she reached behind and took a bit of it between her fingers. It was too thick for water, she realised, and carried a peculiar but familiar odour.
Sparing no words for surprise or disgust, she felt the chill grow colder, a long shadow descending over her.
‘Oh,’ she gasped, looking up, ‘hell . . .’
She saw herself reflected in the Abysmyth’s white eyes for a moment before a long, black claw seized her by the throat. Her scream was wordless and terrified as she was hoisted into the air.
Lenk whirled about at the cry, his sword up and feet moving before he even knew what had happened. He had barely taken a step, however, before the entire fortress trembled. A massive stone block fell with a thunderous crash, wedging itself firmly in the doorway and banishing Lenk behind a vast screen of grey.
Kataria barely had time to glimpse the sight of another demon grabbing Denaos, the rogue going limp in its claws, before her captor whirled her about. Her bow effortlessly wrenched from her grasp, her quiver torn from her back and tossed to the earth, she was helpless as the demon presented her before dozens of pale faces, each one a perfect copy of the others, looking at her through malicious black eyes.
And at their fore was their staff-bearing leader, the only face to be twisted into a broad, needle-toothed grin as it croaked.
‘Mother Deep . . . has sent us much.’
Twenty-Two
THE COLOUR OF PAIN
Irontide was a thing oblivious to the sun.
As dark and foreboding in the bright afternoon as at dusk, it turned a stony and shadowed face to the shore, frowning with its many catapult-carved gashes, grinning with its corpse-laden spikes when the waters receded. A dispassionate monarch of the waves, Irontide was unmoved by the concerned stare that had bored into it since early morning, choosing to show the fate of those who defied it whenever disapproving eyes lingered too long.
The metaphor, Asper decided, was fitting. Irontide was a tyrant, complete with its own crown of parasites.
The Omens shimmered in the afternoon sun, ruffling feathers, heads twisting on stiff necks as they swept their bulbous eyes about the sea. The priestess was not afraid to stand openly upon the beach as she did; the little creatures showed no signs of moving. Rather, she found herself staring at them expectantly, holding her breath every time they chattered their teeth in a chorus, wondering if they would begin mimicking the sounds of her dying companions as they were torn into pieces by whatever lurked within the fortress.
The demons, to their credit, seemed to possess enough tact to spare her such a thing.
And yet, she thought resentfully, even a horrific echo from their withered maws would give her at least some notion of what was going on inside. The Omens gave no indication that they had any more idea than she, and stood as they had for ages: organised in neat, white rows upon the battlements, wide eyes unblinking even as the light of an angry afternoon sun poured mercilessly into them.
A sun, Asper noted, that hung ominously high.
‘Four hours.’ She sighed.
While she hadn’t expected any great outpouring of emotion from her companion, she felt compelled to scowl at Gariath as he stared off towards the jungle, snout upturned and nostrils flickering.
‘Four hours since they went in,’ she reiterated.
Gariath, apparently realising she wasn’t going to be content with showing off her ability to tell time, flared his ear-frills aggressively and glared.
‘And?’
‘Shouldn’t they be back by now?’ she asked.
‘Had I gone with them, they should,’ he snorted. ‘Since I’m here, however, their corpses might wash up in a day or two.’
‘Are you being scornful,’ Asper glared at him, ‘or just insensitive?’
‘I wasn’t aware I had to choose between the two,’ he replied, and turned his attention back to the jungle.
She would have suggested that they go in after their, supposedly, mutual companions, but wisdom held her tongue. Whyever Lenk had decided to go in with only Kataria and Denaos, perhaps two of the less reliable companions, to watch his back, she was certain he had reason.
It seemed to make sense to her, at any rate, since the remaining two members seemed to be less interested than she was. Dreadaeleon sat some distance down the beach, babbling excitedly with Greenhair, who had yet to show even an ounce of concern, despite seeming the most knowledgeable regarding what might happen within the tower. Her apathy seemed to have infected the boy; he hadn’t moved