Frank woke in darkness, the kind that pressed in close and didn’t lift when he opened his eyes. For a moment, he thought he might be dead, buried beneath a mound of rats and dead cultists, entombed in angry flesh.

  The flesh is not your tomb.

  But then came the smell of water, thick with minerals and moss. Steam. Human bodies. A thousand layers of sweat and sickness steeped into old tile.

  He stood up with a groan, his body shrieking in protest. Dozens of rat bites tore open across his skin, fresh pain and old pain mingling until he couldn’t tell one from the other. Something cracked in his back and then settled.

  Despite the wounds, he wasn’t dying. In fact, a quick inspection showed he was healing with unnatural speed. None of the bites looked infected, nothing was bleeding – not badly enough to kill him, anyway – and he could move under his own power. All things considered, the body was holding up well.

  The flesh is your salvation.

  He shuffled out of the dark and into a chamber lit dimly by candles set along the lips of low pools. The room itself must have been beautiful once, its vaulted ceilings mosaicked with sea serpents and curling waves. But now it was cracked and water-stained, the floor slick with slime. The far wall had collapsed into rubble, revealing earth and stone instead of open sky.

  They were underground then. That explained the darkness.

  He had a vague memory of stumbling through the sewers, down into a tunnel in the drowned section of the slums, Kyra guiding him into a blackness darker than the surrounding night. Where was she now?

  Shapes moved in the gloom, half-naked bodies stooped and shuffling. Some spoke in whispers. Some simply stared. They looked sickly and scared, lepers or their Argosian equivalents, the kind of people you shove beneath a city and forget.

  Frank’s left palm ached. It was wrapped in a fresh linen bandage, and as he went to massage away the pain he checked himself, remembering why it was bandaged in the first place.

  He touched his forehead. The horns were still there, too.

  “Shit,” he whispered.

  He staggered toward the nearest pool, heedless of the stares he drew. The water was warm, churning with the constant trickle of an underground spring. He caught his reflection in it, backlit by a sputtering candle, and recoiled.

  Gunmetal grey skin. A wild mane of black hair. Eyes white as eggshells. And now two fearsome, curved horns.

  He looked like a monster. And not some kindhearted movie monster cobbled together with makeup and practical effects. He was a living nightmare.

  His palm twitched. He didn’t need to see it to know what was happening. There was a mouth under that bandage.

  And it was smiling.

  He tore away the linen wrap and found a grotesque scar stretched across his palm. It was black against his grey skin, cracked like scorched earth. For a second, he thought he’d dreamed the mouth, but then the scar peeled open, revealing a hideous maw filled with rows of sharp teeth. A forked tongue slithered across the fangs, and the mouth laughed, the sound soft and mocking, like a whisper only he could hear.

  Alone you bled. With me you feast. Don’t confuse pain with freedom.

  The voice inside his head was no longer Sarge’s, replaced instead by that sibilant sigh he’d heard earlier, when Thune first warned him about the Allflesh. The sound of it enraged him in ways he couldn’t understand. Bile rose in his throat, a heady mix of anger and horror. He grabbed his wrist, gripping it with all his strength, as though trying to strangle his own hand.

  Voices murmured in the dark. Were they scared? Were they laughing at him?

  He squeezed and squeezed until the absurdity of it all became too much, until he saw himself as Dr. Strangelove wrestling his own limb.

  He released the hand with a curse and staggered to the nearest pool, laying the wretched thing on the low stone lip. With his good hand, he drew his bronze saber. Someone screamed. The people in the dark scattered.

  You can be rid of the hand. But you won't be rid of me.

  Grunting, fighting against himself, he raised the blade and then brought it down and–

  “Easy, brother,” came a voice behind him.

  The saber struck the stone lip of the pool, missing his wrist by inches.

  Frank turned, teeth bared. A man in tattered robes was approaching, hands raised in peace. He had the bearing of a priest, though not a well kempt one. He was marked by the red brand of exile at his throat, and the holy sigils stitched into his sleeves were blackened with old ash.

  “I’m not your brother,” Frank said.

  The cleric smiled. “Even more reason for you not to bleed all over my church.”

  “This is a church?”

  The priest extended his arms. “Welcome to the Deep Mercy.”

  Frank didn’t answer. He stared at the man, the eyes of the bathhouse refugees glinting in the dark like nocturnal beasts clinging to the last shadows before dawn. He sheathed his sword.

  “You’re hurt,” the cleric said. “I can tend to your wounds. The ones that aren’t permanent.”

  Frank looked at the water again, his reflection rippling now.

  “You got a mirror?” he asked. “Or even my shield? I could use a closer look at the damage.”

  “Your shield is back in the antechamber.” The cleric shook his head. “But we have no mirrors. Down here, we try not to look too closely at our own reflections.”

  Frank shrugged his sore shoulders. “Might be for the best.”

  “You’re lucky to be alive.” The cleric reached into a pouch at his waist and produced a bundle of black silk. “The rats usually don’t leave much.”

  “I don’t feel lucky. Or alive.”

  “Are you in pain?”

  “That’s a dumb question.”

  “Well, dead men feel no pain. So count yourself lucky.”

  He looked up, meeting the cleric’s gaze. “What’s your name?”

  “Brother Belzu.” The cleric bowed his head. “I serve the Broken Ones.”

  “I’m Frank.”

  “Wrap the hand, Frank,” the cleric said, passing him the strip of black silk. “It’ll help.”

  “What is it?” Frank hesitated before taking the cloth.

  “Gravesilk. Infused with the last wishes of the dying. It’s said to calm restless souls.”

  One mouth begs. Two mouths devour. Embrace my gifts.

  Frank wound the cloth around his hand. His palm itched, the mouth gnashing in protest of the soothing silk. When he finished, he flexed the hand experimentally. Still alien. Still wrong.

  But quiet.

  “Thank you,” Frank said.

  “It won’t last forever. But you might get a day or two of peace.”

  “And then?”

  “Then you are beyond my abilities. But it seems you keep powerful friends. Perhaps they can help.”

  “Do you know where they are?”

  “Somewhere quiet. I’ll show you the way.”

  Brother Belzu led him down a crumbling corridor, candlelight guttering against the slick stone walls. The further they went, the more the air thickened, not with moisture, but with something stranger. A kind of pressure, like they were descending into the lungs of some slumbering beast.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  The walls narrowed. Roots pushed through the mortar. Frank heard chanting in a dozen broken tongues and the occasional dry sob echoing from behind closed doors.

  “Who are these people?” he asked, ducking beneath a sagging doorway.

  “The forgotten,” Belzu said. “Victims of plague, most of them. Some cursed by dark sorcery. Others have had their minds flayed by cruel mentalists.”

  “What are they doing here?”

  “This temple was once a sanctuary, a home of mercy and medicine. Centuries ago, it was swallowed up in a great earthquake. Now it serves those who live under Uqmai.”

  “I thought the Rat Cult was the power beneath the city?”

  “Just as those who live in the light have many gods, not all who make their homes in darkness serve the same master.”

  “You’re no friend of the cult then?”

  Belzu smiled to himself. “No, they’d like nothing so much as to see me dead.”

  “Except maybe to see me dead.” Frank’s horns scraped a low arch as he ducked under it. His palm twitched mockingly. He’d have to be mindful of the added height, at least until he could find a way to get rid of the damn things.

  And he was certain there’d be a way to get rid of them. He refused to allow himself to believe otherwise.

  Your flesh is my command, that’s what the Allflesh had told him inside the belly of the godling. Nothing had changed. This body still belonged to him. He was in charge here. And he was going to put an end to this freak shit, just as soon as he could figure out a way.

  They stopped before a pair of bronze doors, green with age and carved in a swirling script that seemed to shift when he wasn’t looking directly at it.

  “Your friends are through here,” Belzu said, pushing the doors open.

  The room beyond was alive.

  It was spherical, like the inside of a great pearl, its walls glistening with a faint inner light that pulsed to a slow rhythm, like the heartbeat of a god long buried. Luminous spores floated in the air, shedding an amber glow that moved with the tides of Frank’s breath. In the center of the chamber, a massive conch shell served as a dais. Kyra sat atop it.

  She wasn’t actually sitting though, but rather hovering inches above the dais. Her eyes were closed, legs folded, fingers locked into strange symbols. She was naked, too, her body toned and curvy in a way that looked like a trick of the light but wasn’t.

  Frank felt the pressure in his skull double.

  “Remarkable, is she not?” a familiar voice called behind him.

  He turned to see Thune’s head resting atop a low wooden table set by the door.

  “I was wondering where you’d rolled off to.”

  “How amusing.” Thune flashed something approximating a smile. “Brother Belzu was kind enough to offer us a private sanctum that we may refresh our minds, and regain our strength.”

  Belzu nodded graciously.

  “Aren’t you …” Frank gestured toward Thune.

  “What are you asking me?” Brother Belzu said.

  “How come you’re not … I don’t know how else to say this … absolutely fucking terrified of this talking corpse head.”

  “Bite thy tongue,” Thune snapped.

  “We meet all kinds here,” Belzu said, “but everyone seeks the same thing. A bit of mercy. Some compassion. The best way to receive these blessings is to give them freely. Remember what I said about not looking too closely at our own reflections? It works for others, too.”

  In the light of this new room, he could see that Belzu’s tongue was forked. Black veins pulsed beneath his pale skin. And every now and then a second pupil floated across his left eye, this pupil slitted like a snake’s.

  As if sensing a new presence in the room, Kyra opened her eyes. Her meditation ended, she settled down onto the dais with a soft bounce, her skin glistening with a light sweat.

  “You’re awake,” she said, stepping off the dais and reaching for a linen towel.

  “Only because of you.” He caught himself staring and looked away. “I’d probably be dead right now if you didn’t get us out of that fight when the Princess Guard showed up.”

  “Dead or worse.”

  “What’s worse than dead?”

  “You could be back in Saar’Jin manor, finding out firsthand why they call Virelios the Butcher of Turtle Bay.”

  “Is that why you ran away with us? Afraid of what your old boss would do to you?”

  “Virelios wasn’t my boss.” She gave herself a quick wipe with the towel and then approached, barely covering up. “He was my master. But it’s not him I fear. Not directly.”

  “It’s the princess,” Frank said.

  Kyra nodded.

  “But we were just doing what Virelios ordered us to do.”

  “That won’t matter to Sazhra. Either she won’t believe that, and have us executed. Or she will believe it, and have us executed along with Virelios. Neither option seems appealing.”

  Her body was scored with shallow scratches and bites, parting gifts from the rat horde. But her beauty was so striking, so alarmingly unnatural, that her wounds almost went unnoticed. Frank tried to maintain eye contact, but it wasn’t easy.

  “Is something wrong?” Her voice carried that same charged tone she’d used to address him back at the manor.

  “No.”

  “Does my body offend you?”

  “That’s not the word I’d use.”

  A smile played at the corners of her mouth. She wrapped herself in the towel, as though doing Frank a courtesy.

  “I trust you thanked Brother Belzu for his hospitality. He’s put himself at great risk by sheltering us.”

  Belzu waved a dismissive hand. “It's the least I could do. We owe you so much, Sister Kyra.”

  “Sister?” Frank said.

  “Kyra is an honorary member of my order. She has been an invaluable ally to the Deep Mercy. Her support has helped so many.”

  “Access to Virelios’ labs and research has its benefits,” Kyra flipped her braid over one shoulder, smoothing it with her hand. “If I can use what he acquired through pain to ease the suffering of others, maybe I’ve done a little good in this world.”

  “More than a little, I assure you. Now you three have much to discuss. I’ll take my leave.” Belzu bowed and then left the chamber, closing the heavy doors behind him.

  Kyra moved to the dais, where an earthenware pitcher and several mugs were set. Luminous spores stuck to her glistening skin as she walked, their light winking out as they landed. She poured a mug of clear water, offered it to Frank and then poured her own.

  Frank took the mug, the clay still warm from her touch. He raised it to his mouth, sniffing, and waited for Kyra to drink. When she did, he took a sip, finding the water within cool and with a pleasant earthiness.

  “I want a boat,” he said after a while.

  Kyra raised an eyebrow. “A boat?”

  “Something with sails, something that floats. A way off this island. I’ve had enough of cursed rings and rat cults and talking heads.” He looked over his shoulder to Thune. “No offense.”

  Kyra studied him. “Part of me thought you liked causing all this trouble.”

  “I didn’t ask for any of this. I didn’t ask to be turned into a freak, or fight an army of cannibals apes, or start a gang war. I just want out.”

  “A way back home?” Her voice was soft, not unkind.

  “Something like that.”

  “Where is home for you?”

  Frank didn’t answer.

  “I can get you a boat,” she said at last. “Or find someone who can. But I need something in return.”

  “Of course you do.”

  She didn’t rise to the bait. “Before I was Virelios’ slave, before the Deep Mercy, I lived somewhere else. I don’t remember much of it, only fragments. Smoke and pain mostly. The rest is a blank, wiped clean like a chalk slate.”

  “You lost your memory?”

  She nodded. “Most of it. Not all. Just enough to ruin me.”

  “What happened?”

  “A sorcerous ritual,” she said. “I was meant to be a sacrifice, part of a rite to open something that should never have been opened. It failed. Or maybe it worked too well. I didn’t die, at least, but power poured into me. Too much. Too fast. It tore my mind apart.”

  “Is that how thou didst become a mentalist?” Thune said.

  “I’ve always had the spark. But this ritual, it blew the doors of my mind off their hinges. For a time, I couldn’t even control it. I’d touch someone and see their nightmares. I’d dream things that hadn’t happened yet. Then, after a while, I learned to control myself. To shape my power.”

  “Virelios knew all this?”

  She laughed bitterly. “Of course he did. He’s the one who found me. Or maybe bought me. I don’t remember how I came to him, only that he kept me sedated at first. Quiet. Contained. Then he started asking questions. Making promises.”

  Frank leaned forward. “What kind of promises?”

  “He said he could restore my memories. Help me find the one who did this to me. The man who led the ritual."

  “And did he?”

  “Not yet,” she said, her mouth tight. “But he’d managed to track the sorcerer, a man named Omuzur, to an island temple. Once his debt to Sazhra was paid, he said we’d go there and settle my score.”

  “Where is it?” Thune asked.

  “Out past the Red Reefs, near the fallen city of Nalkharn. A miserable place, overrun with Copper Men now. They say its waters are filled with sharks with lamps for eyes, that the tides are hot enough to boil a man’s skin. I don’t know if any of that is true. But the island is real.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “Wyrmreach. It used to be a home to ancient dragon riders. No ships land there unless by accident. You can't find it on any map drawn in the last century.”

  “Aren't you scared to go back there?”

  “I want answers,” she said. “And revenge.”

  “You don’t even remember what he did to you.”

  “Does that make it any less of a crime?”

  He didn’t have a good answer for that.

  “It’s not something I like to talk about,” she said. “But I can show you. If you’ll let me. For some things, words just aren’t sufficient.”

  Frank nodded, and Kyra touched a finger to her temple. Suddenly he felt like he’d crashed into a wall of static. He staggered as a vision overcame him.

  He saw Kyra kneeling over a brass basin, eyes rolled back into her head. She was surrounded by men in red robes chanting in a language that did not sound fit for human tongues. As he watched, a hooded man stepped forward, an ornate dagger in his hand. He grabbed Kyra by her hair and pressed the blade to her temple. She screamed as silver light bled from her skull.

  Frank found himself back in the luminous room. He was on the ground now, kneeling in the broken shards of his dropped mug. He looked up to Kyra, her eyes hard as a sunburnt scab.

  He struggled to his feet, his muscles aching. “How’d you survive that?”

  “I don’t know. But I plan to find out.” Her brass eyes caught the pulsing chamber light. “I’ll help you find a ship. I’ll get you off the island. But you have to come with me to Wyrmreach, help me finish what Virelios couldn't.”

  “Why do we need your help?”

  “If you think you can navigate the docks, you don't. But between the trade guilds, the agents of the Great Houses, the pirates and the dock gangs, you're going to have a hard time making it onto a ship without being robbed ... or worse. And those horns are going to make you pretty conspicuous. Might be nice to have a mentalist by your side.”

  “I already have Thune.”

  “I meant one with a torso.”

  Frank stared down at his bandaged hand, at the faint twitch beneath the gravesilk. “What makes you think I’m the right man for the job?”

  “You faced the Rat Cult and lived,” she said. “No one does that. No one.”

  “I didn’t exactly walk away unscathed.”

  “Maybe not. But you walked away. And whatever you’ve become – whatever that thing inside you is – it frightens them. You made Vorrh flinch. You made the rats bleed.”

  “I’m not some hero.”

  “I know,” Kyra said. “That’s what makes you dangerous.”

  Frank exhaled through his nose. “Let’s say I agree. You help me get a boat. We sail to this godforsaken reef. We find Omuzur. What then?”

  “Then we kill him.”

  Frank narrowed his eyes. “Do you even know what he looks like?”

  “I know enough.” She leaned in slightly. “He was born with too many fingers, and no face. He wears a mask of cured flesh to speak to the world. They say he bathes in the dreams of murdered children, and that his island hums with the songs of those he’s flayed. He is a butcher of minds, Frank. And if he’s still out there, he knows I survived.”

  Frank was silent for a long time. The spores drifted between them, the chamber pulsing like the belly of something not quite asleep.

  “All right,” he said. “You get me a ship, I’ll get you your revenge.”

  She offered him her hand, but he didn’t take it.

  “You don’t want to shake?” she said.

  “I don’t know if I trust you,” he said.

  “Good,” Kyra replied. “That means you’ve got half a chance of surviving this.”