The White’s gaze tracked across them all several times before halting to focus on one captive in particular, Sirus noting how its brows deepened as if in recognition. The captive was a small man of at least fifty years of age, dressed in a filthy set of overalls typical of those who worked at the docks. He knelt with his head lowered, lips moving in a silent prayer. Sirus wondered if he was beseeching the Emperor’s divine intervention or, more likely given his age, casting his hopeless entreaties at one of the older, suppressed gods. In either case he had to know there was no prayer that would rescue him now.
A low rumble issued from the White and two Spoiled immediately dragged the man to his feet. His prayers trailed off as they pushed him towards the White, whatever lingering faith he possessed replaced by abject terror as he stared up into the beast’s critical gaze. The White angled its head, its scrutiny deepening. The docker could only stand and tremble under the examination, Sirus noting how his bound hands spasmed at the small of his back, one of which, he saw, featured a pale circle in the otherwise olive-hued skin. A Blood-blessed, he realised, understanding how the man had managed to survive until now. But without product, a Blood-blessed was just another meal for their conquerer.
Abruptly the White jerked its head back from the docker with a growl that contained a clearly discernible note of frustration. Whatever it had hoped to find in this unfortunate apparently wasn’t there to be found. Sirus finally looked away when the White’s claws closed on the fellow, talons piercing his torso like spears. From the resurgence of squawking from the infants it was clear they had been given a new toy to play with.
When he looked again he saw that the White had uncoiled much of its bulk from the part-melted statue, revealing two objects that had previously been hidden by its wing. Sunlight glittered on two huge crystals about the size of a man, one green and one blue, both pulsing with some kind of inner light. Sirus found his gaze immediately caught by the pulsing, both the green and the blue crystal flaring and fading in steady, synchronised rhythm, oddly soothing in its ability to entice the eye. Sirus felt the sickening chill of his fear fade as he continued to stare at the crystals. The many aches and pains of his strained and part-starved body slipped away along with all sense of time. There was only the light, the wonderfully soothing light . . .
“No!” He never knew where he found the strength or the will to look away, clamping his eyes shut and jerking his head to the side. The crystals’ gifts were intoxicating, and he longed for the absence of fear and pain, but some primal instinct screamed a warning in his mind: This is taking more than it gives!
Strong hands clamped on his shoulders and head, forcing it forward, whilst implacable fingers prised his eyelids apart. Sirus tried to shout but the sound was muffled by the hands holding his jaw and he could only spout angry spittle as the Spoiled held him in place and let the crystals’ light flow into his mind. After only a few heart-beats, he found that the desire to look away had vanished.
. . . still sleeping. Probably dreaming about her again . . .
Sirus groaned as Katrya’s voice banished the dregs of slumber, her tone more sullen and bitter than he remembered. He shifted, blinking rapidly as a confusion of images greeted his eyes. It took some time before he could make sense of what he saw. There were so many colours, as if he lay in a room bathed in light from a multitude of stained-glass windows. More blinking and things became marginally more comprehensible. The colours, just confused smudges at first, soon resolved into people. They were outlined in some kind of red haze, like the glow of a lantern, but still recognisably people. No, he corrected himself as their features came into focus. Not people. Spoiled.
They lay or sat on a collection of beds or mattresses arranged in a loose order that resembled a barrack room, albeit one occupied by soldiers with scant regard for military order. The floor was littered with various refuse, from discarded bones to empty bottles. A closer look at the Spoiled brought an instant of sickening recognition. These were his fellow captives, though their faces now featured the same nascent deformities as Majack’s.
Sirus fought down panic and reached up to place a tremulous hand along the new ridge of dome-like protrusions extending from the centre of his brows into his hair. They followed the line of his skull to the base of his neck where they grew yet larger, proceeding down his back in parallel to his vertebrae. A quick inspection of his face confirmed the presence of soft but scaled skin around his eyes and mouth. Had he a mirror he knew he would now be staring at the visage of a yellow-eyed monster.
Isn’t so bad, Katrya said. Doesn’t hurt any more, at least.
His gaze snapped towards Katrya, finding her sitting on the next bed, her face betraying the same deformities as the others. As he tried to overcome the shock provoked by her appearance another realisation came to him. She hadn’t spoken, and yet her words sang clear in his mind.
He saw her scaled mouth twitch in faint amusement. Clever, isn’t it? Like magic or something. I think it, you hear it.
Sirus recalled the silence of the Spoiled in the plaza, the way their captors had moved with a shared purpose despite not exchanging a word. The crystals, he thought, remembering the pulsing light, the way it had seemed to flow into him. They did this . . .
That’s what I think too, Katrya agreed, smiling wider as he started.
This . . . His hands came up to paw at his face, fingers exploring the scales and the ridge of bumps with fevered disgust. It’s horrible . . . I can’t . . .
He got to his feet, casting about wildly for some kind of weapon, anything with a sharp edge capable of opening a vein. He spied a discarded bottle near by and snatched it up, raising it high to smash the glass. I will not be this!
STOP!
The command rang in his head like a bell, implacable and inescapable. He froze in place, the bottle slipping from suddenly numb fingers. It hadn’t been just one voice this time, though he heard Katrya’s in there amongst the multitude. Looking around their makeshift barracks, he saw the rest of the former captives all staring at him intently. He could feel their thoughts in his head like the low buzz of a disturbed beehive. Words began to form out of the buzz, jumbled for the most part but some leaping out with sufficient force of will to make him wince: . . . needed . . . He needs us . . . This one is smart . . . He will be valuable . . .
More than the jumble of voices was the sense of something beneath it, something spurring them on, a will far greater than all of them combined.
Sirus reeled under the onslaught and fell to his knees, clutching his head in pain. Then came a new sensation, something softer, kinder, subduing the commanding babble and its overwhelming accompaniment. Best if you don’t fight it. Katrya knelt to gently pull his hands away from his temples. Her slitted eyes met his and a fresh wave of sensation rushed forth. The voices faded to a whisper as a collage of images ran through his head.