Tome of the Undergates (24 page)

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Authors: Sam Sykes

BOOK: Tome of the Undergates
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‘Last chance,’ he whispered.
Before Lenk, the world was eclipsed in two green suns above a pair of thin, parted lips.
‘Make me,’ she smiled.
There was a heartbeat shared between them.
‘
Stop.
’
His eyes snapped open wide. His neck became cold just as it had begun to shift forwards.
‘
Staring at us.
’
He didn’t hear the voice; he felt it, crawling across his brain on icicle fingers.
‘
She’s staring at us.
’
‘What’s wrong?’
Kataria’s ears went upright, sensing something. Could she hear it, he wondered, as it echoed inside his skull?
‘Stop,’ he repeated.
‘
Make her stop.
’
‘Stop,’ his voice became a whine.
‘Stop what?’
‘
Make her stop!
’
‘Stop!’
‘Stop
what
?’
‘
MAKE HER STOP!
’
‘
STOP STARING AT US!
’
The sailors glanced up from their routine, eyes suddenly quite wide as his scream carried across the corpses bobbing on the waves. They stared for only a moment before cringing as he turned around, clutching his head, before returning to their duties and taking a collective step away from his vicinity.
Kataria, however, did not look away.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
‘Nothing’s wrong. I’m perfectly fine.’ The statement sounded less absurd in his head, but his brain was choked by frigid fingers, an echo reverberating off his skull. ‘Perfectly fine. Would you stop staring at me?’
She did not.
‘You’re not fine,’ she stated, her eyes boring past his hair and skin as if to peer at whatever rang in his head. ‘You just broke down screaming at me for no reason.’
‘There’s always a reason for me to be screaming,’ he growled. ‘Especially at you.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Her gaze narrowed; no longer a probe but rather a weapon to stab him with.
‘What do you mean, “What’s that supposed to mean?” Isn’t it obvious? I was nearly killed today!’
And now I’m hearing voices in my head
, he wanted to add, but did not.
‘You’re nearly killed almost every other day! So are all of us! We’re adventurers!’
Insanity isn’t common amongst adventurers.
‘We’re not supposed to nearly be killed by hideous
things
that can’t be harmed by steel and drown men on dry land! Moscoff—’
‘Mossud.’
‘Whatever his name was, he rammed the damn ... that ...
thing
through with a spear and it didn’t even flinch! Gariath and I threw everything we had at it and it didn’t budge! I ...’ He stalled, then forced the words out through gritted teeth. ‘I looked into its eyes and I didn’t see anything.’ ‘And that’s why you went mad a moment ago?’
I went mad because I’m likely losing my mind.
‘And you feel that’s inappropriate?’ he asked with a sneer.
‘Slightly.’ She sighed, her shoulders sinking. ‘You meet
one
thing you can’t kill and this is how you react? Is it so hard to accept that some things exist that you simply can’t change? I would have thought you were used to it, being a—’
‘Human.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Of course. How could I not be used to such things, being a weak-willed, beady-eyed human?’
‘I wasn’t going to say that.’
‘But you were thinking it.’
Her eyes were hard and cruel. ‘I’m always thinking it.’ ‘Well, if you think so little of us, why don’t you leave and go frolic in the forest with the other savages?’
‘Because I choose not to,’ she spat back. Folding her arms over her chest, she turned her nose upwards. ‘Who’s going to make me do otherwise?’
‘Me,’ Lenk grunted, hefting a hand clenched into a fist, ‘and
him
.’
She glanced from his eyes to his fist and back to his face. They mirrored each other at that moment, jaws set in stone, eyes narrowed to thin, angry slits, hands that had once been close to holding each other now rigid with anger.
‘I dare you,’ she hissed.
Asper tied the bandage off at Mossud’s arm. A frown ate her face in a single gulp as she looked over the tightly wrapped corpse upon the table. Skinny as he was, with his arms folded across his chest, legs clenched tightly together, the pure white bandages swaddling him made him look like some manner of cocooned vermin.
She hated bandaging; it was such an undignified way to be preserved. Though, she admitted to herself, it was slightly better than being stuffed in a cask of rum. At least this way, when they were stuffed in salt, they wouldn’t shrivel up. He would be preserved until the
Riptide
reached Toha and he could be turned over to proper morguepriests.
Still, that fact hadn’t made it any easier when she had wrapped the other men up.
She felt sick as she looked over the bandaged corpses laid out upon the tables of the mess hall. The dusty, stifling air of the hold and the mournful creaking of the ship’s hull made it feel like a tomb.
She could still recall laughing with sailors and passengers over breakfast that morning . . .
Tending to the dead was her least favourite duty as a priestess of Talanas. She was bound to do it, as a servant of the Healer, in addition to performing funerary rites and consoling the grieving. When she had trained in the temple, though, she had tended to the latter while less-squeamish clergy had handled the former.
The crew of the
Riptide
would be dead themselves before they let her console them, however. And Miron, the only other man of faith on board, had vanished shortly after he had driven off the beast.
She sighed to herself and made a sign of benediction over the sailor’s corpse; if it had to be done, she thought, it was better that she did it than letting him go unguided into the afterlife.
Quietly, she walked down the hall and noted a red stain appearing at the throat of another bound corpse, tainting the pure white. A frown consumed her; that poor man might have lived if Gariath was able to tell the difference between humans a bit better. She reminded herself to rebind him when she could acquire more bandages from Argaol.
The sound of quill scraping parchment broke the ominous silence. She turned to one of the tables, where Dreadaeleon sat, busily scribbling away. She grimaced at the casualness with which he sat next to the bandaged corpse, as though he were sitting next to an exceptionally quiet scholar in a library.
‘Have you finished?’ she asked, forcing the thought from her mind.
‘Almost,’ he replied, hurriedly scribbling the last piece of information. ‘Do you know what his faith was?’
‘He was a Zamanthran, I believe,’ Asper said. ‘Sailors, seamen, fishermen . . . they all are, usually.’
‘All right,’ he said. He finished with a decisive stab of the quill and held the parchment up to read aloud. ‘“Roghar ‘Rogrog’ Allensdon, born Muraskan, served aboard the
Riptide
merchant under Captain S. Argaol, devout follower of Zamanthras.”’ He frowned a little. ‘“Slain in combat defending his ship. Sixteen years of age.”’
With a sigh, he rolled the parchment up and tied it with coarse thread. He reached over the bandaged corpse and tucked the deathscroll firmly in its crossed hands. His sigh was echoed by Asper as they glanced at the pile of scrolls on the bench next to him. With solemn shakes of the head, they plucked them up and walked about the tables, delivering the deathscrolls to their silent owners.
She hesitated as the last one was deposited in stiff, swaddled arms. Dreadaeleon’s listless shuffling echoed in the mess.
‘Dread.’ The shuffling stopped. ‘Thank you for helping me.’
‘It’s not an issue.’ He took another step before pausing again. ‘I suppose I was duty-bound, being one of the few literate aboard.’
She smiled at that. ‘I just . . . hope you don’t begrudge me anything after what I said to you earlier.’
‘I said things just as bad,’ he replied. ‘We all do. It’s not that big a deal.’
She felt him look towards her with familiar eyes: big, dark and glistening like a puppy’s. It would have felt reassuring to see him look at her that way, she reasoned, in any other situation. Amongst the library of bandages and scrolls, however, she resisted the urge to return the gesture and waited until she heard the shuffling of his feet once more.
‘So, what was it?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Pardon?’
‘The creature,’ he said, ‘that thing. Was it some unholy demon sent from hell? Or an agent of a wrathful god? What?’
‘What makes you think I know?’ She scowled at him. ‘Is there nothing in any of your books that explains it?’
‘I have only one book,’ he replied, patting the heavy leather-bound object hanging from his waist, ‘and it’s filled with other things.’ He tucked a scroll into the arms of another corpse. ‘Nobody knows what that thing was.’ He looked up at her suddenly. ‘But the Lord Emissary seems to have a better idea than anyone else.’
‘What are you insinuating?’ she asked, her eyes narrowing as she drew herself up. ‘Lord Miron would never consort with such abominations.’
‘Of course not,’ Dreadaeleon said, shaking his head. ‘I’m just curious as to what that creature was.’ He sighed quizzically. ‘It’s certainly not something I’ve ever seen in any bestiary.’
‘You’re as likely to have an answer as I am,’ Asper replied with a shrug. ‘I’ve never heard of anything that can drown a man on dry land, have you?’
‘There are spells that can do such things. But if it had been using magic, I would have known.’ He paused and thought for a moment. ‘I wish that ooze hadn’t dried off Moscoff—’
‘Mossud.’
‘I wish it hadn’t dried off his face so easily. I could have studied it.’
The priestess chuckled dryly and he turned to her, raising an eyebrow.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘I shouldn’t be laughing, I know. But . . . you’re the only man I know who would face something so horrible and wish he could have been closer to it.’ She stifled further inappropriate laughter. ‘Denaos has sent no word yet?’
‘No,’ the wizard replied, shaking his head. ‘The captain and he have been down there for hours.’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows what they’re doing to Rashodd?’
‘I’m not certain I want to know,’ Asper replied, frowning. She cast a glance to the companionway leading to the hold below and shuddered.
‘And what do you intend to do about
him
?’ Dreadaeleon asked, pointing to the far side of the mess hall.
Asper cringed; she had purposely avoided glancing at that particular section. Swallowing her anxiety, she turned and glanced at the cold, limp corpse of the frogman lying on the table under a sheet, eyes wide open and glazed over as they stared up at the ceiling. She hadn’t even ventured near enough to close his eyes, she realised, cursing herself for such disrespect. Still, it was difficult for her even to glance at the corpse. Without the rush of combat, the man’s appearance unnerved her greatly.
Anxiety was not a word that Dreadaeleon recognised, however, and she gasped as she saw the wizard take a seat next to the corpse and poke it curiously.
‘Dread!’ she cried out, hurrying over. She skidded to a halt about halfway, cringing, but forced herself to come alongside the boy. ‘Foe or not, have some respect for the dead!’
‘Look at this,’ the wizard said, ignoring her. He held up the corpse’s limp arm and she cringed again. He held the arm a little closer to the light and pointed to the skin. ‘His skin is still wet and he’s been down here for hours and . . . my, my, what’s this?’
He didn’t have to point it out to her, for Asper saw it as clearly as he did. The boy gently pulled the man’s fingers apart, stretching the flaps of skin between the digits.

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