Details in the timber slowly focused into clarity. The porous grain: off white in colour, starting wider at one knobbly end where it interlocked into another joint, before thinning in the middle and then widening to become the shoulder joint and tied into a socket. Bones large and small, packed tightly together, the gaps filled with the smallest of knuckles, even teeth in places made up the deck, the cabin, the hull, everything. The tall thick masts and outer balustrade were made from single bones, poached from some gigantic creature that she couldn’t imagine the size of. Perhaps whale bone, or dragon. Even the sails were cut from a dry white hide, stitched roughly together in odd shapes and sizes; thinning grey fur still attached in places. If there was such a thing as a ghost ship, thought Elora, then surely this was it.
She glanced back over the gunnel, into the strange green fire that licked the bottom of the hull and for a heartbeat thought she saw faces, mouths open wide in silent screams, swimming in the flames then dissolve again before she could focus on them. It was like the green flame that had run along Diagus’s blade when he finished the bulworg off.
“Don’t stare too closely, you might not like what stares back,” rumbled Zionbuss, as he appeared beside her.
She pulled her gaze from the fire and glared at him. “You would have left Ragna if I hadn’t made you go back,” she said.
The demon nodded. “Such is life in the Shadowlands. What is his compared to yours?”
“You swore not to harm any of us.”
“I swore that no harm would come to them by my hand. I kept to that oath, Elora.”
“Well you can damn well make another. Swear by your name that you will protect my friends from harm, whether it’s by your hand or otherwise. Swear it now or leave my service and go back to your purgatory. You never know, if my father escapes he may forgive your disloyalty and give you your old rank back, General Zionbuss.”
The demon’s shoulders dropped as he spat over the side. “Solarius isn’t the forgiving type.” He dropped to one knee before her. “I Zionbuss, Captain of the Necrolosis, swear that I will do everything in my power to protect all aboard this ship.” He rose and grinned again, putting his arm through hers. “Come my queen. Let me show you the Necrolosis. The ship of bones that sails upon a sea of souls.”
Chapter 20
Necrolosis
Bray leaned against the mast, watching Elora as she was shown about the Necrolosis. Zionbuss was explaining enthusiastically about how he had harvested the parts needed for his ship, hands animated with an imaginary knife as he butchered the air before them.
Bray looked at his own hands, filthy with dirt and dark with blood that clung to the wrinkles in his knuckles and worked deeply into his fingernails. That was the thing about blood; easy to get on, not so easy to get off. Two days since he left the path of the Shaigun and his hands were already bloodied, slipping back into his old role like slipping on a familiar jacket.
Relief, if he was being honest, was what he felt when the bulworgs came on and he let his steel sing. Feeling where he should be, what he was trained for and he almost lost himself amongst the battle. But it was seeing Elora’s panic-stricken face that brought him back, forcing himself to realise that there was something that he could lose, something that meant more than his own life. That was the price of having somebody to love.
Ragna was equally bloodied up, great splashes of it in his hair, on his face, spattered across his chest and belly, his hammer making fountains of the stuff when it was being worked. Ejan’s arms were slick from wrist to elbow as if she had dipped them into a trough of blood. It dripped from her finger tips to the deck, making a polka dot pattern and when she laid her hand on the gunnel it left a red handprint which quickly dulled as it soaked into the porous bone. If those two battle hardened warriors could make love work between them, why couldn’t he and Elora? He just needed to keep them both alive through this ordeal and find some way to keep her alive afterwards.
He followed Elora and the demon about the ship, listening to Zionbuss prattle on about how each and every fibre of the bodies had been used and nothing wasted.
“She’s the living embodiment of art,” Zionbuss said, proudly, placing a hand on the wheel, a horned, troll skull at its centre. “Each soul enslaved, swimming beneath her and keeping her afloat.”
Bray found the entire ship disgustingly gruesome. Its crew no better, even the land beneath them, even the flame lit sky. The Shadowlands, all shades of red and black, blood and death - he hated it. Yet he noticed how relaxed Elora was, the way she smiled whilst the demon spoke, how she seemed comfortable aboard this ship of death. Even before, whilst rushing up the ridge, running from her father’s host she was the only one of the group who was at ease with the desolate plains. Then again, this world was created by her father so surely it was in her blood.
“How many have you killed, how many lives have you ended to create this?” Elora asked, gesturing about the ship with her arm.
“How many rain drops make a storm? A lot I think, far too many to count. Souls are much the same, one or two you would never notice. A thousand or so - maybe enough to make a splash, but for a storm? Countless, like the lives spent to create and float the Necrolosis.” The demon’s boastful grin faltered when he saw Elora’s scowl. “Is that bad, my queen? But let me put you at ease. I killed nobody that was innocent; black-hearted killers the lot and the worlds will be better off without them.”
“When Diagus killed that last bulworg, I saw a green flame flicker along his sword,” said Elora.
“What you witnessed, my queen, was the bulworg’s soul being harvested by the Shadojak. His sword soaks up the beast’s memories, whatever knowledge it had and its final thoughts. That’s why the Shadojak is so hard to kill.”
“And what of you Zionbuss? Are you an innocent?” snapped Bray, unable to take any more of his bragging and feeling agitated by the demon’s knowledge of the Shadojak’s soul reaver.
The demon switched his gaze to him, seeing through Otholo’s eyes. “No, I’ve done some pretty bad things. Some ugly bad things too. I’m probably the furthest from innocent you’re likely to get. But then, who would sail my ship?” Zionbuss laughed. “Come, let me show you the Captain’s quarters.”
Bray wanted to know what he meant, but Elora’s warm fingers found his, jolting him from his train of thought as she set off after the demon.
The body of the bard held the bone door open for them and they stepped into the dimly lit room. The shape of a circular table came into view, set in the middle of the quarters, papers and scrolls spread about its top in a disorderly fashion. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom he stepped in front of Elora and instinctively went for his sword.
Before them, beyond the table and sat upon a huge throne-like chair made of bone, was a giant black beast. Long claws dug into the human skulls that were set into the chair, thick twisted sinew and muscle made up the meaty arms that ended in huge shoulders. Black glassy orbs stared down at them, unblinking and unseeing from deep sockets, large horns protruded either side of the thick forehead, sharp and menacing.
“Steady there, Bray,” spoke Zionbuss, softly laying a hand on his shoulder. “Wouldn’t want to ruin its beauty.”
The demon crossed the chamber to the seated beast as if it was nothing more than a statue and snapped open the hide curtain that covered the only window.
Enough light spilled through to brighten the room and when it hit the beast, Bray saw that he was mistaken. It wasn’t black, its skin was dark red, covered in dark writing and symbols so thick that it gave the appearance that it was black.
Zionbuss went to the huge creature and placed a hand upon its forearm. “Let me introduce you to – me.”
He appeared to shrink back a little, his hand snapping away from the beast as he looked about them with fright on his face.
“I hate this ship,” said Otholo, the bard taking control of his own body once again.
Then the beast’s claws playfully clicked against the skulls. Its black eyes flashed from his to Elora’s, at least he thought they did. It was hard to tell when they were totally black with no whites for reference. A grin stretched its face tight, revealing teeth sharpened to points, a forked tongue darting out to wet its thick lips.
“My queen,” its voice rumbled as it rose on bare feet. Naked save for a leather skirt that stopped at the knees, it stood a foot taller than Ragna, not including the horns which scraped against the ceiling.
“I hate you,” said Otholo, then stormed from the chamber, slamming the door behind him.
Zionbuss laughed, the sound spine-rattling deep. “I can’t say I found sharing that little soft body pleasant, either.”
Bray surveyed the huge beast, the patterns and writing on his body seeming to swirl before his gaze, constantly swimming in and out of focus as he tried to recognise what language it was written in.
The others came in then. Diagus followed by Ragna and Ejan, weapons drawn and ready to take on whatever was inside.
Diagus lowered his sword when he saw no immediate danger. “Zionbuss, I take it?” The beast nodded.
