Текст книги "Black Halo"

Автор книги: Sam Sykes

Соавторы: Sam Sykes
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 41 страниц)

Her left arm tensed and she clenched at it, scratching it as though it were consumed by ants. A low whine rose in her throat, becoming an agonised whisper as she scratched fiercer and fiercer until red began to stain the sleeve of her robe.

‘Dread,’ she looked up at him, certainty replaced by horror. ‘ What’s happening?’

Eight

THE NATURALIST

The crawling thing picked its way across the sand, intent on some distant goal. It had six legs, two claws, two bulbous eyes and, apparently, no visible destination. Over the bones, over the tainted earth, over the fallen, rusted weapons it crawled, eyes always ahead, eyes never moving, legs never stopping.

Surely, Sheraptus reasoned, something so small would not know where it was going. Could it even comprehend the vastness of the worlds around it? The worlds beyond its own damp sand? Perhaps it would walk forever, never knowing, never stopping.

Until, Sheraptus thought as he lifted his boot over the thing, it became aware of just how small it was.

Then it happened: a change in the wind, a fluctuation of temperature. He turned and looked into the distance.

‘There it is again,’ he muttered.

‘Hmm?’ his companion asked.

‘You don’t sense it?’

‘Magic?’

‘ Nethra, yes.’

‘I am attuned to higher callings, I am afraid.’

‘So you say,’ Sheraptus said.

‘You have no reason to distrust me, do you?’

‘Not as such, no.’ His lip curled up in a sneer. ‘That provides me little comfort.’

‘What is it that troubles you, if I may ask?’

‘You may, thank you. A signature, a fleeting expenditure of strength. It’s not what you’d call “big”, but rather … pronounced. It’s a moth that flutters before the flame and disappears before I can catch it in my hands.’

‘A moth?’

‘Yes. They do fly before flame, do they not?’

‘They do.’ The Grey One That Grins smiled, baring finger-long teeth. ‘You seem to be fascinated with all things insect today.’

‘Ah, but did you not say that this thing-’ He flitted a hand to the crawler.

‘Crab.’

‘This crab. It is not an insect?’

‘It is not.’

‘It has a carapace, many legs …’

‘It does.’

‘Why is it not an insect, then?’

‘Its identity is its own, I suppose.’

Sheraptus glanced down to the sand and the tiny crab. ‘Why does it exist?’

‘Hmm?’

‘A tiny thing that moves in the same, meaningless direction as other tiny things, that looks exactly like other tiny things, but is not the same tiny thing as the others?’ He quirked a brow. ‘I have never seen such a thing.’

‘They have no such things in the Nether?’

‘None. Females are females. Males are males. Females kill. Males speak with nethra. This is how things are.’ He sighed, rolling his eyes. ‘This is what makes them so … dull.’

‘Hence our agreement.’

‘Naturally,’ Sheraptus said. He adjusted the crown on his head, felt the red stones inside it burn at his touch. ‘And while I am not ungrateful for your donations, I have some reservations.’

‘Such as?’

‘This world … I have difficulty comprehending it. The Nether is dull, of course, but it is logical. It makes sense. This one …’

‘What about it?’

‘I suppose I’m mainly concerned with everyone’s decision to do whatever they want.’

‘Expound?’

‘This is supposedly an island of death, yes?’

‘The war between Ulbecetonth’s brood and the House of the Vanquishing Trinity left the land scarred. The taint of death is embroiled in its very earth. Nothing pure grows here. Nothing pure lives here.’

‘I believe you said, originally, that nothing lived here, period.’

‘Did I?’ The Grey One That Grins smiled. ‘It likely seemed more dramatic at the time, the better to catch your interest. Apologies for the deception.’

‘Please, think nothing of it. My interest is certainly caught. But as we see, things do live here.’ He glanced down the beach. ‘Or did, anyway.’

The earth there was a place of deeper death than even the ruinous battlefield of the beach could match. The earth was seared black, still smoking in places. Mingled amongst the burned earth were shapes consisting of two arms and two legs, their bodies twisted into ash that flaked off with each stray gust of wind. They were scarcely distinct from the blackened earth, let alone as Those Green Things they had started life as.

‘Truth be told, they are among the source of my worries.’

‘Go on.’

‘They came down. They attacked me.’

‘You were on their land.’

‘Their land that nothing lives on.’

‘It was still theirs.’

‘But why? Why bother over such a land? Would it not make more sense to depart to a place where life persists?’

‘If you’ll recall, and I mean no disrespect in reminding you, they didhave such a land. You repurposed it.’

‘Your generosity is obliged, but I take no offence in the common term.’ Sheraptus shrugged. ‘The netherlings required their land. We took it.’

‘And why did you take it?’

‘Because we are strong. They are weak. Why did they not simply flee from us?’

‘Ah, I begin to see your puzzlement. May I pose a theory?’

‘By all means.’

‘The term you seek is “symbiosis”.’

‘Sym … bi … osis,’ he sounded it out. A smile of jagged teeth creased his purple lips. ‘I likethat word. What does it mean?’

‘It is the condition in which, through mutual cooperation, one life-form supports another.’

‘Ah, now I am further confused. You’ll have to pardon me.’

‘Not at all. Consider them …’ The Grey One That Grins gestured to the burned corpses.

‘Those Green Things,’ Sheraptus said, nodding. ‘Well, not so green anymore. What of them?’

‘They did not abandon their land until they had no choice, because to abandon their land would mean their death. They cultivate the land, feed their trees, guard their waters. In return, the land provides them with fruit and fish to feed off of.’

‘Mm,’ Sheraptus hummed. ‘One almost feels poorly for what we did to them.’

‘Almost?’

‘As I said, we required their land if we are to return your generous contributions.’

‘Please, don’t make any mistake. The Martyr Stones are our gift to you.’ His companion gestured to the crown. ‘You have used them wisely thus far. We trust that you will use them wisely in days to come.’

‘Trust …’ Sheraptus gazed skyward for a moment, his milk-white, pupilless eyes lighting up. ‘Ah. I believe I understand. Do you mind if I theorise?’

‘Oh, please do.’

‘Symbiosis is what you believe us to be. You give us these stones, you lead us to this new green world and in return …’

‘Go on.’

‘We kill the underscum. This … Kraken Queen of yours.’

‘You seem to grasp it quite well.’

‘Yet I remain puzzled.’

‘Oh?’

‘Indeed. I am told there is a bigger, vaster world beyond these chunks of sand floating in this … it’s called an ocean?’

‘It is and there are.’

‘A bigger, vaster world filled with more beasts, more birds, more trees and more people and all their vast multitudes of invisible sky-people.’

‘Gods.’

‘Another word for “stupid”.’

‘Agreed.’

‘And there are …’ He looked to his companion, smirked. ‘Females there?’

‘Many.’

‘Then why are Sheraptus and Arkklan Kaharn here on this desolate place? Why are we not out and learning more of this world?’

‘I did request your presence here.’

‘Ah. I suppose the question then becomes, why are we listening to you?’

His vision was painted red as the nethrasurged through him. Crimson light leaked from his eyes, painting his companion as a dark blob against the ruby haze. The Martyr Stones in his crown blazed, the black iron they were set in growing warm with their response.

It had been the last sight Those Green Things had seen before they were reduced to ash. They had shrieked in their language, tried to crawl over each other to escape. The Grey One That Grins did not try to escape, though. The Grey One That Grins never moved unless he had to.

He thought he didn’t have to move.

Sheraptus made people move.

Sheraptus was not pleased.

‘Ah, but how would you make this world work for you?’

‘I’d find a way.’

‘You did not find a way to reach this world. It was our searching that discovered the Nether before we found heaven.’

‘Heaven does not exist.’

‘Many suspect it does.’

‘Then they are weak.’

‘Weakness rules this world, Sheraptus. They believe in things that they themselves do not understand. You cannot hope to understand it, either. Not without us.’

‘And what do you provide?’ Sheraptus asked, narrowing his fiery stare. ‘You send us on errands against the underscum. They are weak. The females hunger for greater fights.’

‘You suggested that they were dull for their hunger.’

‘What I said then and what I say now are different. I, too, tire of this pointless burning. The appeal of the Martyr Stones remains trivial, fleeting. I wish to know more of this land, and all I have discovered are useless relics from useless wars.’

‘May I dispute?’

‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

‘I must insist,’ the Grey One That Grins said. ‘Within these ruins lie secrets of the House, the methods they used to banish Ulbecetonth. We must seek them out if we are to destroy her.’

‘You mean if Iam to destroy her,’ Sheraptus replied. ‘You only seem to emerge when you require something else of me.’

‘I would entreat you to have patience with me. My presence is required at many places at once.’

‘The point remains, I have yet to see a reason to oblige you in this vendetta against your demons.’

‘You wish to see the world beyond this one? Very well. But know that Gods are strange things. People may not understand it, but they believe that the Gods will protect them in exchange for their devotion.’

‘Symbiosis.’

‘Precisely. And their devotions come with spears and swords, Sheraptus, and they are many. Arkklan Kaharn numbers how many? Five hundred?’

‘That is as many as we’ve been able to bring through the Nether.’

‘Slay Ulbecetonth and you shall have more. We will put our resources behind you. We will open more doors to the Nether. We will point you to the seats of knowledge in this world. We will unleash you … if you simply perform this triviality for us.’

Sheraptus stared at him for a time before he blinked. The stones ceased to burn. His eyes returned to their milky white.

‘I suppose I can have patience for a while yet, then,’ he said.

‘I am pleased we could reach an agreement. All else goes according to plan?’

‘It does. Yldus is scouting the overscum city you wished us to. Vashnear combs this island with the Carnassials.’

‘And you?’

‘I am here to speak to someone about a book,’ Sheraptus said, smiling.

‘I was intending to inquire as to its status.’

‘I am pleased to have saved you the trouble.’

‘You would take no offence if I left now, then?’

‘Unless you require something else of me.’

‘At the moment?’

‘Or in the near future.’

The Grey One That Grins tilted his head to the side, looking thoughtful. Or as thoughtful as Sheraptus suspected his companion was capable of looking.

‘I have been made aware of certain presences upon the island,’ he said after a moment. ‘Peculiar creatures that should have died long ago.’

‘Beyond Those Green Things?’

‘Far beyond. Humans.’

‘With all due respect to your awareness and attunements,’ Sheraptus said, ‘I suspect That Thing That Screams would have told me if any other elements arrived.’

‘I do not trust that creature.’

‘I would suggest, then, that you trust in my hold over her.’

‘As you say. Of course, should you find trust in my reasoning, I would ask that you do your best not to slaughter these humans. They continue to oppose Ulbecetonth and have dealt blows against her before.’

Sheraptus quirked a brow. ‘These are the ones that were at Irontide?’

‘The very same. Does this aggravate you?’

‘Not entirely, no. The females lost were … females. They’d have been disappointed if they didn’t die.’

‘And the male?’

‘Cahulus was weak, apparently.’

‘I can trust your discretion, then?’

‘Discretion …’ Sheraptus hummed the word.

‘Judgement.’

‘You can concede my judgement.’

‘I will settle for that, then.’ The Grey One That Grins turned to go, crawling upon his hands and feet. ‘I trust Vashnear will arrange for the usual transportation?’

‘Of course.’

‘Very well, then. I leave things in your capabilities.’ The Grey One That Grins continued for another three paces before pausing and glancing over his emaciated shoulder. ‘Sheraptus?’

‘Hm?’

‘Symbiosis without certainty is faith.’

‘Faith being?’

‘The ability to move in one direction without necessarily knowing where one is going.’

‘Weakness.’

‘The one that drives the world.’

The Grey One That Grins said nothing more as he slinked down the rest of the beach, disappearing behind a dune. Sheraptus watched him go for as long as it took for him to feel it again: a light brushing of air against his cheeks, the faint warmth of fire screened through snow.

A moth’s wings, flapping.

He recognised it as nethra, albeit only a faint, fleeting trace of it. Weak as it was, though, the intent behind it was clear. With whatever pitiful power they had, someone was reaching out for him.

He smiled softly, narrowed his eyes and reached back.

As one, the fire erupted from his eyes as a wave of force swept out from his body. It sped along the sand, kicking it up in small waves of dirt. In a moment, it dissipated, but the force lingered. He watched it sweep over dunes, over beach, over puddle, following a distant, unseen goal.

He waited patiently.

He heard a scream, faint in the distance.

Female.

He smiled.

Dreadaeleon turned at her howl, seeing her clutching at her arm wildly.

‘ What’s happening?’ Asper wailed. ‘ What is it?’

He was about to ask when he was struck by it a moment later. The force shot through him, reaching up into his body with a burning hand, seizing his bowels in intangible icy fingers and giving it a sharp twist.

Keep it together, old man, he tried to tell himself. Keep it together. She’s in trouble now. Keep it together for her. He took a step toward her, collapsed onto his knees. Breath was coming in rasping, thick gasps, the force slipping up to choke him from the inside. FOR VENARIE’S SAKE, YOU WEAK LITTLE-

His insult died with his thoughts as electricity gripped his skull, setting it rattling in its thin case of flesh and hair. For a fleeting moment, he was aware of the sensation, aware of what it meant. Someone was attempting to find his thoughts, to harness the electric impulse in his skull. The human mind was too complex for that, he knew, just as he knew that every experimental attempt to do so had ended in-

He screamed. He couldn’t hear it. His ears were ringing. His vision was darkening.

He looked to his side. Asper was not screaming. Why wasn’t she screaming? She was always screaming, always terrified. He was supposed to protect her now. Once he remembered how to use his legs, he decided, he would do just that. All he needed to do was remember how to do that, also how to breathe.

Asper was clutching her arm, obviously in pain, but speaking clearly. The certainty was still present in the set of her jaw, the determination in her face. But there was something else there, a glimmer of something in her eye. He recognised it; he wished he could remember what it meant.

With his last thought, he wondered how things could have gone so wrong. He was going to save everyone, save her. But now he was numb, barely aware of the earth moving under him. But as his vision darkened, he could see the gloved hands gripping his shoulders, pulling him along. He stared up into Denaos’ face and summoned up the will for one final thought.

You dumb asshole.

Nine

PESTS

Five hundred and forty-nine patches of disease crawling on two legs, he thought as he stared down at the tiny port city beneath the setting sun.

Two hundred and sixty able to hold a weapon, with five hundred and twenty eyes that spoke of their inability to know how.

One hundred and three of them carrying fishing rods and nets instead, taking their aggressions out against an ocean that was far too kind to them.

Ninety and six of them infirm, indisposed or suffering from the delusion that their lack of external genitalia was an excuse to let others do the fighting.

Ninety remained, evenly split between visitors in short boats who believed that the glittering chunks of metal they traded for their fish and grain was what made their civilisation worthy of crushing other peoples beneath its boot, and the children …

The children …

Naxiaw scratched his chin, acknowledging the coarse scrawl of tattoos etched from beneath his lip to up over his skull.

Forty and five little, toddling future lamentations. Forty and five impending regrets on skinny, hairless legs. His eyes narrowed, teeth clenched behind thin lips. Forty and five future murderers, butchers, burners and desecrators.

He had counted.

Diseases all.

Naxiaw took note of them: where they stood, what weapons they carried and which ones would cower in pools of their own urine when he led the rest of them down into their streets. With a finger smeared with black dye, on a piece of tanned leather, he scrawled the city as he saw it from high on the cliff. His six-toed feet dangled over the ledge, kicking with carefree casualness as he plotted a death with each dab of dye.

Port Yonder, as the humans called it, was a city built on contempt.

It was a demonstration of stone walls and hewn wood that the kou’rubred with more rapidity than could be contained. It was proof that there would never be enough flesh and fish to satisfy their voracity. It was their assertion of contempt for the land, that they would desecrate and destroy in the name of building walls to cower behind, to raise filthy little children behind.

Children, he knew, that will grow up to consume more land, to spread the same disease.

It was a city that proved beyond a doubt the threat of humanity.

He reached behind him, ran his long fingers down the long black braid that descended from his otherwise hairless head. He brushed the four black feathers laced into its tuft. He had earned them the day he proved that threats, no matter how unstoppable they might seem, could be killed.

The time for vengeance would be later; for the moment, he returned their contempt.

He sat brazenly out in the open, long having deemed subterfuge and camouflage unnecessary. The humans hadn’t spotted him in the week he’d been there, and wouldn’t. To do that, they would have to look up.

All it would take for him to be spotted would be for one of them to look up, to see his pale green skin, to squint until they saw the long, pointed ears with six notches carved into each length, to let eyes go wide and scream ‘ Shict!’ They would all be upon him, then; they would kill him, find his map, realise there were more of him coming, assemble their forces, pass the word to their many outliers and empires.

And then, Intsh Kir Maa, Many Red Harvests, and all the long and deliberate years that had gone into its planning would be foiled. The greatest collaboration amongst the twelve tribes would be ruined.

And the human disease, in all its writhing, gluttonous, greedy glory, would fester.

But for that to happen, they would have to look up.

Naxiaw couldn’t help but feel slightly insulted at the ease with which the plan was developing. He had dared to venture down towards the city on more than one occasion, to slip a bit of venom into a drink or subtly jab someone from afar with a hair-thin dart. For his efforts, he had counted ten diseases cured. The venom acted quickly – a brief sickness, a swift death. That wasn’t the problem.

What angered him was that the humans never seemed to care.

No alarms were raised, no weapons drawn, no oaths sworn as their companions coughed, cried and fell dead. They simply dumped the slain into the ocean and went on without sorrow, without hatred, without asking why.

He had hoped to share that with them: the anger, the fury, the pain. He hoped to return these gifts of anguish, the ones he had taken when the round-eared menace had come to his lands. But the humans would not accept it. They refused sorrow. They refused pain. They refused him.

Many Red Harvests would be a lesson as much as revenge. It would be the wailing of two people, linked forever in death.

But that would take time. That would take patience. For now, he simply sat on a cliff and continued to plot the end of a race as serenely as he might paint the sunset.

The s’na shict s’hahad time. The s’na shict s’hahad patience.

The s’na shict s’haknew how to paint a scene of vengeance.

His ears suddenly pricked up of their own volition, sensing the danger long before he did. Footsteps, the details becoming clearer with each hairsbreadth by which his ears rose. Four flat, heavy feet clad in metal, heavy weapons and skins of iron making their approach loud and unwieldy.

Humans. Careless foragers or vigilant searchers for a threat. It did not matter.

His eyes drifted to the thick Spokesman Stick resting at his side; he ran his stare along the twisting, macabre design burned into its polished and solid wood.

Two more go missing, he told himself. No one cares. Then there are only five hundred and forty-seven strains of disease to cure. Still …He folded up the tanned hide into a thin, solid square. With a yawn, he tossed it into his mouth and swallowed. No sense in being careless.

The footsteps stopped; he narrowed his eyes. They had found his camp.

‘Someone else has come here,’ someone grunted.

He raised a hairless brow at the voice. It was thick, sharp, grating with an indeterminate accent, like two pieces of rusted metal hissing off one another. He was not so concerned with their unfamiliarity; the disease came in all shapes, sizes and voices. What gave him pause was the distinct, if harsh, femininity to their voices.

Their females fight now?He had thought that to be a strictly shictish practice. They are evolving …

‘ SaharkkSheraptus sent others ahead of us?’ the other one asked, grumbling. ‘He might have said something and spared us the-’

There was the sharp crack of metal on flesh, a growl instead of a shriek.

‘ Hismotives are not for you to question,’ the first one snarled. ‘And he’s called Masternow.’ The footsteps began again. ‘And we’ll find out who wants to stomp here uninvited.’

Yes, Naxiaw thought as he rose, the stick heavy and hungry in his hand, we shall.

He didn’t have to wait long before the footsteps and voices were both thunder in his ears. They were behind him now; he could hear them breathing.

‘Ha!’ The first one, he recognised, her voice being a bit sharper than the other’s. ‘Look at that. They come in green.’

‘A green pinky,’ the other one grunted. ‘I don’t remember them having long ears, neither.’

His back was still turned and they hadn’t attacked him yet. They were either supremely overconfident or desired a solution that ended without someone’s entrails stuffed up their own nose. Either way, he thought as he turned about, they would be surprised.

Of all the things he had expected to meet his narrowed eyes, however, he did not expect to stare at these … things.

They lookedhuman, at least superficially, but were far too tall, their musculature obscene and exposed by the iron half-skins they wore. Their faces, lean and long as spears under hacked crowns of black hair, scowled at him with eyes of pure white, bereft of any colour or pupil.

The fact that they were purple was less of a concern than the swords at their waists. ‘And it has a stick,’ the one closest to him said. ‘A stick. What would even be the point of killing it?’

‘Fun?’ the other one asked.

‘Ah, yes.’

‘ Sh’shaqk ne’warr, kou’ru,’ Naxiaw hissed between clenched teeth.

Even if they weren’t human, they were close enough for the insult to fit. And even if he refused to speak their language, he made sure his tone carried as much threatening edge as his raised stick.

At both, the two merely smiled broad white slashes filled with jagged teeth.

‘Look at that,’ one said, as she shook a round iron shield loose on her gauntleted wrist. ‘It wants to fight.’

‘We have duties to attend to,’ the other one muttered, sliding a short spike of dark iron from her belt. ‘Make it quick.’

‘ Sh’shaqk ne’warr,’ he repeated, hefting his Spokesman. You don’t belong here.

If they didn’t understand his words, they understood his intonation as they slid easily into rehearsed defensive stances. Their muscles trembled with constrained fury as they edged close to him, careful and cautious, every movement planned and poised, every inch of their lean bodies speaking of an iron discipline.

That lasted for all of three breaths.

‘ AKH! ZEKH! LAKH!’ Her shriek was accompanied by the metal roar of her spike clanging against her shield as she charged him. ‘ EVISCERATE! DECAPITATE! EXTERMINATE!’

The other one was close behind her, cursing her companion’s recklessness and her own slowness. Naxiaw watched them come, watched the hate pour from their eyes over their shields, their spikes thirsty in their hands. He licked his lips, the stick resting comfortably and silently in his long fingers.

Then, he met their charge.

Tall as they were, they were compact creatures born of rocks, he recognised: too slow, too hard. He was s’na shict s’ha, and he was long. As they rushed, he leapt, his long legs carrying him from the envious earth as their shields went up with their alarmed cries. His long toes curled over the rim of the leading one’s shield, his long fingers caught her by what hair she had, his long arms pulled him up and over her head as her sword whined in a vicious chop that caught only the stench of his feet.

He smiled at the rearmost one’s baffled expression. They always wore it when he did that.

As broad as his smile was, his stick’s was broader, crueller. As he descended to the earth, the stick yearned to show its wooden teeth to her, to offer a brown-and-black kiss.

Naxiaw obliged it.

His stick struck her jaw with a loud crack, sent her staggering backward. He spared enough time to drive the stick’s head into her exposed belly, throwing her farther back. He could hear the other one turning around, hear her spike whining for his blood.

When that whine became a roar, he fell to the ground, heard the spike shriek iron frustrations over his head. He pressed his hands flat against the sand, hurled himself from the earth as his feet curled into fists and legs lashed out like coiled vipers.

He felt skin, then muscle, a shocking amount of muscle. More importantly, he heard her stagger backward, counted off her steps. One, two, three …

Then came the scream, fading as she took one step too many over the cliff face. One moment for a self-satisfied smile, then he was back on his feet, his Spokesman in hand, ready to make a final argument.

The other longface was up, far sooner than he expected, and her weapon was ready. He glowered; she was strong, resilient, but still a kou’ru. All that separated this monkey from the ones below was that she was too stupid to run.

Instead she settled back, waited for him to come to her. He obliged, darting past her thrust, ducking her shield and coming up inside her guard. Half a moment to savour her snarl, another to make sure she could see his large canines.

Then he struck.

The Spokesman had few words for her. It was not a weapon made for long, savoury stabs or vicious, sloppy chops. It spoke in short bursts, rapping against her jaw, then her clavicle, then her arm. Its arguments were sound, though, and reverberated inside her bones, each vibration compounded by the one that soon followed.

Naxiaw had learned well the ways of the Spokesman, heard its arguments voiced to over four hundred kou’ru, watched them all yield to its unwavering wooden logic. This one, he realised, was deaf. She recoiled from each blow, staggered backward, but her muscles did not fail beneath its logic, bones did not shake painfully against her blood. Each sound was solid, firm, where they should be hollow, reverberating.

Like hitting a rock, he thought.

He swung harder, sending her reeling back two steps, then retreated. Now she falls, he told himself. The shock was keeping her upright. Now, she will die. Now, she will fall.

She did neither.

Instead, the longface rolled her neck, letting the vertebrae crack within. She flashed him a smile, her jagged teeth stained with only the most meagre trace of red. All her crimson was in the malice of her narrowed eyes.

‘Well,’ she hissed, ‘aren’t you just adorable.’

She charged. He sprang. This time her hand was in the air, her metal fingers wrapped about his ankle. He had never truly felt the earth until she gave a sharp tug and slammed him down upon it in a spray of sand.

Strong, he thought. His eyes snapped open, body rolled as her spike came down to impale the earth beside him. Too strong. He swung the Spokesman up, and shock rolled down his arm as it kissed her shield. Far too strong. She swung her spike down and his wrist groaned under the strain as he narrowly caught it.

Another quick jerk and he was back on his feet, her turn to savour his baffled expression, his turn to see her jagged teeth. In a snap of her neck, his entire world became her teeth as she drove her head against his face. He felt bones snap under the thin flesh of his nose, blood spurt out in a great slobbery kiss.

‘Ha!’ she cackled. ‘ CRUNCH.’

Even as he reeled back, his own crimson trickling down upon the earth, he could not help but smile. Her own smile was undiminished, even as his blood painted her face in a spattering red mask.

They always looked that way, right before it started to burn.

Her grin turned to angry befuddlement, then to anger proper, and then back to shock as her smile grew wider, skin stretching tight about her face. He savoured each twitch, each expression, each moment before it invariably ended the same way it always did …

‘It burns,’ she grunted. ‘It … it burns!’

His venom-laced blood went to work with hungry zeal. Her grunt twisted to a shriek as she dropped her sword and began to claw at her face. The skin was drawn tight now, growing redder as the blood sizzled beneath the purple flesh. Her metal fingers raked wildly, drawing out great gouts as she sought to rip the poison out from under her flesh.

The long-faced creature collapsed to her knees and he saw his opportunity.

His knee led his leap, driving her gauntlet deeper into her face and knocking her to the ground. Her neck was a twisting snake, writhing as she ignored the blow and continued to shriek into her hand.