purpose does it serve to make so much noise? Who can hear with such a tone-deaf chorus? It is a distraction.’
The thing’s other hand rose up like a great, black branch.
‘The cure is nigh.’
‘Cure it!’ the Omens shrieked excitedly. ‘Cure! Cure! Cure!’
It happened with such quick action that Lenk had no time to turn away. In the span of an unblinking eye’s quiver, the demon took the Cragsman’s arm in its own great hand and, with barely more than a wet popping noise, wrenched it off.
‘HELP ME!’ the man wailed. ‘ZAMANTHRAS! DAEON! GODS HELP ME!’ Tears ran in rivulets down his forehead, mingling with fat, red globs that plopped upon the sand. ‘PLEASE!’
‘And for what purpose, my son?’ The Abysmyth shook its great head. ‘Why do you make so much noise, calling to Gods who know not your name nor your suffering? Where is your mercy from heaven? Where is the end to suffering?’
It flicked its taloned hands, sending the appendage flying to land amidst the sands. The Omens let out a collective chatter of approval, bobbing their heads, their bulbous eyes never looking away from Lenk.
‘Where is it?’ they asked. ‘Where is the end? Where are the Gods? Where is the mercy?’
‘Sea Mother,’ the man began babbling a prayer, ‘benevolent matron, bountiful provider, blessed watcher. Wash my sins away on the sand, deliver me to my—’
‘NO!’
The Abysmyth’s howl echoed across the sea, across the sky. The Omens recoiled, fluttering off their branches to hover ponderously for a moment before settling back down. The demon’s black hand trembled as it pointed a claw at the pirate.
‘No blasphemies,’ it uttered, ‘no distractions.’ It shook its great head. ‘There is but one Mother here, one who may provide you with the mercy you seek.’ Its hand lurched forwards, seizing the pirate’s other arm. ‘Can you not see the truth I seek to give you? Can you not see what woe you wreak upon the world?’
‘Can you not?’ the Omens muttered. ‘Can you not see?’
‘The way becomes clear,’ the demon nodded, ‘with suffering to guide your path.’
Lenk grimaced at the sound of ripping, turned away at the sound of meat sliding along the sand, closed his ears to the sound of the man’s shrieking. It was too much.
‘Don’t bother,’ the voice replied, effortlessly heard over the pirate’s agony, ‘he made his path, chose his destiny. He deserves not our aid.’
‘He doesn’t deserve this,’ Lenk all but whimpered.
‘His sins will be washed clean in the demon’s blood. Now, patience.’
‘Can you hear it now?’ The Abysmyth pulled the man up, bringing him to eye level. ‘Can you hear Her wondrous song? How it calls to you . . . how I envy you to hear it for the first time. Let Her hear your joy in the whisper of your tears.’
‘Let Her.’ The Omens giggled. ‘She hears all, She delights in your discovery and Her song shall guide you.’
‘Do you hear it?’ The Abysmyth shook the man slightly. ‘Do you?’
There was nothing left to drain from him, however, no more agony upon his face, no more pain to leak from his stumps. He merely dangled there, mouth agape, eyes barely open. Only the glimmer behind them told Lenk that he was still alive, only the shine of what once had been hope, snuffed out. The Cragsman’s lips quivered, mouthing soundless words to him.
Kill me, he pleaded silently, please.
‘So,’ Gariath muttered, ‘what was it?’
Dreadaeleon glanced up at the dragonman, licking his lips as he finished slurping a liquid from a tin cup.
‘What was what?’
‘What called you?’
‘Ah.’ The boy’s eyes lit up. ‘It was actually quite interesting. I’m surprised you’re curious.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Then why did you ask?’
‘Because,’ the dragonman replied, ‘if it calls to you again, I plan to kill you before you can do something stupid. To that end, I’d like to know what to listen for so I can act before you do.’
‘Pragmatic.’ The boy inclined his head. ‘The truth is, I’m not entirely sure. It was something of a song without words, music without notes.’ He paused, straining to think. ‘Flatulence without smell? No, no, it was purely auditory.’ His nostrils quivered. ‘It occurs to me, though, I’d think you could smell whatever it was long before I heard it.’
‘Your thinking tends to be brief and often fleeting,’ Gariath grunted. ‘I can’t smell anything with you drinking that bile.’ He pointed to the tin cup clenched in the boy’s hands as Dreadaeleon squeezed his waterskin over it. ‘What is it, anyway? It smells like bat