There was no response to that from the grandfather. No sound at all, but the hush of the waves and the sound of boots on sand.

‘Is that it?’ a grating voice asked, suddenly. ‘It’s pretty big, isn’t it?’

His nostrils quivered: iron, rust, hate.

He turned and regarded them carefully, the trio of purple-skinned longfaces that had emerged from the night. They clutched swords in hands, carried thick, jagged throwing knives at their belts. How easy it would be, he wondered, to stand there and let them carve his flesh. How easy would it be to find an answer in his own blood, dripping out on the sand.

He hadn’t learned anything that way so far.

‘You have humans,’ he grunted. ‘I will take them.’

‘They yours?’ one of them asked. ‘How about we burn what’s left of them and what’s left of you in a pile? Fair?’

He stepped forward and felt refreshed by an instant surge of ire welling up inside him. It might not have been the most profound of solutions, but then, this was not the most difficult of problems.

For this question, for any question, violence was an answer he understood.

The netherlings shared this thought, bringing their swords up, meeting his bared teeth with their jagged grins.

Humans were nearby, he knew, and they were likely dead. Netherlings were closer, he knew, and they would soon be dead. He would find answers tonight, answers in death.

Whose, he wasn’t quite sure he cared.

Lenk felt the chill shudder through his body, seizing his attention.

‘They have come to a decision.’

The sight of drawn swords and grins of varying width and wickedness confirmed as much. The netherlings’ brief argument over who was going to kill whom had lasted only as long as it took for words to give way to fists, with the least battered picking their prey. The one most bloodied settled with a grumble for Dreadaeleon’s unconscious form, still beside Lenk.

The one with the broadest grin and the bloodiest gauntlet advanced upon him, pursued by scowls from the ones with the most knuckle indentations embedded in their jaws. There were many of those, he noted. She had wanted him badly.

‘She shall never have us,’ the voice muttered. ‘We will find her first, show her revelation, show them all.’

‘Revelation,’ Lenk whispered, ‘in blood, steel. We will show them.’

‘Show us what?’ the advancing netherling asked, tilting her head to the side.

‘He could show us his insides,’ one of the longfaces offered.

‘Rather, you could,’ another replied, kneeling beside the prone form of Denaos. ‘I intend to make this one die slowly. Xhai is going to be pissed.’

‘Die?’ the voice asked of Lenk.

Lenk shook his head. ‘Not us.’

‘Not if she is to survive.’

A sudden heat engulfed Lenk, bathed his brow in an instant sweat. ‘And what of your survival? Save her, even try to, and you’ll die, you’ll rot and she’ll be—’

The sweat turned cold, froze to rime on his skin. ‘Meaningless. Duty above survival. Duty above life. Duty above all. They are coming. They will die, as these ones here die.’

‘As all die,’ Lenk murmured.

‘Now you’ve got it,’ the netherling said, grinning as she levelled her sword at the young man’s brow. ‘This is just how it is, as Master Sheraptus says. The weak give all, the strong take all.’ Her grin grew broader. ‘Master Sheraptus is strong. We are strong.’

‘Weak enables strong. Strong feed on weak. Not incorrect.’

‘Her perception is wrong, though,’ Lenk muttered.

‘What?’ The netherling smiled with terrible glee. ‘Oh, wait, are you going to do one of those dying monologues that pinkies do? I’ve heard about these! Make it good!’

His stare rose to meet hers. Instantly, her smile faded, the wickedness fleeing her face to be replaced with confusion tinged by fear. His eyes were easy as her sword arm tensed, his voice emerging on breath made visible by cold as he stared at her and whispered.

‘We are stronger,’ he said evenly. ‘We will kill you first.’

She recoiled at that, as if struck worse than a fist could. ‘I hoped to enjoy this,’ she growled, drawing her blade back, ready to drive it between his eyes. ‘But you ruined it, you stupid little—’

A roar split the sky apart, choking her voice in her throat. Her arm steadied as a new kind of confusion, fear replaced with curiosity, crossed her face. She looked over her shoulder, milk-white eyes staring down the beach, seeking the source of the fury.

‘That’s …’ another longface hummed, squinting into the gloom, ‘that’s one of the low-fingers, isn’t it? That the Master sent out?’

‘It is,’ the voice answered in Lenk’s head, ‘what we have waited for.’

He felt his eyes drawn to the beach. Movement was obvious, even in the darkness: purple flesh shifting beneath moonlight as a netherling charged down the beach. But her gait was awkward, bobbing wildly as she rushed forward. The peculiarities grew the closer she drew: the jellylike flail of her arms and legs, the hulking shadow behind her body.

By the time Lenk saw the longface’s head lolling on a distinctly shattered neck, it was clear to him and everyone else what was about to happen.

‘Oh, hell, it’s that … that red thing!’ a netherling snarled. ‘What are they called?’

‘It was supposed to be dead, wasn’t it?’ another snarled. ‘The screamer said!’

‘It’s not,’ the third laughed, hefting her jagged throwing blade. ‘This day just gets better and better.’

‘What about the pink things?’

‘Kill ’em if you want. Don’t expect any scraps.’

A cackle tore through the longfaces. A chorus of whining metal followed as jagged hurling blades flew, shrieking to be heard over the war cry that chased them.

‘QAI ZHOTH!’

With each meaty smack, the longface’s corpse shuddered as the blades gnawed into lifeless flesh and stuck fast, leaving the creature behind it unscathed. It rushed forward, trembling as a roar emerged from behind the shield of sinew. Lenk saw flashes of red skin, sharp teeth and dark, murderous eyes. He found he could hardly help the smile creeping upon his lips.

And behind the corpse, Gariath’s grin was twice as long, thrice as unpleasant.

‘AKH ZEKH LAKH!’ the longfaces threw chants instead of knives, hefting their swords and shields as they charged forward to meet the dragonman’s fury with their own.

‘Distracted. Escape possible. Death inevitable. Duty will be fulfilled.’

‘My hands are tied,’ he whispered.

‘Move or die.’

‘Fair enough.’ He pulled at the ropes; he knew little of knots, but it seemed reasonable that the netherlings would not plan to hold prisoners any longer than it took to gut them. With a little guidance, he was sure he could break free. ‘Denaos, can you—’

‘He can,’ the voice replied. ‘He did.’

The slipped bonds on the earth where the rogue had lain was evidence enough of that.

‘We did not need him. Do not need any of them. Focus. Time is short.’

A challenging howl confirmed as much. Gariath had dropped his corpse to the earth, seizing it by its ankles and dragging it to meet his foes. Their anticipation was evident in the gleam of their swords, the grin on their faces.

‘QAI ZHOTH!’ the leading one howled, leaping forward. ‘EVISCERATE! DECAPITATE! ANNIHILA—’

The chant was shattered along with her teeth as two thick skulls collided. He swung the corpse like a club of muscle and flesh. Limp arms flailed out to smash ironbound hands into chanting jaws. Bones cracked against bones, casting the attackers back as Gariath grunted and adjusted his weight for another swing.

‘Ignore,’ the voice hissed, its freezing tone bringing Lenk’s attention back to his wrists. ‘Duty is at hand. We must free ourselves. We must kill.’

‘I can’t,’ he snarled, tugging at his wrists. ‘I can’t!’

‘Can’t what?’ Dreadaeleon replied. ‘Gariath seems to have the matter in hand.’

‘If you cannot, then she dies. All die. Because of you.’

‘I can’t help it … I can’t get free!’

‘I can.’

‘You … can?’

‘Who can?’ Dreadaeleon asked, glancing at the young man. ‘Lenk … really? Now?’

‘Say it.’

Somehow, within the icy recesses of a mind not his own, he knew what he must say. And somehow, in the shortness of his own breath, he knew the consequences of saying it.

‘Save her,’ he whispered.

The voice made no vocal reply. Its presence was made manifest through his blood going cold and a chill sweeping over him. His skull was rimed in ice, numbing him to thought, to fear, to doubt. His muscles became hard, bereft of feeling or pain as he pulled them against the rope. They did not ache, did not burn, did not protest. They were ice.

He should worry, some part of him knew.

His hands pulled themselves free. He felt blood, cold on his skin, could not find the thought to hurt. He rose up on numb legs and staggered forward. The palanquin was before him, his sword upon it, its leather hilt thrust toward him invitingly. He clutched it and for a brief moment felt a surge of vigour, a piece he had been missing thrust violently into him and made whole.

‘You have a sword to defend yourself, the means to escape,’ another voice whispered feverishly. ‘Escape! Run now! Save yourself! You don’t need to die here!’

Words on numb ears; he would not die here. He staggered forward, the blade dragging on the earth behind him. Gariath swung the corpse back and forth wildly; he was unimportant. The netherlings darted about him, seeking an opening in his defence; they were insignificant. One of them hung back, the one that had failed to kill him, the one that would enable him.

She was first.

She heard him approach, felt his breath on her neck, knew his presence; that was all so unimportant. She whirled about, the blade in her hand, the curse on her lips, the shield rising; that was just insignificant.

His own blade rose swiftly. He could see himself in its reflection, see the dead, pupilless eyes staring back at him. Then, he was gone, vanished in a bath of red. He couldn’t remember when the blade had found her neck. He couldn’t remember what he had said that made her look at him with such pain in her mouth, such fear in her eyes.

But he remembered this sensation, this strength. He had felt it in icy rivers and in dark dreams, in the absence of fever and the chill of wind. He remembered the voice that spoke to him now, as it melted and seeped out of his skull. He remembered its message. He heard it now.

‘Strength wanes, bodies decay, faith fails, steel breaks.’

‘Duty,’ he whispered, ‘persists.’

Life returned to him: warm, burning, feverish life. The body fell to the ground, the netherling gurgling and clutching at the gaping wound in her throat. The others whirled around, staring at her, then turning wide eyes up to Lenk.

‘Shtehz,’ one of them gasped, ‘the damn thing just turned grey ag—’

The ensuing cracking sound would have drowned out the remark, even if the netherling’s mouth wasn’t reduced to a bloody mess as a red claw seized her by the back of her head and smashed her skull against her companion’s.

Gariath stepped forward, regarded Lenk curiously for a moment. He snorted.

‘Still alive?’ he grunted.

‘Still alive,’ Lenk replied.

‘I thought you’d be.’ Gariath reached down and took one of the netherlings by her biceps. ‘The others are dead?’

‘Still alive,’ Lenk repeated. ‘For the moment, at least. There was another longface, Sheraptus, he took the women.’

‘A problem,’ Gariath replied as he placed a foot between the moaning female’s shoulder blades. ‘What do you want to do about it?’

‘They took them by boat, to a ship,’ Lenk replied, gesturing over the sea. ‘It can’t be far away.’ He quirked an eyebrow at the dragonman. ‘Why do you care, though?’

‘I killed two of these things earlier. Didn’t find any answers. I’ll give it a little more time.’

‘I see … Should I ask?’

Gariath didn’t reply. His muscles tensed as he drove his foot downward, pulling the netherlings’ arms farther behind her. She screamed, long and loud, but not nearly loud enough to disguise the sound of arms popping out of their sockets, not nearly long enough to drown out the deep cracking sound borne from her chest. She drew in several sharp, ragged breaths that quickly turned to gurgling, choking noises before collapsing into the sand.

‘I wouldn’t,’ Gariath grunted.

‘Fine … that’s fine.’ They both glanced to see the remaining netherling, staggering to her feet, growling as she raised her sword towards the two. ‘It doesn’t matter if I die here. It’s never mattered. It doesn’t mean you won’t still die; it doesn’t mean the Master won’t—’

In a flash of motion, a dark stripe appeared across her throat framed by two trembling fists. Her sword dropped, her eyes bulging out of their sockets as she reached up to grope helplessly at the garrotte’s thick, corded kiss. A grin appeared at her ear, brimming with far more malice than Lenk thought Denaos could ever have mustered.

‘It’s an ideal situation,’ the rogue explained to no one in particular. ‘The more you struggle, the tighter it goes, faster it’s over. Perfect for putting down animals. It’s all but useless against someone who just sits tight and thinks.’ He gave her a quick jerk, silencing her choked gurgling. ‘As I said, for the circumstances, ideal.’