Tome of the Undergates (73 page)

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Authors: Sam Sykes

BOOK: Tome of the Undergates
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You shouldn’t even be with these people.
Gariath buckled to one knee under a sudden blow from behind. Her left arm throbbed.
What
, she asked herself,
could you even do?
She clenched her jaw, tightened her grip upon the weapon. And, in the faint flash of crimson that ran down her arm in time with the beating of her heart and the burning of her skin, she knew her answer.
The longface’s ears twitched at the sound of whistling iron. She whirled, just in time to see the blade go spinning past the side of her head. The blow was slight, a faint tug on her shoulder that she might have ignored if not for the trail of red that followed the tumbling weapon.
Lips drawn tightly, the woman regarded the empty, trembling pink hand extended at her.
‘Fine, then.’ The longface rolled her shoulder, even as her wound wept. ‘There’s plenty of time left in the day.’
‘Stay away from my friends,’ the human female warned.
The longface smirked at the sudden hardness in the human’s voice. ‘Stay away from you, stay away from your friends.’ She hoisted her weapon and advanced in slow, clanging strides. ‘Make up your mind.’
One quick swing, the longface thought, and it would be over. Pink flesh was soft, weak and tore like paper saturated in fat. If the female turned and ran, it would take only a little longer. Even though the longface’s own gnawblade was quivering in a motionless body somewhere, the chase would be a pleasant distraction before returning to the business of slaughtering underscum and whatever the winged red thing was.
The human did not turn and run, however. Her advance came in bold, decisive steps. ‘Bold’, the longface had learned, was the overscum word for ‘stupid, but admirable’. That made sense, the purple woman decided, since this one approached her without fear. Without weapon, without armour, but without fear, the human extended her left arm like a fleshy, flimsy shield.
‘Master Sheraptus would like you,’ she said.
The woman showed no reaction, no wide-eyed honour that such a proclamation should entail. The longface narrowed her eyes. This one’s death suddenly became more necessary.
They closed without haste, the longface swung without urgency. One quick swing, she thought in one moment and cursed in the next. The woman side-stepped the blow; clumsy, the purple creature scolded herself, but nothing urgent. The next one would do it.
The woman’s left arm shot out, clamped around her throat, and the longface couldn’t help but smile at the weak and sweat-laden grip.
‘This is it?’ she chuckled. ‘You won’t be a great loss to any—’
In a twitch of muscle, the pink arm became something else, something stronger. The fingers tensed, skin tightening around the bony joints as they dug into hard, purple flesh. The longface’s voice was strangled as she felt her own blood mingle with the cold sweat. Impressive, she thought, but netherlings were hard, netherlings were strong.
That thought abandoned her, a sudden panic seizing her as the human female’s hand began to glow. Her eyes went wide, alternately blinded and captivated by the pulsating light that drifted between bright crimson and darkest black.
‘
Nethra
,’ she tried to sputter through the choking grasp.
No more time wasted, she resolved. No more humouring the little pink weakling. One quick swing and it would be over. She kept that thought as she raised her iron spike to the sky.
‘No,’ the human whispered.
There was a sudden red flash. The longface became a trembling symphony, her shriek accompanied by the sudden snapping of bone, the snapping of bone accompanied by her sword falling to the stones. She looked to her arm, the folded, bunching mass that used to be her appendage as it twisted of its own sudden, violent accord, cracking and bending backwards like a wet branch.
She had felt bones broken before, blood spilled, iron in her flesh. This pain that raked through her was nothing like that, no cause, no physical presence. It was simply a blink of the eye, a twitch of muscle, a snap, and then her arm folded over itself violently again, her elbow touching her shoulder.
‘What . . .’ she screamed through the sound, ‘what is this?
WHAT IS THIS?
’
‘I’m sorry,’ someone sobbed.
She turned to the human female, saw the tears in her eyes, flooding down her cheeks with unrestrained swiftness. She saw the sleeve of the pink creature’s robe rip and burst apart into blue ribbons, exposing an expanse of glowing red beneath. The light that engulfed the woman’s arm pulsed, and with every heartbeat, blackened bones, joints and knuckles flashed through the crimson.
‘I’m so sorry,’ the woman whispered again.
‘Then stop! Stop it!
STOP—
’
Another snap. The netherling collapsed to her right knee, her left leg a knotted mass of folded bone and sinew, her heel touching her knee, her iron-clad toes brushing against her rear. The woman collapsed with her, her entire body shaking, save for the arm that dug its skeletal claws deeper into the purple throat.
‘I can’t,’ the human whimpered, ‘I can’t . . . I can’t stop.’
The sensation of tears was alien to the netherling. She had never cried before. Netherlings were hard. Netherlings were strong. Netherlings did not cry. Netherlings did not beg.
‘Please,’ she shrieked, ‘please! It hurts! It hurts so—’
Snap.
She felt her teeth touch the back of her tongue, her jaw folding once, twice over itself. Salty tears pooled in her mouth, leaking out over her shattered jaw. She felt her spine bend, groaning like an old and feeble tree before breaking.
Snap
; her other arm.
‘It’s not my fault,’ the human whispered.
Snap
; her other leg.
‘What could I do?’ the human whimpered.
Snap
; her neck.
‘Forgive me,’ the human pleaded.
Asper would have thanked Talanas for her tears, thanked the Healer that she could not see the abomination she had created through the liquid veil. She would have praised Him for the fact that she could not hear the screams emanating from what used to be a mouth over the shrieking inside her mind. But she could not bring herself to utter any thanks, to remember that she had lips with which to praise.
The pain, the searing red and black that engulfed her, would not allow it. The arm could not let her stop.
Her body was limp behind it, so much useless flesh leaking tears that hung from the rigid, glowing appendage. She could not pull her arm from the longface’s throat, could not form a prayer for salvation. She could do nothing but close her eyes.
She tried to ignore the loud cracking sound that followed. She tried to ignore the feeling of her palm closing in on itself. She tried to ignore the bright flash of red behind her eyelids.
She tried, failed, and whispered, ‘Forgive me . . .’
She had prayed before that she would never see what she did when she opened her eyes again.
There was nothing left of the longface. There was no iron, no black hair or even a trace of purple flesh. Nothing to even suggest that anyone had ever stood there, knelt there, died there.
Nothing, except Asper, upon the floor, and the black, sooty stains that surrounded her. Her arm was a testament, a whole, pink thing that now lay in her lap, satiated. It was whole again, free of burning, free of glowing. It felt normal, good.
Why
, she asked her thoughts,
does it feel good?
Whoever heard her had no answer.
Three times now
, she thought next. Once for the frogman in the
Riptide
’s cargo hold. Twice for the longface. Three times—
That was an accident
, she interrupted herself,
no . . . that was . . .
‘Interesting . . .’
She didn’t bother to look up at the sound of the masculine voice. It was far away now, the shadow cast by his slight form nothing but a wisp of blackness to join the smears upon the floor.
‘What do you call that?’ he asked.
‘A curse,’ she whispered in reply, ‘that the Gods won’t take away.’
‘There are no such things as Gods.’
She had no answer.
‘Power, however, is absolute. And you, little creature, have such a thing.’
Asper craned her neck up, feeling its stiffness, to regard the man. The male longface, clad in robes that looked untainted despite the water, blood and ash that seeped through the great hall, looked almost friendly compared to the woman. His face, narrow as it was, had a smile that was not unpleasant and his eyes flashed with an intrigue, rather than malice.
Or perhaps she was just too numb to see it.
‘I . . . I killed her,’ was all Asper could choke out through her tears.
‘She is . . . was just a female. There are more.’
‘I . . . but . . . I didn’t just kill her. I . . . made her go away.’ She stared down at her arm again. ‘There’s nothing left of her.’
‘
Truly
impressive.’ His bony hands applauded. ‘Imagine my shock. I had no idea females could even use
nethra
, much less to such . . . ends.’
‘It’s a curse,’ she repeated, more to herself than to him.
‘Whatever you choose to call it, it’s worthy of the attention of Sheraptus.’ She felt his eyes wander over her, felt his grin grow broader. ‘Other appreciable qualities considered. ’ He thrust his hand towards her like a weapon. ‘So, if you would please rise - our business here is concluded and we must be off.’
He was right, she thought as she looked up. The hall was largely abandoned now, the battle concluded in the moments when she had held her eyes tight and asked questions no one would answer.
Who had emerged victorious, she could not say.
The defeated lay dead in the dozens, stacked in heaps, strewn across the floor, floating listlessly in the pools of salt water. Flakes of ash drifted lazily on the breeze as the pulsating, fleshy sacs still burned like grotesque pyres. There were grunts called out in harsh tongues, iron scraping on stone as the longfaces hurried back to their vessel, leaving the bodies of their comrades where they lay.
Of her own companions, there was no sign.
Not such a bad thing, she reasoned; they wouldn’t have seen what she had just done. They wouldn’t have known she had the power . . . the curse to unmake people, to reduce them to nothing. Dreadaeleon’s magic still left ash behind, Gariath left bodies in his wake. Of her foe, there was nothing left: no skin, no bone.
No soul.
She had not the strength to explain it any more, to justify it to them, to whoever Sheraptus was, or to herself. She could not bear to look upon the arm masquerading behind its pink softness, concealing the crimson and gloom. Three times had it emerged, two times it had left nothing, a thousand times had she looked up to the sky and asked why.
And a thousand times, no one had answered.
The male looked up at the sound of a wailing, warbling horn and frowned. ‘The time has come to depart, I’m afraid.’ He scrutinised her through his white eyes. ‘It has been a long day. Frankly, I am not sure you are worth the trouble it would take to bring you along.’ He snapped his fingers, sending a blue electric glow crackling at the tips. ‘Your arm will have to suffice. You can keep the other parts.’
Asper looked up as he levelled the finger at her, watching the sphere of lightning grow. It was not with apathy that she stared, but weariness, relief that came with the grim knowledge that there was only one way to ensure there would never be a fourth time.
The male muttered a word of power. The electricity burst forth with a loud cracking sound. Asper stared at it through eyes with no more tears to shed. The male’s own stare went alight with energy. One more word, she knew, and it would all be over.
That, too, was not such a bad thing.
‘BURN, HERETIC!’
A wall of flame erupted between the two of them. The electric blue faded as the male recoiled, snarling angrily. He turned, more annoyed than anything else, to regard the boy standing at the end of the hissing fire.
Dreadaeleon looked ready to keel over at any moment. His coat hung loosely, tattered in some places, bloodied in others, from a body that appeared shrunken and withered. The veins creeping up from his jawline and the violent quaking that seized his body suggested that whatever damage had been done to him was by his own hand, his magic having eaten at him deeper than any blade.
Asper could muster no excitement at his appearance, nor concern for his frailty. She felt a twinge of scorn, diluted by pity. All this meant was that someone else had to die before her curse could finally be lifted.
‘Ah.’ The male longface smiled at the newcomer with the familiarity of two old friends meeting. ‘I was wondering who that was.’ He glanced at the wall of flame and, with a word and a wave, reduced it to a sizzling black line upon the floor. ‘Decent enough work, really. I was beginning to wonder if any of your breed could use
nethra
at all.’

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