His great red fist became a falling comet, dragging the rest of him to the floor where he struck with a crash. She remained tense, even as he dragged himself towards her, extended a quivering hand and uttered two words.
‘Hate . . . you . . .’
And he fell. Still breathing, she noted, but not moving, like Dreadaeleon, like the rest of Irontide. Whatever it had been before, before it was taken by pirates, before it was taken by demons, it was truly forsaken now.
Bodies lay everywhere, the salt choked with blood, the stones littered with flesh, the air tainted by ash. Whatever netherlings had escaped were gone now, their snarling cries absent in the silence as smoke and water poured out of Irontide’s jagged hole. Death drew a merry ring about the hall, haphazard bodies scattered artistically in a ritual circle at the centre of which stood Asper, still alive, still breathing.
Still cursed.
‘Why,’ she asked as she collapsed to her knees, ‘why am I still alive?’
‘Good question.’
Denaos did not look entirely out of place, standing nearby, hands on hips as he surveyed the carnage. Clad in black, his flesh purple in places from bruising, he looked the very spectre of Gevrauch, come to reap a bloody harvest from the white and purple fields. The rogue merely scratched his chin, then looked to her and smiled.
‘Still alive, I see.’ His eyes drifted to Gariath and Dreadaeleon. ‘And them?’
‘Yes,’ she replied.
‘Not by much, it looks like,’ he said, wincing. Quietly, he stepped forwards. ‘Netherlings gone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Demons dead?’
‘Yes.’
She felt his shadow, cool against the heat of the flames. She felt his hand on her shoulder, strong against the softness of her aching body. She felt his eyes on hers, hard and real, full of questions and answers.
‘Asper,’ he asked, ‘are you all right?’
She bit her lower lip, wishing more than anything that she had tears left to weep with. Instead, she collapsed forwards, pressing her face against his shoulder as she whispered.
‘Yes.’
Thirty
MORE PERSONABLE COMPANY
Lenk held his hand before his face, turning it over.
‘That’s odd,’ he muttered.
‘Hm?’ someone within replied.
‘My skin . . . I don’t remember it being grey.’
‘An issue worthy of concern.’
‘And my head . . . it feels heavy.’
‘Moderately distressing.’
‘Only moderately?’
‘In comparison to the fact that we’re still alive, I should have added. Apologies.’
‘It’s fine.’ He blinked, lowered his hand to feel the cold rock beneath him. ‘I am still alive, aren’t I?’
‘We are, yes.’
‘Apologies. I forgot you were there.’
‘Think nothing of it.’
‘I thank you . . .’ Lenk furrowed his brow. ‘You know, I don’t ever recall you being quite so chatty. Usually, it’s all “kill, kill” with you.’
‘You haven’t really cared to hear what I have to say,’ the voice replied. ‘When one speaks to closed ears, one places a priority on available words.’
‘Point taken.’ He let the silence hang inside his head for a moment. ‘Who are you?’
‘Pardon?’
‘We’ve never been properly introduced.’
‘Is that really necessary at this point?’
‘I suppose not . . . but I feel I should know who you are if you’re going to do what you did back in the water.’
‘Excuse that intervention. Things were looking quite grim.’
‘I suppose they were. But there are no worries now.’ He smiled at the familiarity of the satchel beneath his head, the tome safe and supportive within. ‘We have the book. The Deepshriek is gone. It’s over.’
‘It is not.’
The voice was painfully clear and crisp now, as though it was hissing in his ear. He could almost feel its icy breath upon his water-slick skin. And yet, he did not so much as shiver. The chill felt almost natural, as did the presence that settled all around him, within him. It felt familiar, comforting.
And cold.
‘I . . . beg to differ,’ he replied. ‘We’re alive. We’ve got a tome and a sword. What else do you need?’
‘Duty. Purpose. Death.’
‘There you go with the “death” thing again—’
‘You think it wise to leave the Deepshriek alive?’
‘No, but I—’
‘You chopped off a head. It has three.’
‘That usually suffices with most people.’
‘That thing is not people.’
‘Point taken.’
‘What of the others? They are weak . . . purposeless. Let us lie here if you wish them all to die.’
‘The Deepshriek said—’
‘Three mouths to lie with . . . apologies, two now. We should have killed it when we had the chance.’
‘It ran.’
‘We could have pursued.’
‘Through water?’
‘Through anything. It fears us. It fears our blade.’
‘Our blade?’
‘The hand that wields it is nothing without the duty to guide it.’
‘I’m . . . not quite up