That threat fled from Lenk’s mind with the sound of two heavy bodies hitting the deck. As sounds and screams faded around him, as the world slipped into darkness, leaving only the slender-limbed creature and the burlap satchel it clutched, he knew what sent him in pursuit. He knew, and it spoke to him in a harsh, frigid voice.
‘They cannot flee,’ the voice said, an edge of joy to it, ‘they cannot run. Strike. Kill.’
The command lent him strength, pushed cold blood through his legs, drove him to leap. The pale creature was quick, but Lenk was more so. In the breath between his leap and his descent, the last trace of the world slipped away, bathing everything in darkness. He saw the invader turn, spurred by an unheard shout from his compatriots; Lenk saw the reflection of his steel in the creature’s dark eyes.
Then, in a glittering arc, the world returned.
The thief collapsed unceremoniously. Something square and black tumbled out of its satchel, bouncing once upon the deck, then sliding gently to rest in a particularly moist, sticky spot. Even as life leaked out of him, the invader gasped and reached out a trembling, webbed hand for the object.
‘Tome. .’ he gasped, ‘Shepherd. . take-’
Lenk twisted his sword and the creature went rigid, laying its quivering head down in a red pool as though it were a pillow. His blade still glistening, Lenk raised his weapon warily, warning off the small press of pale creatures that took a collective menacing step forwards. They retreated from the weapon, he noted, but with hardly the fear or haste he had hoped. Their eyes were still appraising, their bone daggers still clenched tightly.
‘Lenk!’ He didn’t have to turn around to recognise Miron’s booming voice. ‘The book! Return it to me!’
A book.
He wasn’t exactly sure what he thought the thing should be. It was a broad, black square, only a little bigger than his journal. High quality leather of crimson and ebon bound its pristine white pages; it certainly looked like a book.
And yet, as it slid out of its silk pouch with the rocking of the ship, it somehow didn’t seem to be a book.
It was unadorned. No title, no author, no symbol of any faith or people. The pale creatures lurched backwards, regarding it carefully, warily, anxiously. Yet even their reaction went unnoticed beside a fact that hit Lenk as he felt the warmth of the sun on his back.
It doesn’t glisten.
Leather of such high quality should shimmer. It should reflect the sunlight in its onyx face. Yet this leather did not glisten, nor shine, nor even flicker in the sunlight.
‘Quickly, you fool!’ Miron roared. ‘Take the book!’
With a swift glance over his shoulder, the young man nodded and moved forwards. Quickly, he reached down to scoop up the item.
‘NO! Not with your hands!’
He thought it slightly odd that Miron’s voice should seem distant, so distant as to render whatever he had just shouted silent. Truly, all the sounds fell silent as Lenk plucked up the book. No seawater, nor blood, though both flooded the deck in excess, clung to the leather cover. He thought that odd for only a moment before he felt a twinge in his palm.
Did. . did it just move?
The book quivered at his thoughts and, in the blink of an eye, responded.
The black cover flipped open, baring the pages to his eyes and, spurred by some unseen, unfelt breeze, began to turn. They went slowly at first, blinding him with hymns, invocations, prayers to things he had never heard of, pleas for things he would never have thought to ask for. An eternity seemed to pass as the words scarred themselves onto his eyes.
He was scarcely aware of the fact that he wasn’t breathing any more.
The leaves continued to turn, to flip. Words vanished, blending into images, symbols, pictures that were discernible at first: people in torment, things with horns, claws, feathery wings. Then those too vanished and blended into nothing more than black lines scrawled in shapes that reached out and clawed at him, trying to pull his eyes from his skull with inky fingers.
Someone behind him screamed, told him to put the book down, but he could not will his hand to do so. Even as they made less and less sense, flipping viciously through his mind, the lines began to take a shape. He blinked, and with each passing moment, they continued to form a shape. It was horrible, yet he could not turn his head away, could not shut his eyes. He was forced to stare.
The book looked back at him.
The book smiled.
‘NO!’
The book snapped shut. His fingers tensed involuntarily around it as the frigid howl reverberated through his head, coating his skull with a vocal rime. He dropped it then, watching it splash in a pink puddle. The liquid did not pool beneath it.
‘Something,’ the voice uttered, ‘is coming.’
Before Lenk could think, a howl filled the air. His eyes rose at the noise, spying the pale creatures as they clustered together at the railing. Standing above them, perched on the ship’s edge and clinging to the railing, the tallest of the invaders pressed a conch shell to its lips. Its chest expanded with breath, then shrank as a wailing exhale cut the air.
Voices rose from behind him, excited warnings to the sky. Lenk saw it: the clouds moved suddenly, twisting and shifting. They grew larger, shimmering with a dozen facets as they descended in great drifts.
The sky, it seemed, was falling.
They descended in ominous unity, a flock of frenzied feathers and bulbous blue orbs, to land upon the masts and rigging and railings of the Riptide. Lenk watched them, spellbound by their harmony as they settled. Plump bodies covered with feathers, sagging, fleshy faces dominated by two great blue eyes.
How many? He could not find an answer; they seemed to be endless, lines of ruffling, cooing birds. Seagulls? No, he told himself, seagulls didn’t sit and stare with unblinking eyes. Seagulls didn’t gather in such numbers.
Seagulls didn’t have long, needle-like teeth in place of beaks.
What, he asked himself, are they?
‘Harbingers.’ Miron’s sneering disgust answered his thoughts. ‘The book, Lenk! Seize the book! Keep it away from those monstrosities!’
‘What are you gentlemen doing?’ Rashodd bellowed from the deck, still wrestling with Gariath. ‘Your master requires aid!’
‘These ones no longer require that one,’ the creature with the conch said, levelling a finger at the Cragsman. ‘These ones have found the tome they seek.’
‘What tome?’ All semblance of composure vanished from the captain. ‘I ordered you to take no tome!’
‘No, that one did not,’ the frogman replied, glowering at the captain. ‘Yet that one is not this one’s master.’
‘What in all hell are you-’
Before Rashodd could find the words for his fury, the timbers quaked with sudden, violent force. Another series of gasps coursed through the crowd, hands tightening around weapons as eyes went wide with bewilderment.
Something had just struck the ship.
Distantly, where wood met froth, the hull groaned ominously. The deck shook once more, shifting to one side, sending sailors and defenders alike struggling to keep their footing. An eternity seemed to pass between sounds of wood splintering, punctuated by further wooden whines as something from below crawled up the hull.
The pale creatures whirled, suddenly heedless of the others behind them, the prize they had lost upon the ground. As a single unit of pasty skin and scrawny legs, they collapsed to their knees, pressing their foreheads to the salt of the deck.
All save one.
‘Speak not in the Shepherd’s presence,’ the conch-blower uttered, its eyes on Lenk. ‘Dare no movement, dare no impure thought. Be content in salvation.’ Its finger trembled as he pointed. ‘For that one has seen much purity.’