see him look at her that way, she reasoned, in any other situation. Amongst the library of bandages and scrolls, however, she resisted the urge to return the gesture and waited until she heard the shuffling of his feet once more.
‘So, what was it?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Pardon?’
‘The creature,’ he said, ‘that thing. Was it some unholy demon sent from hell? Or an agent of a wrathful god? What?’
‘What makes you think I know?’ She scowled at him. ‘Is there nothing in any of your books that explains it?’
‘I have only one book,’ he replied, patting the heavy leather-bound object hanging from his waist, ‘and it’s filled with other things.’ He tucked a scroll into the arms of another corpse. ‘Nobody knows what that thing was.’ He looked up at her suddenly. ‘But the Lord Emissary seems to have a better idea than anyone else.’
‘What are you insinuating?’ she asked, her eyes narrowing as she drew herself up. ‘Lord Miron would never consort with such abominations.’
‘Of course not,’ Dreadaeleon said, shaking his head. ‘I’m just curious as to what that creature was.’ He sighed quizzically. ‘It’s certainly not something I’ve ever seen in any bestiary.’
‘You’re as likely to have an answer as I am,’ Asper replied with a shrug. ‘I’ve never heard of anything that can drown a man on dry land, have you?’
‘There are spells that can do such things. But if it had been using magic, I would have known.’ He paused and thought for a moment. ‘I wish that ooze hadn’t dried off Moscoff—’
‘Mossud.’
‘I wish it hadn’t dried off his face so easily. I could have studied it.’
The priestess chuckled dryly and he turned to her, raising an eyebrow.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘I shouldn’t be laughing, I know. But . . . you’re the only man I know who would face something so horrible and wish he could have been closer to it.’ She stifled further inappropriate laughter. ‘Denaos has sent no word yet?’
‘No,’ the wizard replied, shaking his head. ‘The captain and he have been down there for hours.’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows what they’re doing to Rashodd?’
‘I’m not certain I want to know,’ Asper replied, frowning. She cast a glance to the companionway leading to the hold below and shuddered.
‘And what do you intend to do about him?’ Dreadaeleon asked, pointing to the far side of the mess hall.
Asper cringed; she had purposely avoided glancing at that particular section. Swallowing her anxiety, she turned and glanced at the cold, limp corpse of the frogman lying on the table under a sheet, eyes wide open and glazed over as they stared up at the ceiling. She hadn’t even ventured near enough to close his eyes, she realised, cursing herself for such disrespect. Still, it was difficult for her even to glance at the corpse. Without the rush of combat, the man’s appearance unnerved her greatly.
Anxiety was not a word that Dreadaeleon recognised, however, and she gasped as she saw the wizard take a seat next to the corpse and poke it curiously.
‘Dread!’ she cried out, hurrying over. She skidded to a halt about halfway, cringing, but forced herself to come alongside the boy. ‘Foe or not, have some respect for the dead!’
‘Look at this,’ the wizard said, ignoring her. He held up the corpse’s limp arm and she cringed again. He held the arm a little closer to the light and pointed to the skin. ‘His skin is still wet and he’s been down here for hours and . . . my, my, what’s this?’
He didn’t have to point it out to her, for Asper saw it as clearly as he did. The boy gently pulled the man’s fingers apart, stretching the flaps of skin between the digits.
‘Webbed hands,’ he said, examining the digits. He dropped the hand and spun in his seat, lifting up the man’s leg. ‘Look here . . . he has them between his toes as well.’
‘Fascinating,’ Asper replied. ‘Do you really have to do this now?’
‘And if he has webbed appendages . . .’ Dreadaeleon trailed off as he inched closer to the frogman’s head.
Asper reeled back, cringing as he lifted the corpse’s head and pulled back his ear. She nearly retched when she saw the thin red slits hidden behind the earlobe.
‘Interesting,’ Dreadaeleon remarked, sharing none of her disgust. ‘He has . . . gills.’
‘So . . . he really is a frogman?’
‘It’d be more accurate to call him a fishman, I think.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Asper replied, intentionally avoiding looking at the mutated man. ‘It’s