Tome of the Undergates (54 page)

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Authors: Sam Sykes

BOOK: Tome of the Undergates
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‘It
does
look fairly impenetrable.’ Asper frowned once for the fortress and twice for the fact that she agreed with the rogue. ‘It’s too far to swim without being made into meat for the Omens and I doubt we could get our little boat over there even once we’ve repaired it.’ She squinted. ‘I can’t even see a way in.’
‘There is but one,’ Greenhair said. ‘On the other side, amidst the rocks, there is a concealed opening. Seals slumbered by it before the Deepshriek desecrated this place.’
‘Regardless,’ Lenk muttered, ‘there’s no way to reach it alive. If we aren’t dashed against the spikes by a wave, the Omens will gnaw us to pieces.’
‘Not necessarily.’ Dreadaeleon scratched his chin. ‘I mean, watchdogs aren’t the brightest things in the world. Toss a piece of meat out and you can sneak by one, easily.’ He glanced to Denaos. ‘I suspect you’d probably know more about that than I would, though.’
‘You want to distract them?’ The rogue scoffed. ‘You plan to strip naked, smear yourself with faeces and do the jolly Omen mating dance?’ He paused, tapped his cheek thoughtfully. ‘That
might
work.’
‘Hm . . . I’m not sure,’ the boy replied, oblivious. ‘I might be able to do something about it, though. They’re scavengers, right? Gluttons?’ At a nod from Greenhair, he glanced out to sea. ‘So, if they
are
anything like watchdogs, they’re probably attracted to blood. In that case, all we need to do is turn the water from blue to red.’
‘Oh, is
that
all?’ Denaos sneered.
‘It’s not too difficult. In fact, with a glamer, it should be rather easy . . . in theory.’
‘Nothing with magic is ever easy, in theory or in practice, ’ Denaos replied. ‘And what in Silf ’s name is a . . .
glamer
, anyway?’
‘Glamer,’ Dreadaeleon said, ‘from the word “glimmer”. It’s just a small spectromancy spell, one of the lesser schools. It works on the theory of bending light to produce an image.’ He held up a finger. ‘To wit.’
His hand danced in front of his face for a moment, a brief murmur expulsed from his lips. His skin shimmered, blinked, then distorted and when he turned back to the companions, he had full lips, long eyelashes and delicate angles. He batted his eyes and gave a demure giggle.
‘Just like that,’ his voice was a sharp contrast to his new face, ‘except on a larger, more distant scale.’
‘That’s . . . actually not a bad idea.’ Lenk nodded appreciatively. After an unbearably long moment, he coughed. ‘So, uh, are you going to stay that way or . . .’
‘Oh, right.’ The boy waved a hand and returned his face to his own with another, equally feminine giggle. ‘Well, I would just lose my own face if it weren’t laced on.’
‘Right . . . anyway, never say or do anything you did in the last few breaths ever again.’
‘We don’t need magic,’ Gariath growled suddenly. ‘We don’t need cowards, either.’ He thumped a fist against his chest. ‘We go in. We kill them as they come. We get the stupid book.’
‘It’s all so easy.’ Asper rolled her eyes. ‘If we conveniently go insane and forget the fact there are Gods know how many frogmen and Abysmyths in there. Factoring in the Deepshriek, I’d
love
to believe that we could make it in, I really would, but I doubt it.’ The waves receded, exposing the decaying buffet of flesh. ‘I
severely
doubt it.’
‘But it is
not
impossible,’ Greenhair protested. ‘I have heard the lorekeeper. He has told me much of what you have faced and fought before! He has told me the bravery of adventurers.’
‘He lied,’ Denaos spat. ‘Practicality dictates adventure, not bravery. Besides,’ he sniffed, ‘
you’re
not the one to risk your head getting eaten.’
‘Don’t disrespect her,’ Dreadaeleon snapped. ‘She can help us.’
‘With what? Singing lessons? Unless she can hold you down while I pound sense into your pudgy head, she’s useless to us.’
‘My head isn’t pudgy.’ The boy’s eyes flashed. ‘But my brain . . . is
HUGE!
’
‘Big enough to come up with a better idea?’
Lenk glanced at the rogue. ‘Can
you
?’
‘As a matter of fact, I can.’ Denaos puffed up, ready to explode with self-satisfaction. ‘As much as I’d love to recommend running away, I
do
like getting paid. Obviously, though, charging into a tower that is both ready to collapse
and
brimming with demons isn’t a good idea in any language.’ He shrugged. ‘So, why not just wait?’
‘Wait.’
‘Wait.’ He nodded. ‘They’ll come out, eventually, to do what demons do. Or we lure them out. Either way, we ambush them, take the book and
then
run away.’
‘That’s . . . not completely bad,’ Asper conceded. ‘They can’t stay in there for ever, can they? If they plan to do something with the tome, they’ll likely bring it out eventually. ’
‘I suppose that passes for genius amongst humans,’ Kataria sneered. ‘
Leave
the book in the hands of demons and
wait
to see what they do with it? You stupid monkey.’
‘And how do you plan to saunter your mighty shicty self in?’ Asper snapped back. ‘Are you going to swim in and hope they think your huge ears jutting from the waters are just a white fish with two fins?’
‘Miron,’ she poked the priestess hard, ‘
your
almighty lord and master, said himself that we can’t leave the tome in their hands.’ Her ears twitched threateningly. ‘And, frankly, your ear-envy is just sickening.’
‘
EAR
-envy?’
‘Miron isn’t the one risking everything.’ Denaos stepped up beside the priestess.
‘And you would risk
anything
?’ Gariath’s laugh was a derisive rumble as he loomed over the man. ‘Your eyes and breeches both go moist at the first sign of trouble. The
Rhega
spit in the eyes of death and demons.’
‘Oh, it’s not
my
death I’m afraid of,’ the rogue hissed, ‘I’m utterly terrified of the idea that you and I will
both
die and I’ll have to share my heaven with some scaly, smelly reptile.’
‘There is no heaven for rats,’ Gariath snarled, shoving the rogue. ‘They get tossed on the trash heap and rot in a hole.’
‘
ENOUGH!
’ Kataria’s cry temporarily skewered the argument. As an uneasy silence descended, she glanced towards Lenk, staring absently across the sea. ‘And what do you say? You’re the one who usually chooses between bad ideas.’
‘Oh, is that what I do?’
He had no more words, only eyes, and they were fixated upon the fortress. The sun was dying at the horizon, descending into a blue grave, and the impending darkness seeped into his thoughts.
One Abysmyth, he reasoned, was invincible. It was a vicious brute capable of ripping people apart and drowning them on dry land, sometimes inflicting both on the same person. The fact that there was more than one had seemed a nightmare too horrifying to contemplate earlier that day.
The fact that there were more than
two
, discounting how many multitudes of frogmen and Omens accompanied them, was too horrifying not to contemplate.
In light of
that
fact, all plans seemed equally insane, save the unspoken idea of just turning around and leaving.
And yet
, he thought,
not even Denaos has suggested leaving . . .
Further, he had entered a contract; not just an adventurer’s agreement, but a contract, penned and sealed with promises. He had sold his word to Miron Evenhands, for one thousand pieces of gold.
A man’s word, no matter how expensive it might be, is the only thing of any real worth a man can give.
His grandfather had told him that, he was certain.
Don’t forget, though, that honour and common sense are mutually exclusive.
His grandfather had also said that.
‘Lenk?’
He felt Kataria prodding him, breaking his reverie.
‘I . . .’ he inhaled dramatically and his companions held their breath with him, ‘am hungry.’ He sighed and so did they. ‘And tired.’
With that, he turned from the fortress and began to trudge away. They watched him for a few moments before Denaos spoke up.
‘What? That’s it?’
‘Night is falling,’ he replied. ‘If I’m going to my death, it can wait until I’ve had dinner.’
ACT THREE
The Mouth, the Prophet, the Voice
Interlogue
DON’T ASK
 
 
The Aeons’ Gate
Ktamgi, a few days north and east (?) of Toha
Summer, getting later
 
So, why be an adventurer?
Why forsake the security of a mercenary guild, the comfort of a family or the patriotism of a soldier to serve at the whims of unscrupulous characters and perform deeds that fall somewhere in the triangle of madness, villainy and self-loathing?
To be honest, I hadn’t actually asked myself that for awhile. Don’t misunderstand; I asked myself all the time when I first began doing this sort of thing, three years ago. I don’t recall ever finding an answer . . .
Eventually, one begins to accept one’s lot in life, adventurers included, so I suppose I’d say the chief reason people stay with this, let’s be honest, rather abhorrent career decision is out of sheer laziness. But that doesn’t really offer an answer to the chief question, does it?
Why
do
it in the first place?
Freedom, perhaps, could be one reason: the need to be without the beck and call of sergeants, kings or even customers. An adventurer is as close as you can get to that sort of thing without declaring yourself outright a highwayman or rapist. Hardly any profit in the latter, anyway.
Greed is certainly another factor, for though adventurers don’t get hired often, we do typically end up with whatever gold we acquire along the way from robberies, plundering or looting ... which might be why we don’t get hired very often.
That aside, I think the real reason is the first one: laziness.
Wait, let me rephrase.
Comfort.
There’s precious little of it to be found in an adventurer’s life, it’s certain . . . and maybe that’s why we pick up a sword or a bow or a knife and decide to do it. It makes sense, doesn’t it? We all want comfort, in one way or another.
Asper wants the comfort of being able to provide comfort to others in the name of Talanas; being an adventurer gives her plenty of opportunity.
Dreadaeleon wants the comfort of knowing he did everything he could to make himself and his art stronger; again, plenty of opportunity.
Gariath wants the comfort of knowing he did everything he could to reduce the population of every non-dragonman species; I suspect there’s a greater reason, but I haven’t had any inclination to endure the head-stompings that asking would entail.
Denaos wants gold, I suppose, but why our gold is anyone’s guess. He could get gold anywhere else. Maybe he just wants the comfort of knowing he’s close to people as scummy as himself.
Kataria . . . is a mystery.
She has everything people who adventure typically don’t have: family, identity, security, homeland. Granted, I know only as much about shicts as I’d heard in stories and what I’ve learned from Kataria, but such things, and she’s bragged as much, are abundant in shictish society. If she had stayed with them, she’d undoubtedly lead a happy life hunting deer, raising little shictlets and perhaps killing a human or two.
As for me . . . maybe by staying near her I can remember what having those things is like . . .
... The family and identity part. Not the killing humans part. Though I suspect I’ve done enough of that to warrant at least a nod from the shicts.
To that end, I briefly considered asking her to stay behind today.
If I die, there’s nothing much that will be sorry for my loss. A dead child is a tragedy. A dead man is a funeral. A dead soldier is a loss. A dead adventurer is a lump in the ground and possibly a round of drinks from his former employer. If Gariath or Denaos die, there’ll just be one less murderer running loose. If Asper or Dread die, they’ll have done so for a cause and, thusly, not in vain.
But if Kat dies . . . people will mourn.
I would have liked to tell her to stay . . . but, alas, I am an adventurer and it’s true what Denaos said: practicality, not bravery, is what drives us.

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