‘It is a stupid one,’ the thing hissed. It recalled, vaguely, a time when its voice did not sound so throaty, a time when a sac did not bulge beneath its chin with every breath. ‘“These ones stay together,” these ones were told, “stay together”. That one must not have run off. That one must stay with this one.’
This one remembered, for a fleeting moment, that it had once had a name.
That memory belonged to another one. This one knelt down, observing the traces of moisture clinging to the wood. That one had taken two steps forwards, it noted from the twin puddles before it. It tilted its head to the side; that one had stopped there. . but not stopped. It had ceased to step and begun to slide. That struck this one as odd, given that these ones had been allowed to walk like men.
That one’s two moist prints became a thick, wet trail instead of footprints, a trail leading from the salt to the shadows of the ship’s hold. As this one followed its progress intently, watching it shift from clear salty water to smelly, coppery red, it spied something in the darkness: a tangle of pale limbs amidst crates.
That one was dead, it recognised; it remembered death.
It rose and felt something against its back. It remembered the scent of humanity. It thought to whirl around, bring knife against flesh, but then it remembered something else.
It remembered metal.
‘Shh,’ the tall other one behind it whispered, sliding a glove over its mouth while digging the knife deeper into its side. ‘No point.’ The other one twisted the knife. ‘Just sleep.’
Then it slumped to the floor.
Denaos grimaced as he bent down, retrieving the dagger wedged in the infiltrator’s kidneys. The last one hadn’t made half so much noise, he thought grimly as he wiped the bloodied weapons clean on the thing’s ebon leather loincloth. Replacing them in the sheaths at his waist, he seized the pale fish-man by the legs and dragged him behind a stack of crates where his companion lay motionless in a pool of sticky red.
With a grunt, the rogue heaved the fresh corpse atop the stale one.
They were skilled infiltrators, he admired silently; he would never have thought even a child could squeeze through the ship’s portholes, much less a grown man. Had he not chosen this particular section of cargo to guard, he would never have found them.
His laugh was not joyful. ‘Ha. . guarding the cargo.’
Yes, he told himself, that’s what you were doing. While all the men were dying to the pirates and the women were being violated in every orifice imaginable, you were guarding cargo, you miserable coward. If anyone asks why you weren’t fighting like any proper man, you can just claim you were concerned for the safety of the spices.
He caught his reflection in the puddle of water at his feet, noting the frown that had unconsciously scarred itself onto his face. In the quiver of the water, he saw the future: chastisement from his companions, curses from the sailors he had abandoned. .
And Asper. His loathing slowly twisted to ire in his head. I’ll have to endure yet another sermon from that self-righteous, preachy shrew. He paused, regarding his reflection contemplatively. Of course, that’s not likely to happen, given that they’re probably all dead, her included. . if you’re that lucky.
Something caught his eye. Upon the intruder’s offensively white biceps lay a smear of the deepest crimson. Denaos arched a brow; he didn’t remember cutting either of the creatures on their arms.
He knelt to study the puny, pale limb. It was a tattoo, that much he recognised instantly: a pair of skeletal jaws belonging to some horrid fish encircled by a twisted halo of tentacles. And, he noted with a cringe, it had been scrawled none too neatly, as though with a blade instead of a needle.
As morbid curiosity compelled him to look closer, he found that their tattoos were the least unpleasant of their features.
They lacked any sort of body hair, not the slightest wisp to prevent their black leathers from clinging to them like secondary skins. Their eyes, locked wide in death, lacked any discernible pupil or iris, orbs of obsidian set in greying whites. A glimpse of bone caught his eye; against an instinct that begged him not to, he removed a dagger and peeled back the creature’s lip with the tip.
Rows of needle-like, serrated teeth flashed stark white against black gums.
‘Sweet Silf,’ he muttered, recoiling.
A panicked cry echoed through the halls of the hold, drawing his attention up. He rose to his feet and sprang to the door in one fluid movement. As he reached for the lock, he paused, glancing over his shoulder at the dead frogmen behind. His hand faltered as he pondered the possibility of facing one of these creatures and their sharp teeth from the front.
Slowly, he lowered his hand from the door.
Someone shrieked again and his ears pricked up. A woman.
The door flew open.
Perhaps, he speculated, some sassy young thing slinking down the hall had run afoul of one of the creatures and now cowered in a corner as the intruder menaced her. It was an unspoken rule that distressed damsels were obliged to yield a gratuity that frequently involved tongues.
Surely, he reasoned, that’s worth delivering another quick knife to the kidneys. . of course, she’s probably dead, you know. He cursed himself as he rounded a corner. Stop that thinking. If you go ruining your fantasies with reality, what’s the point of-
A shriek ripped through his thoughts. Not a woman, he realised, or at least no woman he would want to slip his tongue into. The scream was a long, dirty howclass="underline" a rusty blade being drawn from a sheath, a filthy, festering, vocal wound.
And, he noted, it was emerging through a nearby door.
His feet acted before his mind could, instinctively sliding into soft, cat-like strides as he pressed himself to the cabin wall. The dagger that leapt to his hand spoke of heroism, trying to drown out the voice of reason in his head.
You can see the logic in this, can’t you? he told himself. It’s not like anyone’s really expecting you to come dashing up to save them.
The door creaked open slightly, no hand behind it. He continued forwards.
In fact, I doubt anyone will even have harsh words for you. It’s been about a year you’ve all been together, right? Maybe less … a few months, perhaps; regardless, the point is that no one is really all that surprised when you run away.
He edged closer to the door. The sound of breathing, heavy and laboured, could be heard.
And this won’t solve anything. Nothing changes, even if she isn’t dead. His mind threw doubt at him as a delinquent throws stones. You won’t be any braver for it. You won’t be a hero. You’ll still be the same cowardly thug, the same disgusting wretch who gutted-
Enough. He drew in a breath, weak against the panting emerging from behind the door.
But it was not the kind of panting he had expected, not the laboured, glutted gasps of a creature freshly satiated or a fiend with blood on his hands. It was not soft, but hardly ragged. The breathing turned to heaving, someone fighting back vomit, choked on saliva. There was a short, staggered gasp, followed by a weak and pitiful sound.
Sobbing.
Without pausing to reflect on the irony of being emboldened by such a thing, Denaos took an incautious step into the shadowy cabin. Amidst the crates and barrels was a dark shape, curled up against the cargo like a motherless cub, desperately trying to hide. It shuddered with each breath, shivering down a slender back. Brown hair hung messily about its shoulders.