>>6207871It’s not a sound.
It’s a ripple through the air, a wave — it expands in the time of a blink — what leaves behind is skeleton upon skeleton, flash-petrified in their silly poses, their meat and blood and skin flayed about them in confusing arc, like some painter decided to use their bodies for his next masterwork and then let his brush smear their flesh all over the canvas, in red arcs over the deck, filled with grime and pieces of pulped organs.
The men at the cannon positions, even the brave ones who stayed until the last moment, are perpetually fused to the metal, besmirched over the curve of the cannon like an afterthought.
One by one rifles fall to the deck.
And then, miraculously, no other sound comes.
The Captain dares to look up.
The Echorist’s bubble has disappeared. He is frozen in place, his flesh squeezed against his bones, dripping congealed blood, his skull crushed, tiny pieces of bone still falling to the deck — squashed by an invisible hand that pierced through his shield.
Carnaval’s feet touch the deck.
She looks about, the blessed expression on her face now turning more serious as she seemingly looks for survivors.
The Captain trembles behind his cover. She pays him no heed. The wheezing crystals around her compact once again, forming those two wings and she walks towards the entrance to the lower deck, the one where he and the dead wizard came out just minutes before.
She disappears under the deck.
No screams come after her.
Her trumpet must have killed everyone.
The Captain’s chest trembles.
He has escaped her before.
Maybe the gods he doesn’t believe into have blessed him with another chance.
But he’s not a young lad now, he’s an old man, his heart black, his teeth gold and his eyes full of tears.
With a grin so wide his neck muscles pull taut, he reaches for his knife.
[cont.]
