Black Halo

But it did, somehow; Dreadaeleon could feel it. It stared down into the depths, seeing it clearly as a stain of ink upon the pristine blue. It stared into the sea, past the wreckage and past the brine. It stared into the water, it stared into a perfect, dark square plainly visible even so far down as it was.

Tome.

The gull stared.

Tome.

The tome stared back.

And suddenly, Dreadaeleon heard it, felt it. Voices in his head, whispers that glided on stale air and whispering brine rather than electric jolts. A grasping arm that reached out, found the current that co

Where is it, the voices whispered, where is it? It was here ages ago. It spoke. It read. It knew. Tell us where it is. Tell us where it went. Tell us how it got there. Tell us. Tell us everything. Tell us who you are. Tell us what you’re made of. Tell us of your tender meat and your little mind. Tell us of brittle bones and tears that taste salty. Tell us. Tell us everything. Tell us how you work. Tell us. Tell us. We will know. Tell us.

He trembled, clenched his teeth so fiercely that they creaked behind his lips. His breath came in short, sporadic breaths. His head seared with fire, whispering claws reaching out to flense his brain and taste the electric-stained meat, tasting it for knowledge. He could hear the tome. He could hear it speak to him.

TELL US.

And then he heard himself scream.

‘Dread?’

He hadn’t recalled falling onto his back. He certainly hadn’t noticed Greenhair leaving. And he was absolutely positive he would have seen Asper coming. And yet he was on his back, the siren vanished and the priestess was kneeling beside him, propping him up, staring at him with concern. His voice was a nonsensical croak, his head spi

‘Are you all right?’

‘No,’ he said, shaking his head to dispel the last sparks. ‘I mean, yes. Yes, perfectly fine.’

‘You don’t’ — she paused to cringe — ‘look it.’

Steady, old man, he reminded himself. Don’t act all helpless now. Don’t let her know what’s wrong. He snarled inwardly. What do you mean what’s wrong? Nothing’s wrong! Just a headache. Don’t worry about it. Don’t let her worry about it. And most importantly, don’t pay attention to the urge to piss yourself.

That proved a little harder. His bowels stirred at her touch, rigid with pain, threatening to burst like overfilled waterskins. Still, he bit back pain, water and screams as she helped him to his feet, resisting the urge to burst from any orifice.

‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘Strain,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘Magical strain.’

‘Bird magic, Denaos said.’

‘ Bird magic,’ Dreadaeleon said, all but spitting. ‘Of course. It’s nothing so marvellous as seizing control of another living thing’s brain functions. It’s birdmagic. What would he know?’ He found himself glaring without willing it, the words hissing through his teeth. ‘What would youknow?’

‘Dread …’ She recoiled, as though struck.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Sorry, sorry. It’s just … a headache.’

In the bowels, he added mentally, the kind that makes you explode from both ends and probably kills you if it is what you think it is. He shook his head. No, no. Calm down. Calm down.

‘Of course,’ Asper said, sighing. ‘Denaos said you’d exerted yourself.’ She offered him a weak smile. ‘I trust you won’t begrudge me if I say I’m glad you did?’

You’re probably going to develop some magical ailment where you begin defecating out your mouth and choke on your own stool and she’sglad?

‘I mean, I know it was a lot,’ she said, ‘but you did save us.’

‘Oh … right,’ he replied. ‘The ice raft. Yeah, it was … nothing.’

Nothing except the inability to stand up on your own power. Good show.

‘It’s just a shame you couldn’t save the others,’ she said. ‘Or … is that what you were doing with your bird magic?’

‘ Avian scrying,’ he snapped, on the verge of a snarl before he twitched into a childish grin. ‘And … yes. Yes, I was looking for them.’

‘Did you find anything?’

‘Not yet.’

‘I suppose you wouldn’t, would you?’ She sighed, looking forlornly over the sea. ‘We were lucky to escape, ourselves. Anything left by the wreck would be devoured.’

There was something in her that caused him to tense, or rather something notthere. Ordinarily, her eyes followed her voice, always a sharp little upscale at the end of each thought to suggest that she was waiting to be proven wrong, waiting for someone to refute a grim thought. If enough time passed, she would, and often did, refute herself, citing hope against the hopeless.

But such an expression was absent today, such an upscale gone from her voice. She spoke with finality; she stared without blinking. And she looked so very, very tired.

‘They … they might be out there,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t Talanas watch over them?’

‘If Talanas listened, we wouldn’t be here in the first place.’

And then, he saw it, in the seriousness of her eyes, the firm certainty in her jaw. The idealistic hope was removed from her eyes, that whimsical twinge that he was always certain indicated at least a minor form of brain damage was gone from her voice. She was a person less reliant on faith, if she had any at all anymore.

She’s stopped, he thought. She doesn’t believe in gods. Not right now, at least.

There were a number of reactions that went through his mind: congratulate her on her enlightenment, rejoice in the fact that they could finally communicate as equals or maybe just speak quietly and offer to guide her. He rejected them all; each was entirely inappropriate. And nothing, nothing, he knew, was a less appropriate reaction than the tingling he felt in his loins.

Stave it off, stave it OFF, he told himself. This is the absolutelyworst possible time for that.

‘Did you … feel something?’ she asked suddenly.

‘ Absolutely not,’ he squealed.

She seemed to take no notice of his outburst, instead staring off into the distance. ‘Something … like I felt back at Irontide. Hot and cold …’

He quirked a brow; she hadsensed magic back then, he recalled, but many were sensitive to it without showing any other gifts. And the source at the time, a fire- and frost-spewing longface, was a bright enough beacon that even the thickest bark-neck would have sensed it.

This concerned him, though. He could feel nothing in the air, none of the fluctuating chill and heat that typically indicated a magical presence. He wondered, absently, if she might be faking it.

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 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.