Page 41 of Ship of Smoke and Steel

One of the monster’s mindless tremors lifts it off the deck as its back arches. It slams down with a tremendous crash, hundreds of pounds of flesh hitting the rusty, rotten deck. There’s a scream like a dying giant as a whole section of metal warps under the impact, supports giving way with a rapid pop pop pop. Plates of rust at the edge of the gap flake away, and then the deck beneath me tilts as one end dips toward the abyss.

The hammerhead begins to slide as it thrashes, and its weight pulls the deck down farther. I feel Meroe lose her balance and fall, then start to skid toward the edge. I grab her wrist, but I have no strength, and nothing to hang on to. Metal rasps at my clothes as the deck dips again, becoming a ramp leading into darkness.

Someone is screaming. Possibly me. The hammerhead goes over the edge, flailing aimlessly. I reach out with my free hand, trying to get a grip, but the ragged, rusty deck only shreds the skin on my fingertips. When we reach the gap, I try again, bloody palm grabbing for the edge of the deck. It crumbles in my grip, and we’re falling.

I pull Meroe close, wrapping myself around her, putting every scrap of my energy and will into summoning my Melos armor. Then I close my eyes, knowing it won’t be enough.

10

The same dream. The angels cluster around me, a mass of twisted, monstrous shapes, their voices overlapping, indistinct, but full of madness and terror. It’s like they want something I don’t know how to give them, pressing against me in their need until I want to scream.

“… Isoka?”

A human voice, barely audible above the babble. There’s a figure behind the angels, visible in glimpses, outlined in soft gray light. Wavering, indistinct, but still familiar.

“… oka … listen … something…”

Hagan?

I always dream of the people I’ve killed. Even when I’m dead, apparently.

Am I dead?

I don’t feel dead. But that may not mean much.

I open my eyes, and see the stars.

In Kahnzoka, between the city lights and the ever-present haze, we don’t often see the stars. But while I’m not an expert, I’m pretty sure they’re not supposed to be moving, and that none of them should be green, red, or blue.

“I don’t think I’m dead.” I say the words aloud, as an experiment. They come out as a raspy whisper, but I can hear them.

If I’m not dead, where am I?

That’s enough to bring it all back, and I close my eyes, throat working.

Rot. Rot, rot, rot, Blessed’s rotten balls in a rotting teacup.

Okay. That’s enough of that. Focus.

I open my eyes again and try sitting up. Somewhat to my surprise, I manage it easily, though my head spins for a moment. I’m in no immediate pain. The light of the stars isn’t much to see by, so I run my hands along my leg, searching for the wounds left by the hammerhead. While my trousers are torn and squishy with blood, my skin is smooth and unbroken underneath. The bone that I felt shatter is in one piece.

This whole scenario is unpleasantly like waking up in Kuon Naga’s custody. But then I’d only been beaten, not half bled out and dropped off a cliff.

I ignite one of my Melos blades. Energy sizzles out of my wrist, a solid wedge of white-green power. It doesn’t cast much light, but it’s better than nothing, illuminating my immediate surroundings in a ghostly, flickering green. By Melos light, I can see that I’m sitting on fine white sand, which stretches away in all directions, its small hills and undulations casting long shadows. A few steps off, a dark shape is huddled in on itself.

Meroe. I roll over and stumble in her direction, Melos blade held aloft like a torch.

She’s lying on her side, breathing softly, her features slack. The sand around her is disturbed, and I guess that she crawled a short distance. I kneel beside her, searching her for injuries. Her left leg is obviously broken, crooked underneath her at a bad angle, and there are strange dark lines running across her. Charred marks, marring her clothes and skin.

Powerburn. I was holding her when we hit the ground. My armor must have flared, trying to protect both of us. But if the backlash was strong enough to burn her, it should have cooked me into roast beef.

Her skin is hot to the touch. She needs water. So do I, for that matter. Meroe’s pack is nowhere to be found, but my canteen is still on my belt. I pull the stopper and tip the water gently into her mouth, but it’s barely more than a couple of swallows. I swear quietly and get back to my feet, raising my blade higher.

There. The green light gleams off a rippling surface. I shuffle in that direction, sand sliding away from my feet. It turns out to be a fairly large pool, flat and black in the darkness, reflecting my glowing blade and the stars overhead. I kneel at the edge, put my hand in, and take a cautious sip.

It’s freshwater, thank the Blessed, sweet and cold. Ahdron said that drinking the standing water would make me sick, but I’m going to have to risk that, because I don’t see another alternative. I hold the canteen underwater until bubbles stop rising, then gulp greedily, letting more of the water run down my neck into my sweat-and blood-soaked shirt. When the canteen’s empty, I fill it again, and stand up to take it back to Meroe.

And then stop. My reflection stares back at me, dimly, from the surface of the pool, and there’s something … wrong. I bend closer, dropping the canteen, and wait for the water’s surface to settle.