had a way of simplifying such complex emotional perfumes to one monosyllabic grunt of stupidity.
‘What?’ Lenk asked.
Whatever happened next was beyond Gariath’s interest. He quietly turned his attentions to the sea. The scent of salt was a reprieve from the ugly stenches surrounding the humans, but not what he desired to smell again. He closed his eyes, let his nostrils flare, drinking in the air, trying to find the scent that filled his nostrils when he held two wailing pups in his arms, when he had mated for the first time, when he had begged Grahta not to go, begged to follow the pup.
He sought the scent of memory.
And smelled nothing but salt.
He had tried, for days now he had tried. Days had gone by, days would go by forever.
And the Rhega’s problem would not change.
You cannot go, he told himself, and the thought crossed his mind more than once. He could not go, could not follow his people, the pups, into the afterlife. But he could not stay here. He could not remain in a world where there was nothing but the stink of …
His nostrils flickered. Eyes widened slightly. He turned his gaze out to the sea and saw the dredgespider herd scatter suddenly, skimming across the water into deeper, more concealing shadows.
That, he thought, is not the smell of fear.
He rose up, his long red tail twitching on the deck, his bat-like wings folding behind his back. On heavy feet, he walked across the deck, through the awkward, hateful silence and stench surrounding the humans, his eyes intent on the side of the tiny vessel. The tall, ugly one in black, made no movement to step aside.
‘What’s the matter with you, reptile?’ he asked with a sneer.
Gariath’s answer was the back of his clawed hand against the rogue’s jaw and a casual step over his collapsed form. Ignoring the scowl shot at his back, Gariath leaned down over the side of the boat, nostrils twitching, black eyes searching the water.
‘What … is it?’ Lenk asked, leaning down beside the dragonman.
Lenk was less stupid than the others by only a fraction, Gariath tolerated the silver-haired human with a healthy disrespect that he carried for all humans, nothing personal. The dragonman glowered over the water. Lenk stepped beside him and followed his gaze.
‘It’s coming,’ he grunted.
‘What is?’ Kataria asked, ears twitching.
Not an inch of skin was left without gooseflesh when Gariath looked up and smiled, without showing teeth.
‘Fate,’ he answered.
Before anyone could even think how to interpret his statement, much less respond to it, the boat shuddered. Lenk hurled himself to the other railing, eyes wide and hand shaking.
‘Sword,’ he said. ‘Sword! Sword! Where’s my sword?’ His hand apparently caught up with his mind as he reached up and tore the blade from the sheath on his back. ‘Grab your weapons! Hurry! Hurry!’
‘What is it?’ Kataria asked, her hands already rifling through the bundle that held her bow.
‘I … was looking into the water.’ Lenk turned to her. ‘And … it looked back.’
It took only a few moments for the bundle to lie open and empty as hands snatched up weapons. Lenk’s sword was flashing in his hand, Kataria’s arrow drawn back, Denaos’ knives in his hand and Dreadaeleon standing over Asper, his eyes pouring the crimson magic that flowed through him.
Only Gariath stood unconcerned, his smile still soft and gentle across his face.
The boat rocked slightly, bobbing with the confusion of their own hasty movements. The sea muttered its displeasure at their sudden franticness, hissing angrily as the waves settled. The boat bobbed for an anxiety-filled eternity, ears twitching, steel flashing, eyes darting.
Several moments passed. An errant bubble found its way to the surface and sizzled. Denaos stared at it, blinked.
‘What?’ he asked. ‘That’s it?’
And then the sea exploded.
The water split apart with a bestial howl, its frothy life erupting in a great white gout as something tremendous rose to scrape at the night sky. Its wake tossed the boat back, knocking the companions beneath a sea of froth. Only Gariath remained standing, still smiling, closing his eyes as the water washed over him.
Dripping and half-blind with froth, Lenk pulled his wet hair like curtains from his eyes. His vision was blurred, and through the salty haze he swore he could make out something immense and black with glowing yellow eyes.
The Deepshriek, he thought in a panic, it’s come back. Of course it’s come back.
‘No,’ the voice made itself known inside his head. ‘It fears us. This …