sort of renders your point about “nature” a bit moot, doesn’t it? Gods or nature?’ The monkey waggled a finger. ‘Which is it?’

‘That isn’t what I meant and you know it!’ Lenk snarled, jabbing a finger at the monkey. ‘Look, don’t argue with me. Monkeys should not argue. That’s a rule.’

‘Where?’

‘Somewhere, I don’t know.’

‘What is the desire to be shackled by rules, Lenk? Why did mankind create them? Was the burden of freedom too much to bear?’

‘And if monkeys shouldn’t argue,’ Lenk snarled, ‘they damn well shouldn’t make philosophical inquiries.’

‘The truth is,’ the monkey continued, ‘that freedom is just too much. Freedom is twisting, nebulous; what one man considers it, another does not. It’s impossible to live when no one can agree what living is.’

‘Shut up.’

‘Thusly, mankind created rules. Or, if you choose to believe, had them handed down to them by gods. This wasn’t for the sake of any divine creation, of course, but only to make the thought of life less unbearable, so that these thoughts of freedom didn’t cripple them with fear.’

‘Shut up!’ Lenk roared, clutching his head.

‘We both know why you want me to be silent. You’ve already seen this theory of freedom in action, haven’t you? When a man is free, truly free, he can’t be trusted to do what’s right. The last time you saw someone that was free-’

‘I said …’ Lenk pulled his sword from the ground. ‘Shut up.’

‘He attacked a giant sea serpent and caused it to sink your boat, killing everyone aboard and leaving you alone.’

‘Shut up!’

Lenk’s swing bit nothing but air, its metal song drowned out by the chattering screeches and laughter of the creatures above. He swung his gaze up with his weapon, sweeping it cautiously across the branches, searching for his hidden opponent.

Back and forth, back and forth …

‘It’s very bad form to give up the argument when someone presents a counterpoint,’ Lenk snarled. ‘Are you afraid to engage in further discourse?’ He shrieked, attacked a low-hanging branch and sent its leaves spilling to the earth. ‘You’re too good to come down and fight me, is that it?’

‘Now,’ a voice asked from the trees, ‘why is it that you solve everything with violence, Lenk? It never works.’

‘It seems to work to shut people up,’ Lenk replied, backing away defensively.

‘That’s not a bad point, is it? After all, Gariath isn’t talking anymore, is he? Then again, neither are Denaos, Dreadaeleon, Asper … Kataria …’

‘Don’t you talk about them! Or her!’

He felt his back strike something hard and unyielding, felt a long and shadowy reach slink down toward his neck. He whirled around, his sword between him and the demon as it stared at him with great, empty whites above a jaw hanging loose.

‘Abysmyth …’ Lenk gasped.

The creature showed no recognition, showed nothing in its stare. Its body — that towering, underfed amalgamation of black skin stretched tightly over black bone — should have been exploding into action, Lenk knew. Those long, webbed claws should be tight across his throat, excreting the fatal ooze that would kill him.

‘Good afternoon,’ Lenk growled.

The Abysmyth, however, did nothing. The Abysmyth merely tilted a great fishlike head to the side and uttered a question.

‘Violence didn’t work, did it?’

‘We haven’t tried yet!’

The thing made no attempt to defend himself as Lenk erupted like an overcoiled spring, flinging himself at the beast. My sword can hurt it, he told himself. I’ve seen it happen. Even if nothing else could, Lenk’s blade seemed to drink deeply of the creature’s blood as he hacked at it. Its flesh came off in great, hewed strips; blood fell in thick, fatty globs.

‘Is the futility not crushing?’ the creature asked, its voice a rumbling gurgle in its rib cage. ‘You shriek, squeal, strike — as though you could solve all the woes and agonies that plague yourself and your world with steel and hatred.’