Tome of the Undergates (12 page)

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Authors: Sam Sykes

BOOK: Tome of the Undergates
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‘Something’s wrong,’ Argaol gasped, ‘something . . . something’s wrong with the rudder.’
Lenk peered over the railing, glancing down at the ship’s stern. His breath caught in his throat, denying him any curses he might have uttered. Beneath the pristine blue, stark against the white froth of the ship’s wake, was blackness, an inky, shapeless void that clung to the
Riptide
’s rear like a sore.
‘What the hell are those?’ Sebast muttered.
It took Lenk a moment to realise the first mate wasn’t referring to the lightless stain at the rudder. He then saw the flashes of pale skin in the water, gliding towards the
Riptide
like fleshy darts.
‘Are those . . . men?’
Lenk blinked; they were indeed men. Bereft of hair, bereft of clothing save for what appeared to be black loincloths wrapped about narrow waists, a small company of men swam towards the ship with unnerving speed. In bursts of white froth, they leapt from the sea, arms folded, legs pressed tightly together, in a flash of bone-white and black, before diving below the waves to re-emerge moments later.
‘Oh, no, no, no.’ The captain’s growl had degenerated into a sharp whimper as he pointed out to sea. ‘No, no, not now,
not now
!’
The
Linkmaster
had closed with such swiftness as to make it seem like a shadow upon the waves cast by the
Riptide
, a trailing darkness that quickly shifted, gaining on its prey. Lenk could see faces, tattoos, nicked blades clearly. More than that, he could see their chain, its massive links attached to a great spear ending in a claw, once more loaded in the massive ballista.
‘This is what they were waiting for—’ Lenk muttered.
‘
This
is all
your
fault!’
He whirled at the accusation, facing a wide-eyed, clenched-teeth Argaol.
‘
My
fault?’
‘You and your wretched blasphemies! Your wretched God and your wretched profession! You’ve brought the damned wrath of the Gods on my ship!’
‘Why, you simpering piece of—’
‘
BOARDERS! WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!
’ The call rang out from the deck.
‘
AGAIN!
’ someone added.
Argaol’s mask of scorn was quickly replaced with shock. ‘Well?’ he demanded harshly.
‘Well, what?’ Lenk responded, equally vicious.
‘Get down there!’
‘You just called me wretched. Why should I do anything you say?’
‘Because you’re on the Lord Emissary’s coin, the Lord Emissary’s on
my
ship and
my
ship is about to be simultaneously boarded by Rashodd’s boys and . . .’ his face screwed up as he searched for the words, ‘some manner of
fish-men
.’
‘They look more like frogs from up here, Captain,’ Sebast offered.
‘That had occurred to me,’ Lenk replied, stroking his hairless chin and hoping that was as effective as caressing a beard. ‘And rest assured, I’ll get right on it . . . after you pay.’
Shock, anger and incredulity gave way to a moment of sheer, unexpected consternation on the captain’s face.
‘
Pay?
’
‘Blasphemers live by coin.’
‘Are you actually trying to extort me while our lives hang in the balance?’
‘I can’t think of a better time for extortion, can you?’
It was a purely bitter demand, Lenk knew, as much motivated by pettiness as pragmatism. Still, he couldn’t deny that it was purely satisfying to watch the captain reach into his pocket and produce a well-worn pouch, hurling it at Lenk as though it was a weapon.
‘Of all the vile creatures you consort with, Mister Lenk,’ he forced through his teeth, ‘you are by far the most disgusting. ’
Lenk weighed the pouch in his hand, hearing the jingle of coins within. Nodding, he tucked it into his own belt.
‘That’s why I’m the leader.’
 
In a perfect world, Lenk would have faced well-trained ranks of soldier-sailors armed with steel and discipline scrawled on their faces as he arrived on the main deck. In a less-than-perfect but still optimistic scenario, he would have found shaken but stalwart men, armed with whatever they had to hand.
Perfection and optimism, however, were two words he had no use for.
He shoved his way through herds of visibly panicked sailors, shrieking and screaming as they tripped over bodies and fought over the swords their foes had left behind. He didn’t spare a glance for them as he heard the senior members of the crew barking orders, trying to salvage a defence from the mob.
Let them deal with their squealing, milksopping idiots
, he advised himself,
you’ve got your own psychotic, cowardly idiots to deal with.
The sight of said idiots, for whom hope of perfection or optimism had long ago died a slow and miserable death, was modestly heartening. After all, he reasoned, if they hadn’t already looted the bodies and fled he could likely hope for them to put up a fight long enough to abandon him in the middle of it.
Gariath stood at the centre of the deck, Dreadaeleon little more than a dwarf beside his towering form. Kataria and Denaos were at arms, arrow drawn and dagger at the ready. Quillian stood distanced from them, a crossbow strapped on her back to complement her sword; why she lingered, Lenk could only guess. Perhaps she wished to be present to deliver a smug lecture as they lay dying shortly before being impaled herself.
If Khetashe loved him, he thought, he’d be dead first.
‘Where’s Asper?’ he asked, noting the absence of the priestess.
‘Tending to the wounded below before tending to the soon-to-be dead above,’ Denaos replied. ‘As well as saying whatever prayers she says before engaging in acts of futility.’
‘You’re not showing her the proper respect,’ Dreadaeleon snapped, lifting his chin.
‘Warriors get respect. Humans get their faces caved in,’ Gariath rumbled as he turned a black scowl upon the rogue. ‘
You
will get a pair of soiled pants the moment someone turns their back so you can run.’
‘If you happen to turn your back on me, monster,’ Denaos forced through clenched teeth as he flipped his dagger about in his hand, ‘it won’t be running I do.’
‘
So rarely
,’ Lenk interjected with as much ire as he could force into his voice, ‘do I find an opportunity where I’m actually pleased you people are around. Would you mind terribly waiting until this uncomfortable feeling has passed to kill each other?’ He pointed over the railing to the fast-approaching black ship. ‘In a few breaths, we’ll be swarming with pirates and Gods know what else is swimming up to the ship. If you’ve any intention of surviving long enough to maim each other, you’ll listen to me.’
Indignant scowls, resentful stares and frustrated glowers met him. Not quite the attention he was hoping to command, but good enough.
‘They’ll be upon us shortly,’ he continued, ‘they outnumber us, outarm us—’
‘“Outarm” isn’t a word,’ Dreadaeleon interrupted.
‘Shut up,’ Lenk spat before proceeding, ‘and are likely slightly irate at our having killed some of them. It’s not an impossible fight, but we’ll have to bleed them, make them pay for every step.’
At the angry call of a gull from above, his eyes drifted towards the top of the central mast. The
Riptide
’s flag, with its insignia of a roiling wave encircling a golden coin, flapped with brazen majesty despite the blood spilled beneath it. His eyes settled on the flag for only a moment, however, before he found the tiny crow’s nest perched beneath the banner.
‘Kataria, Squiggy,’ he said, glancing at the crossbow resting on the latter’s back, ‘you’re both archers.’
‘Sniper,’ the Serrant corrected sharply.
‘What’s the difference?’ Kataria quirked a brow.
‘It is purpose and duty, not mere coin and savage lust, that drive my arrows.’ Quillian puffed up proudly. ‘I’ve twice the skill, twice the authority,’ she paused, casting a disparaging glance at the shict’s muscular, naked midriff, ‘and about half a tunic more.’
‘Whatever,’ Lenk interjected before Kataria could do more than scowl and open her mouth. ‘I need you both to climb up there and—’
‘
I
serve a higher calling than you, heathen,’ the Serrant interrupted with a sneering growl. ‘Do you suppose I am one of your raving lunatics to command like a hound?’
‘I
suppose
you’d be interested in preserving the life of your employer, as well as that of the priestess below,’ Lenk retorted sharply. ‘Listen to me and you can avoid earning yourself another red oath,
Serrant
.’
At that, the woman narrowed her eyes and shifted a stray lock of black hair from her rigid face. She didn’t make any other move and Lenk supposed that was as close to assent as she would come.
‘Right,’ he grunted. ‘If we put you up in the crow’s nest, you can shoot down whoever comes across.’
‘A shict can shoot down anything with round ears and two legs,’ Kataria said, casting a sidelong smirk at Quillian. ‘Squiggy here throws arrows away like flowers at a wedding. Perhaps she’d better stay down here and see if she can’t absorb some steel.’
‘Why, you barbaric, mule-eared little—’ Quillian began to snarl before Lenk’s hand went up.
‘
Stop.
’ He pointed a finger up to the rigging. ‘
Go.
’
With cold glares exchanged, the two females grudgingly skulked off towards the rigging together. Lenk watched as they nimbly scaled the ropes, if only to make certain they didn’t shove each other off, before turning to the others.
‘Dread,’ he glanced at the boy leaning against the mast, massaging his temples, ‘you’ve got the most important job.’
‘Naturally,’ the wizard muttered. ‘Somehow, having the talent to hurl fire from one’s palms always predisposes one to being given the “important” jobs.’
‘Yes, you’re incredibly sarcastic,’ Lenk sighed, ‘and if we had more time I’d eagerly indulge your staggering intellect. However,’ he gestured over the side towards the ever-growing
Linkmaster
, ‘the whole impending disembowelment aspect is a factor.’
‘Fine.’ The boy rose dramatically, coat sweeping about his feet, book banging against his hip. ‘What do you need?’
‘A fire. Nothing much, just make something go ablaze on their ship to keep a few of them busy.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Well, Khetashe, don’t let me stop you from making their captain eject his intestines out through his ears if you’ve got that trick up your sleeve.’
‘I’m not sure . . .’ Dread scratched his chin. ‘I’ve done so much already. I can only cast so many spells in a day. If I don’t rest, I get headaches.’
‘A
headache
is slightly better than a sword in your bowels.’
‘Point.’ Dreadaeleon stalked to the railing. He slid his legs apart slightly, knotted his fingers together and drew in a deep breath. ‘It’ll take concentration. Whatever happens, make certain that I’m not disturbed or something could happen.’
‘Such as?’
‘Where massive fires are concerned, is further explanation really necessary?’
‘Point.’
‘Here they come,’ Gariath said with a bit more eagerness in his voice than seemed acceptable.
The black-timbered ship slid up beside them like a particularly long shadow laden with flesh and steel. The deck swarmed with pirates, their boarding chains and hooks ready in hand, their faces splitting with bloodthirsty grins. The ballista stood drawn and taut, the metal claw of its mother chain glistening menacingly in the sunlight.
No sign of the bell, Lenk noticed, or the black-shrouded man. Or were they simply standing behind the titanic amalgamation of tattoos and iron at the helm? Rashodd was ready to lead this second charge, if the hands that caressed the axes at his hips were any indication.
Young man’s hands
, Lenk noted.
‘Dread,’ he grunted, elbowing the boy.
‘As I said,’ he hissed in reply, ‘
no distractions
.’
Dreadaeleon’s fingers knitted, his mouth muttered as he looked over the
Linkmaster
, seeking a flammable target.
Lenk turned to check the
Riptide
’s preparations. Heartened by their seniors’ orders, the sailors had formed themselves into a working defensive line. Their wooden weapons were as shoddy as ever, but they had done the job before. The only difference between this and the previous attack was that this time the men were prepared to face the
Linkmaster
’s crew.
That
, Lenk thought,
and the fact that there are about three times as many pirates as there were before . . . all a degree more psychotic than the last lot.

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