Siren Song

It was an expedition.

Two weeks.

Twenty of the bravest Zhezzuwans Errhendyle had ever met.

The boat approached the dock. Ten men, heads hanging. Their proud arms wrapped around them like blankets. For weeks after, they were quiet, hugging the corners of the dining hall. That’s when Errhendyle heard the word.

Siren.

Black fronds spreading plague amidst the waves. Water shivering in anticipation. Layer by layer, penetrated. The sky hums. Their winds carried death. It’s always cloudy. Always night. Slivered moonlight to guide them, lacquer of fresh blood on their teeth. They enjoyed painting themselves in it like a maiden in rouge, fancied themselves blushing brides, and the Northmen on board their grooms. But this was no wedding any Northman wanted to attend. There was no heads bowed. No swords crossed. No glory in battle.

“Always cut your throat before they drag you under, boy.” Varrick said once, without an ounce of jest, expression grave, Errhendyle’s hands engrossed in his as they tended to be when father taught son. The lines in his hands were shallow compared to the lines etched into his face. Or perhaps they were torn in. Errhendyle always listened to the Chief.

But it’d been years since he heard the Chief speak.

It reached up to him the same way it did in his nightmares. Satin skin sharp as steel. He knows he’s not dreaming because he bleeds. Once the ichor touches its teeth, it smiles, cooing at the Northman in an ancient tongue. Errhendyle understands the sounds but not the words. Inhumanity pours from its jaw to oppress his throat. Try as he might to spit it out, he can’t. It chokes him. He understands now why those Northmen couldn’t speak. When he opens his mouth, it’s not his voice that comes out.

Cut your throat before they drag you under, boy.

Errhendyle always listened to his father.

But listening does not mean obeying.