Rik felt as if his mouth was full of rotten flesh, that his tongue was a bloated worm, that his limbs were made from mouldy cloth. All strength had been drained out of him. Terror filled him as memories of what had happened flooded back into his mind.
He opened his eyes and looked around. The walls were wooden. He could hear the sea lapping against them. The air was damp and salty. The floor was at an odd angle. Malkior stood in the corner of the room; his face was lit by a glowstone placed within an old naval lantern.
“You can shout if you like,” said Malkior. “No one will come. They are used to hearing screams from these old hulks.”
If the situation had not been so serious, Rik could almost have smiled. It was a situation straight out of those old chapbooks he used to read. He was a prisoner on one of the dreaded harbour prisons. He wondered if he could escape in any of the ways the heroes of his youth had.
He looked down at his feet. He was, as he had expected to be, chained. The weight dragged at his ankles and made it impossible for him to move more than a stride away from the walls.
“They have used these ships as prisons for over two hundred years,” said Malkior conversationally. “No one has ever escaped.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“You have read too many storybooks. The Sea Devils take any swimmers they find in the waters around the hulks. Young Quan, hungry ones, wait here for just that purpose. It’s one of the few places in the harbour they are permitted to do so by their elders.”
“You seem to know a lot about them.”
Malkior shrugged. “We share certain tastes in common. I have been in touch with them for many years. They are fascinating creatures, if a little horrid.”
Rik fumbled at his wrists. He was surprised to discover that both his hidden pistol and his knife were still there. Cautiously he loosened the pistol in its holster. He might still have a chance to escape, he thought. He could threaten Malkior with the gun and get himself unchained then use him as a hostage to get off the hulk. Instinct warned him that it could not possibly be that easy, but he decided he had better give it a try. He let the pistol drop into his hand. He raised it and pointed it directly at Malkior’s belly.
“You will order me released. You will not come close enough to touch me. If you do I will put a bullet in your gut.”
Malkior laughed at him. The sound was rich with mockery and in that moment Rik hated him enough to pull the trigger. Only his even stronger desire for self-preservation kept him from it.
“I am not joking,” he said.
Malkior looked at him. “It’s been a long while since anybody threatened me. Now it has happened twice in the space of twenty-four hours. First Asea, now you. I find the situation refreshing.”
“I have seen a number of belly wounds,” said Rik conversationally. “The deaths were never easy.”
“I do believe you are my son, Rik. I could not have said that better myself.”
“Then you also know I mean it.”
“I do. But consider the situation. You shoot me in the belly, possibly fatally, and what do you get? An unpleasant death at the hands, or I should say tentacles, of my aquatic associates.”
“I would get the satisfaction of killing you. I expect my own death anyway.”
“Then why not shoot?” If Malkior intended to call Rik’s bluff, he made a mistake. Rik pulled the trigger. The gun sounded as loud as a cannon in the confined space. Much to Rik’s surprise it actually worked despite the damp. Malkior staggered backwards, blood pumping from his belly. His face twisted in a rictus of pain then he laughed again.
“Very good, Rik. You are quite vicious enough to be one of my brats.” He straightened, and an odd green glow entered his eyes. The shadows around him curdled and whispered. There was a chinking noise and the bullet erupted from his stomach and rolled across the floor. Malkior opened his shirt and Rik could see that the flesh of his belly had already started to knit back together again.
“I cannot be killed by bullets, Rik. I am not entirely sure I can be killed at all. Certain… modifications were made a long time ago. Perhaps your patron should have told you that before she set you on me.”
“How would she know?”
“Asea knows a lot of things, as she made clear to both of us the other night. She made it perfectly clear that she suspects me of the murder of the Old Queen.” He gave a sly smile. “Quite correctly as it turns out.”
“So you did kill Amarielle, just as you killed my mother.”
“This business about your mother really upsets you, doesn’t it? Who was she? I am afraid I have quite forgotten her.”
“A Sorrow street girl you tortured to death in one of your rituals.” Malkior paused and appeared to consider for a moment.
“That one, of course. The dates would be about right. Well, I have to say I am sorry now that I know about you. If only she had told me, she might have saved her life. She might have saved yours as well. That was damned inconsiderate of her.” The mockery in Malkior’s voice was enraging, exactly as he intended it to be.
“Perhaps she thought she was saving me from you.”
“Well if that’s the case, she failed, didn’t she?”
“You are a bastard, aren’t you?”
“There’s no need to be rude, Rik. You are not going to be sharing my secrets with anybody, and I find it quite refreshing to be honest with someone after all this time. This will be our only chance for a father and son chat. Anyway, to business; I have a few questions to ask you, and I would really rather not get blood on these nice furs, so I trust you will spare us both the unpleasantness of having me torture you. It would ruin the magic of the moment for me.”
“Fuck you,” Rik said. Even before the words were out of his mouth, there was a very long, very sharp knife in Malkior’s hand.
“I can’t kill you, and I can’t use any magic that will damage your mind. Our hosts here would not like that, but I can think of a number of options that you really would not enjoy. I beg you not to make me use them. Salty water and flayed flesh are an extremely unpleasant combination.”
Despite his languid tone, Rik had absolutely no doubt that Malkior would flay him alive. Asea had taught him spells that would blank out pain, but there was a limit to what they could do, and he did not wish Malkior to know about his training. It was one of the few tiny advantages that remained to him.
“I will make you a deal,” he said eventually.
“You are not really in a position to do so, but I find myself in a generous mood. Speak your proposition and I will give you my answer.”
“I will answer your questions honestly if you will answer mine.” Malkior’s smile seemed genuine.
“Why not?” he said. “Tell me about the Serpent Tower. What happened there?”
“I do not know you will keep your side of the bargain, and I have no power to enforce it so I would prefer it if you answered my questions first.”
“If you are delaying in the hope of some last-minute rescue, you are deluded. No one is coming.”
“I believe you. However I am curious.”
“Very well. We have time. Ask away.”
“Do you really serve the Princes of Shadow?”
“Yes, I do.”
“They exist then.”
“Yes, they do.”
“Why do you serve them?”
“Technically, that is your third question without answering any of mine, but I will let that slide. I serve them because they granted me power and immortality and the means to gain revenge on my enemies. And for other, more sentimental reasons.”
“You are a Terrarch. You already had power and immortality.”
“Things were not quite as your people were led to believe on Al’Terra, Rik.” Malkior sounded thoughtful. “Our magic was fading, our immortality vanishing with it. The Princes of Shadow offered us the means to reverse that process. The High Council rejected their offer. Some of us thought them foolish to do so.”
