I mean, he told himself, what else could it have been? He had searched the corpse thoroughly, inside and out after performing a bit of impromptu dissection. Nothing differentiated the longface from himself, save for his purple skin and this. . this tiny jewel.
That particular heretic was dead, it was true, but how many more were there? Where did these ‘netherlings’ come from and what did they hope to gain by fighting demons? Who was this ‘Sheraptus’?
And what, he asked himself with a sudden surge of fury, made them look at Asper the way that one did?
The memory of the long face, and its broad grin and hungry eyes, still burned in his mind with an anger far greater than any heresy the black-clad wizard might have committed. The memory of a purple hand extending to touch her, her, his companion, sizzled within his skull. The stink of his own soil filled his nostrils at the thought of it.
Dreadaeleon sighed, pressing his face into his hands. The strain had been too much to bear, he knew, and undoubtedly she would, too. Still, even after that, after drawing upon so much that even his bladder could not hold, he hadn’t even been able to save her. Gariath had to do that, leaving him as nothing more than an afterthought with wet pants and a breathing problem.
Somehow, he had imagined the scenario working out far more gallantly.
He should have pushed himself further, he knew, he should have had the strength to fend off that netherling and a hundred more. He should have flung them aside on waves of fire and roars of lightning, creating a ring of destruction to shelter her from the carnage.
He was a wizard! He was the absolute power!
Power, he thought ruefully, so limited. .
But instead of all that, he had soiled himself and crumpled up in a heap, leaving her to whatever malice the netherling had planned for her. And once again, it had been Gariath, superstitious, brutish, barbaric Gariath, who had done what he could not. And if it hadn’t been Gariath, he told himself, it would have been Denaos with a dagger in the back or Lenk with a killing blow of his sword.
Or even Kataria, standing triumphant over an arrow-laden corpse as Asper swooned at the shict’s feet.
While not an entirely unpleasant image, the fact of the matter remained that it would not have been him who saved her. It would never be a scrawny boy in a dirty coat. He would never have that kind of power.
At least, he thought as he wrapped his hand about the crimson jewel, not on my own.
‘You are well, Lorekeeper?’
Dreadaeleon found himself incapable of starting at the voice. It was far too melodic, far too soothing to cause anything but a smile. He looked up, wearing that smile, to regard an angular, pale face framed by flowing locks of kelp-coloured hair and a pair of feathery gills.
‘I am, thank you,’ he replied.
‘Your hair. .’ Greenhair noted, frowning at the lock of grey.
‘Yeah, well. . prices and the like,’ Dreadaeleon muttered as he climbed to his feet. ‘You know how it is.’
‘I do not,’ she replied flatly.
‘Oh.’ He paused, cleared his throat. ‘Well. . it’s, ah. . difficult.’ Forcing a larger, far more awkward smile onto his face, he continued, ‘Where did you scamper off to, anyway? We missed you.’
‘Oh,’ she said, blinking. ‘Did you throw something at me?’
‘No, I mean. .’ He held up a hand, drew in a deep breath. ‘Where did you go?’
‘I went. .’ A pained expression crossed her face, though Dreadaeleon found it hard to decipher that from her features. ‘Away.’
‘Where?’
‘Somewhere else, Lorekeeper. It is not important.’
‘Why, then?’
‘That is even less important.’ She eyed the boy curiously for a moment, something dancing behind her alien eyes. ‘You. . were victorious in Irontide?’
‘Roughly,’ he replied. ‘It was difficult. There were demons, some kind of. . sacs, I don’t know.’
‘Even fiends have mothers, Lorekeeper, and they are all birthed from the wretched womb of Ulbecetonth.’
‘Those things,’ Dreadaeleon said, cringing, ‘were eggs?’
‘They were nothing meant for this world. What is important is that they are destroyed.’ She leaned in to him, regarding him through a wary expression. ‘You did destroy them?’
‘Not personally, no. There was a longface there. He burned them with fire.’ The boy scratched his chin. ‘Fire that wouldn’t go out. .’ He scratched a little harder. ‘He was defying the laws, he cheated.’ His teeth clenched unconsciously as he scratched harder at his hairless chin. ‘He … he almost. .’
‘Lorekeeper. .’
He felt his blood on his hands the moment she spoke. Muttering a curse, he wiped his chin off on the lapel of his coat, hiding it from the siren’s curious gaze. A futile gesture, for her eyes seemed to focus on something past the dirty fabric, past his skin and bone.
‘You are. . not well,’ she observed.
‘I’m fine,’ he replied coldly. ‘It’s just. .’ He sighed, looking at his hands, so scrawny, so feeble. ‘I should have been the one.’
‘To kill the Abysmyths?’
‘To kill the Abysmyths, the frogmen, the longfaces, to find the tome, to kill the Deepshriek, to. .’ To save Asper, he added mentally, but all I did was piss myself and fall down, like an old man, with barely any blood on my hands.
‘So long as they are dead, what does it matter?’
Because what’s the point of having the power if I can’t use it? Because why is it fair that I can be beaten by brute force and superstitious myth? Because why can’t I be the one to turn the tide, to get the treasure and win the woman?
‘Because,’ he whispered, ‘there are laws.’
He continued to stare at his hands as the pale, webbed fingers slid around his own, closing tightly over them. Quietly, his stare was drawn up and into her fathomless eyes, her gentle, thin-lipped smile.
‘Laws are not important,’ Greenhair whispered, her voice but a ripple on the water.
He could feel his breath catch in his throat as he stared into her eyes, his hands go so weak and malleable under hers as she pushed them aside. He could feel his legs cross awkwardly over each other in a vain attempt at concealing as she drew herself closer to him, feeling the chill of her body through the garment wrapping her.
Oh Gods, he muttered inside his own mind, quick, say something clever.
‘So. . what is important?’ he squeaked.
Moron!
‘What is here. What is now,’ she replied, low and breathless. ‘What has occurred is but one wave, come and gone. What is now is you.’
She raised a hand to her shoulder and, with digits working slowly, let her silk-like garment fall from her body.
‘And me.’
His eyes went wide, wide enough to leap out of his skull, yet nowhere near wide enough to take all of her in. He could only steal glimpses: gentle curves like the bend of a river, skin that shimmered between pristine ivory and pale azure as the light glimmered off her body, and rivers of hair that flowed down her body.
‘Uh. . should I …’
Dreadaeleon was silenced with a sudden chill as she pressed her mouth to his. His eyes threatened to melt as hers closed. Thoughts slid through his mind as easily as her tongue slid past his lips.
Oh Gods, oh Gods, oh Gods, he babbled inwardly, if there were Gods, that is. This is it! This is it! This is what it feels like! This is what it tastes like. He blinked, his tongue shyly brushing against hers. Salt? That makes sense, I guess. She’s a siren. Does the rest of her taste like-