Tome of the Undergates (21 page)

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Authors: Sam Sykes

BOOK: Tome of the Undergates
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Rage turned to confusion in an instant as Lenk felt his blade connect with something, though his feet did not return to the ground. He glanced up with mouth agape at the sight of his blade caught neatly between webbed digits. Slowly, he looked to the creature, who regarded him with the same, unblinking expression as it held him aloft with one long black limb.
‘Well . . . uh . . .’ Lenk began.
Before he could even think to let go of the weapon, the loose flesh about the creature’s neck quivered as it gurgled unpleasantly. In a blur of silver and black, the thing’s arm rose up and snapped downwards, hammering Lenk against the deck.
The air was robbed from him, sight failed him as he was pulled up from the deck by his sword, his hands wrapped about the hilt in a barely conscious death-grip. His senses failing, he barely felt the sudden lightness of his body as the creature’s arm snapped forwards once more, sending him sailing through the air.
In an instant, sound and sight returned to him. Screams and frightened gasps filled his ears as he saw the deck rising up to catch him in his plummet. Bones trembled in flesh with the impact of his fall.
‘Gods alive,’ his voice was a breathless whisper, ‘what made me think that would work?’
‘And so it becomes clear.’
The voice was a scar on his brain, rubbed with clawed digits, the drowned gurgle painful even to hear. Through blurring vision, Lenk stared up, pulling himself to his feet just in time to see the ebon hand reaching down for him.
‘What God can hear such a voice so far below?’ the creature asked.
‘They are deaf to your fears,’ the chorus muttered.
Lenk fell limp in the creature’s grasp as it raised him up with all the effort it would use to lift a dead fish. He stared into its empty whites, saw the lack of any emotion boiling behind the great black pupils. There was no hatred there, no malice, not even a sinister moment of joy. Nor did the creature’s stare reflect any predatory instinct or mindless sense of duty.
Within the thing’s eyes, there was simply nothing.
‘In the sky where your pitiless Gods dwell, none can hear you.’
A roar tore through the air. Out of the corner of his eye, Lenk spied Gariath rushing forwards, pools of blood quivering on the deck with the force of his four-legged charge. What momentary relief he might have felt was dashed with the sudden snap of a long, black arm.
Gariath was plucked from the deck like a tumbling kitten, a claw wrapping about his throat. It raised him for but an instant, holding him aloft as he thrashed, clawing and kicking at the creature, before bringing him down harshly. Wood splintered beneath the impact, forming a shallow grave of timber and seawater for Gariath to vanish into as the abomination’s foot came pressing down upon him.
‘But down here,’ it gurgled, ‘only Mother will hear you.’
The creature’s mouth went wide, flesh creaking with the effort of its jaws as it bared rows of jagged teeth glistening with saliva.
‘Let your end be a blessing to you.’
‘
Fight back.
’
It struck Lenk as odd that he should feel guilty for disappointing the voice, odd that he should feel so guilty for clubbing an impotent fist against the creature’s emaciated limb. After all, there were surely worse things than failing a hallucination.
‘
Fight!
’
Too little strength, too close to the jaws, he realised. He could do nothing but stare, his scream choked in his throat, as the creature’s eyes rolled back into its head, the gaping oblivion of its mouth looming before him.
‘DROP HIM!’
The scream was distant in Lenk’s ears, as were the cries that followed: shrieks of horror, open-mouthed pleas for someone not to be heroic.
Someone, a man whose name Lenk had never known, burst from the press of flesh like a two-legged horse, a long fishing pike clenched in his skinny hands. His roar was more for his own sake than the monstrosity’s, trying to convince himself of his own bravery through sheer volume.
‘With me, boys,’ he howled, ‘we need no heathen adventurers to save us!’
Lenk fell from the monster’s grip, suddenly seized by hands about his shoulders as soon as he hit the ground. He glanced up, noting the glint of green eyes and gold hair through his still-swimming vision. A smile tried futilely to worm itself onto his face.
‘Kataria,’ he groaned.
‘Shut up,’ she snarled back as she pulled him into the relative safety of the crowd.
His throat aching, he had little choice but to obey. He looked back towards the creature and saw the sailor standing before it, unflinching, unmoving, as he drove the pike through the wisp of flesh that served as the creature’s belly. There was the sound of flesh tearing, sinew splitting as the metal head came bursting through the creature’s back.
Gariath seized the momentary distraction, reaching up to grab the creature’s ankle. With a snarl, he threw the massive webbed foot up and leapt from his half-finished coffin. Splinters jutted from his flesh, weeping gouts pooling at his feet. If he was in agony, he did not show it.
The creature did not fall, but swayed. It did not shriek, but hummed contemplatively. It did not look at the man with scorn, but with nothingness, a strange sort of curiosity that was something between annoyance and sheer befuddlement.
‘A mistake.’ it uttered. ‘Your rage at your uncaring Gods drives you to strike at your saviour. Do you repent?’
The man staggered backwards, lips mouthing a wordless prayer.
‘Then let salvation be done,’ the creature said.
What composure it had lost was regained in an instant as it rose tall and erect to glance at the pike’s shaft jutting from its belly. With no sound but that of its own flesh being mangled, the creature wrapped a claw about the handle and tore it free, sending meaty black blobs plopping to the deck.
‘And thus is my part written. I am here to make wide your error, your false hope.’
There was a sucking sound, as of a foot being pulled from mud, and the creature’s gaping wound began to quiver. Slowly, the flesh groaned, reaching out with frayed edges to seal itself in a grotesque slurp of sinew.
‘What the . . .’ The sailor was breathless, taking another step backwards. ‘What . . . what in the name of Zamanthras
are
you?’
Like a black, rubbery tentacle, the creature’s arm shot out to seize the sailor about his head, claws sinking into his cranium as it held the sailor aloft. The man shrieked, kicking about madly, clawing at the creature’s webbed hand, writhing in its unquivering grip.
‘I am,’ it gurgled ominously, ‘mercy.’
The sailor’s screams died as the beast’s claws twitched. With agonising slowness, cloudy, viscous ooze dripped from trembling fingers. The crowd took up their fellow’s screams as the slime continued to pour from the creature’s hand, coating his head and face to his shoulders. Like a rabbit caught in a trap, the kicking of the sailor’s legs slowly died, his thrashing silencing.
In moments, a hunk of breathless meat dangled from the creature’s grip, like a condemned prisoner from the gallows, wearing a mask of viscous sludge. The echo of his corpse hitting the deck carried for an eternity.
‘A better place, a better dream, free of your uncaring Gods. This is Ulbecetonth’s gift to you.’ Its voice was a whisper, could almost have sounded tender if not for the boiling bile in its throat. ‘Sleep now . . . and dream of blue.’
Even the murmur of the waves had fallen silent, the sea losing its frothy voice as it bore witness to the horrors occurring upon its surface. All present on the ship shared its sentiment, every man breathless, every woman speechless, not so much as a gull to break the choking quiescence. None present dared even a frightened sob, none heard a single sound.
None save Lenk. His eyes were locked on the man’s corpse, this sailor he had never met, whose name he had never known, whose death would never be explained to his widow’s satisfaction. His eyes were fixed, his ears were full.
‘
Needless. Wasteful. Would still be alive if you had killed.
’
‘He’s dead,’ Lenk uttered.
‘
Because of you.
’
‘Shut up, Lenk,’ Kataria urged, squeezing his shoulder. ‘It’s going to hear—’
Her voice died as two empty eyes rose up. It had heard.
‘Curious,’ the creature gurgled, as if suddenly aware of the presence of the crew and adventurers, ‘what strange vermin swim upon the seas.’
The answer it was offered was subtle, barely more than a whisper. In the wake of sound, however, it began to carry, it began to swell like the waves that had fallen impotent. For the first time in the horrific eternity that began when the creature had risen, eyes managed to blink as they tore themselves away to spy out the source of the new sound that filled their ears.
They parted before Miron like human waves, allowing the priest to stride between them with noiseless steps. The wind rose in his wake, causing his robes to whip about him, as if to silence his quickly growing voice. He spoke louder in response, his chant a series of prayers wrought from words too pure for any present to understand. He raised his hand to the monstrosity, his faith challenging nature and shadow with the gesture.
‘No.’ The creature’s voice was breathless, like a mewling kitten. Its eyes grew wider as it stared at Miron as its victims had stared at it. ‘Cease your pitiless wails! Silence your mourning, vermin! I have no ears for it!’
Miron was not silent.
The chorus of feathered creatures was the first to scream. They erupted in a cacophony of noise and flapping feathers, leaping, tumbling, tearing from their perches upon railings and rigging. The sky was painted white, men falling to the deck as great white curtains of ripping, frenzied feathers fell over the ship.
Miron was heedless.
Every breath the priest took seemed to cause him to grow. His presence grew brighter, the whites of his robes suddenly blinding, the fall of his feet causing the deck to quake. His chant became thunder, every word a bolt of lightning, every syllable a crackle of purpose. None dared to stop him, to pull him back as he drew closer to the monstrosity. They fell away, as terrified of him as they had been of the creature.
The creature’s jaws tore open as it let out a terrible, unearthly howl that carried the sounds of a thousand drowned voices. Miron did not relent, his chant rising in volume to match the monster’s scream as he continued to advance towards the abomination. The creature’s claws clutched its skull as it backpedalled on trembling legs, shrieking in agony as it shook its head about angrily. The priest continued forth, his chant a bellowing chorus of alien phrases, his face a mask of wrath as he drew closer, his symbol raised like a shield, his voice a weapon.
Driven to the wind, the chorus disappeared from the ship, becoming clouds as they swiftly disappeared into the blue upon shrieks of terror and agony.
The foul beast itself let out one last, agonised howl and turned, breaking into an ungainly sprint as it loped towards the railing. With one immense leap, it sailed over the edge of the ship and fell into the waters below with a colossal splash.
The waves settled and Miron’s chant slowly died as he lowered his hand, his twisted face returning to normal. He took a deep breath and let out a great exhalation, his body shrinking considerably as he released all his air in one great gasp. None dared speak in his presence as he stared out over the waves, his eyes locked upon the unseen creature as it fled beneath the waters.
Men dropped their weapons and their jaws, their eyes agog and their murmurs breathless. Dreadaeleon wore a look of amazement, while Gariath’s face was carved into an expression of suspicious concern. Kataria pulled her silver-haired companion to his feet, staring out over the railing with wide eyes. Denaos looked towards Asper for an explanation, but she had none to offer, her eyes locked upon Miron in awed disbelief. From the crow’s nest, Quillian gazed out at the waters, hardly believing that the beast was truly gone, believing even less easily the way it had departed.
Sole amongst them, Lenk took a step forwards, his footsteps echoing across the waves. Miron remained unmoving, unchallenging of his employee’s approach, unspeaking as Lenk cleared his throat behind him.
‘It’s gone now, is it?’ Lenk whispered. ‘The danger’s passed?’
‘Danger?’ Miron cast a smile out from beneath his cowl.
‘I suspect you’ll soon learn the reason that word was invented. ’
Seven
LAST RITES
‘O
n three, right?’ Sebast grunted.
Lenk nodded.
‘Right, then . . . one . . . two . . .’
They lifted the last of the bodies. The two men had no breath to spare for heaving or grunting as they upended the dead pirate over the railing, sending him tumbling into the eager waters. Lenk grimaced, observing with macabre fascination as the headless man plunged stiffly into the brackish depths.

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