heard was but a fragment of his voice. It was a weak and dying noise, there and gone in an instant. Perhaps, she wondered, she imagined it?
A trick of her mind or her bloodied ears? Or maybe, in her heart if not her mind, she knew he was already dead and heard the last traces of his breath escaping this world before he followed it. Either way, it was a flimsy, weak excuse to linger in a forsaken fortress filled with demons.
Still, she thought as she cracked her knuckles, I’ve gone off less before.
‘Hurry it up,’ she growled as she leaned down to inspect the bottom of the slab. ‘He’s not well.’
‘Compared to you?’ She heard Denaos’s long sigh. ‘Good luck.’
She turned at the sounds of boots scraping across the stones. Denaos, with no particular rush or hesitation, stalked down the hall towards the drowned section. She quirked a brow.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Let’s not belabour this, please. We all knew there was going to have to be a parting of ways, eventually.’ He threw his hands up in resignation. ‘I did what I could. Let Silf bear witness.’
‘You did nothing!’ she spat at his back, as though her words were arrows. ‘I know your petty round-ear God rewards cowardice, but I don’t. Now get back here and help.’
He could feel her eyes boring into him, that emerald stare that he had seen even Lenk flinch at. But he was not Lenk. He was not Gariath. He was not Kataria. He was a reasonable man. He was a cautious man. He was a man who knew when to run.
Keep telling yourself that, he thought. Eventually, you’ll believe it. He stooped, making certain that the shict wouldn’t see his bitter frown, hear his sigh. Don’t turn around, he reminded himself, don’t turn around. She doesn’t deserve a second look from you. None of them do. You told them. You warned them. They didn’t listen and this is what happened.
It’s not your fault.
He paused at the edge of the water, blanched at its blackness and noted that it wasn’t nearly black enough to hide the frowning face that looked back up at him.
No . . . still don’t believe it.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a bowstring drawn. He couldn’t say that the sight of her eyes, narrowed to venomous slits over a glistening arrowhead, was particularly unexpected.
‘No clansman is left behind,’ she snarled, ‘ever.’
Steady now, he told himself, holding his hands up for peace. She’s clearly lost what little mind she had.
‘Must we do this now?’ he half-whined.
Brilliant.
‘It should have been done long ago,’ she hissed, pulling the fletching to her cheek. ‘I’ve been lingering amongst your diseased race for too long. I wanted to believe the stories my father told me weren’t true.’ He caught the briefest sliver of a tear murmuring at the corner of her eye. ‘I wanted to believe that.’
Sweet Silf, she’s completely mad. Mad, he realised, and perceptive. His hands twitched, fingers eyeing the dagger at his belt. She responded, string drawing taut, teeth clenched.
‘But every time I try, every legend proves true, every story about your cowardice and sickness . . .’ Her eyes went wide, like a crazed beast’s. ‘All of it was true.’
Grief-ridden, perhaps, he suspected. Gods know Lenk was a decent man, but this seems a bit extreme. He noted the trail of blood that had dried upon her temple. Maybe that last blow did it . . . His attentions were drawn back to the arrow. Either way . . .
‘If I can’t do anything for Lenk . . .’ She growled, her fingers twitched anxiously. ‘I have to do something.’
‘He’s not a shict.’
Her fingers twitched, bowstring eased just a scant hair. Good enough, he thought as his hand slid a little closer to his belt.
‘W-what?’ Her expression seemed to suggest she hadn’t contemplated that fact in some time.
‘He’s human, you know,’ the rogue continued, pressing a thumb to his chest. ‘Like me, not you.’ He raised one hand in appeal, all the better to draw attention from the other. ‘You call him “clansman”, like that means anything to him ... to us. But it only bears any weight on long, notched ears.’
There might still be a way out of this, he told himself, you don’t have to kill her. Yet, as his fingers brushed the weapon’s hilt, it seemed to add: But just in case . . .
‘Lenk’s . . . not like you,’ she muttered without much conviction.