‘ Someone else is inside your head.’

His breath went short at the realisation. The world seemed very cold at that moment.

He glanced down at the brook. Eyes cloudy with ice stared back. A thin, frozen sheet crowned the water. As he leaned down to inspect it, it grew harder, whiter, louder.

Ice doesn’t talk.

But this one did, voices ensconced between each crackling hiss as the frost formed thicker, denser. They spoke in hushes, as though they groaned from a place far below the ice, far below the earth. And they spoke in hateful, angry whispers, speaking of treachery, of distrust. He felt their loathing, their fury, but they spoke a language he only barely understood in fragments and whispers.

He stared intently, trying to make them out. There was desperation in them, as though they dearly wanted him to hear and would curse him with their hoary whispers if he didn’t expend every last ounce of his will to do so.

As far as events that made him question his sanity went, this one wasn’t the worst.

‘What?’ he whispered to it. ‘What is it?’

‘ Survive,’ something whispered back.

‘ Yo! Sa-klea!’

‘ What?’ Lenk whispered.

‘ Didn’t say anything,’ the voice replied.

‘Not you. The ice.’ He looked up, glancing about. ‘Or … someone.’

‘ Dasso?’

‘Hide,’ Lenk whispered.

‘ Sound advice,’ the voice agreed.

Too weary to run, Lenk limped behind a nearby rock, snatching up his sword as he did. No sooner had he pressed his belly against the forest floor than he saw the leaves of the underbrush rustle and stir.

Whatever emerged from the foliage did so with casual ease inappropriate for such dense greenery. Its features were indecipherable through the gloom, save for its rather impressive height and lanky, slightly hunched build.

Denaos?He quickly discounted that thought; the rogue wouldn’t enter so recklessly. Any further resemblance the creature might have borne to Lenk’s companion was banished as it set a long-toed, green foot into the moonlit clearing.

Even as it stepped fully into the light, Lenk was at a loss as to its identity. It stood tall on two long, thick legs, like a man, but that was all the resemblance to humanity it bore. Its scales, like tiny emeralds sewn together, were stretched hard over lean muscle, exposed save for the loincloth it wore at its hips, from which a long, lashing tail protruded.

Its head, large and reptilian, swung back and forth, two hard yellow eyes peering through the darkness; a limp beard of scaly flesh dangled beneath its chin. It held a spear, little more than a sharpened stick, in two clawed hands as it searched the night.

Suddenly, its gaze came to a halt upon Lenk’s hiding place. His blood froze; chilled for the stare, frigid for the sudden sight of red splotches upon its chest and hands.

If the creature saw Lenk, it gave no indication. Instead, it swivelled its head back to the underbrush and croaked out something in a gravelly, rasping voice.

‘ Sa-klea,’ it hissed. ‘ Na-ah man-eh heah.’

The brush rustled again and a second creature, nearly identical to the first, slinked out into the clearing. It swept its gaze about, scratched its scaly beard.

‘ Dasso. Noh man-eh.’ It shook its head and sighed. ‘ Kai-ja.’ It raised two fingers and pressed them against the side of its head in pantomime of ears as it made a show of baring its teeth. ‘ Lah shict-wa noh samaila.’

His eyes lit up at the word, spoken with an ire he had felt pass his own lips more than once.

Shict, he thought. They said ‘shict.’ Did they find her?

He saw the ruby hues of the spatters upon their chests. Lenk felt his heart turn to a cold lump of ice.

That chill lasted for all of the time it took him to seize his sword and tighten his muscles. His temper boiled with his brain, fevered rage clutched his head as he clutched his weapon. He made a move to rise, but the pain in his thigh was too great for his fury to overcome. He fell to one knee, biting back a shriek of agony as he did.

‘ What was that supposed to be?’ the voice hissed.

‘They killed her … they killedher,’ he replied through clenched teeth.

‘ She is dead.’

‘They killed her …’

‘ Is that important? That she is dead? Or is what is important that they must die?’

‘ Ka-a, ka-a,’ one of the scaly creatures sighed as it knelt by the brook and brought a handful of water to its lips. ‘ Utuu ah-ka, ja?’

‘ Ka-a,’ the second one apparently agreed, hefting its spear.

‘What do you mean?’ Lenk muttered.

‘ She is dead. We are in agreement. Now vengeance is craved.’

‘And you want to stop me?’

‘ Only from getting killed. Vengeance is noble.’

‘Vengeance is pure,’ Lenk agreed.

‘ Ka-a,’ the first one muttered again, rising to its feet. ‘ Utuu ah. Tuwa, uut fu-uh mah Togu.’

‘ Maat?’ The second looked indignant for a moment before sighing. ‘ Kai-ja. Poyok.’

The first one bobbed its bearded head and turned on a large, flat foot. It slinked into the underbrush as it had emerged, like a serpent through water. Its companion moved to follow, taking a moment to sweep its amber gaze over its shoulder. It narrowed its eyes upon Lenk’s rock for a moment before it, too, slid into the underbrush.

‘ Vengeance …’ the voice began.

‘Requires patience,’ Lenk finished.

He huddled up against his rock, snatching up a nearby tuber and chewing on it softly, as much as in memory of Kataria as for sustenance. Tonight, he would rest and recuperate. Tomorrow, he would search.

He would search for Sebast. He would search for his companions. If he found neither, he would search for bodies.

If the lizard-things had left nothing, then he would search for them.

He would find them. He would ask them.

And they would tell him, Lenk resolved, when they all held hands and plummeted into lakes of fire together.

Eleven

Reasonable men had qualities that made them what they were. A reasonable man was a man of faith over doubt, of logic over faith, and honesty over logic. With these three, a reasonable man was a man who was prepared for all challenges, with force over weakness, reason over force, and personality over reason.

Assuming he had all three.

Denaos liked to consider himself a reasonable man.

It was around that last bit that he found himself lacking. And, as a reasonable man without honesty, Denaos turned to running.

He hadn’t been intending to, of course. The plan, shortsighted as it was, was to get Dreadaeleon far away from whatever was sending him into fits of unconscious babbling with intermittent bursts of waking, wailing pain. They had done that, dragging him into the forest. From there, the plan became survival: find water for Dreadaeleon, food for themselves.

He had liked that plan. He had offered to go searching. It would give him a lot of time out in the woods, alone with his bottle.

Then Asper had to go and ruin everything.

‘Hot, hot, hot,’ Dreadaeleon had been whispering, as he had been since he collapsed on the beach. ‘Hot, hot …’

‘Why does he keep doing that?’ Denaos had asked.

‘Shock, mild trauma,’ Asper had replied. ‘It’s my second problem.’

‘The first being?’

She had glowered at him, adjusting the wizard over her shoulder. ‘Mostly that you aren’t helping me carry him.’

‘We agreed we would divide the workload. You carry him. I scout ahead.’

‘You haven’t found anything.’