Tome of the Undergates tag-1

by Sam Sykes

‘Friends die. Magic is for ever.’ He glanced down at her, extended a hand that seemed far too big for him. ‘Are you coming, or would you rather sit and savour the irony for a bit?’

  She glanced out over the sea at a sudden stirring. The male was up and at the prow again, she sensed, his hands outstretched. She felt with her arm the explosive power boiling between his palms. She saw with her eyes the prow aimed at Irontide’s great, rock-scarred wall.

  Waiting to see what he was about to do seemed decidedly unwise. With a grunt, she waded into the surf and took the boy’s hand.

  ‘It’s not ironic. .’

  Twenty-Five

  THE PROPHET

  The explosion came to Lenk as a muted thump, shaking the stones in the ceiling and sending gouts of dust to lie upon the black water. He rose to his feet, scrambled to the wall.

  ‘Kat?’

  The wall gave no answer.

  ‘Kataria?’

  The stone offered no reply.

  ‘Kat! Denaos!’

  His fist against the rock slab was half-hearted, all his energy drained from previous pummellings with nothing to show but throbbing fingers and a stone that seemed to smile at the futile effort. He did not expect it to miraculously crumble under his desperation, but the dull rumble spurred him to action.

  If his pitiful attempts could be called such, he thought.

  He had heard only faint noises since the slab had fallen behind him: the gurgling sounds of the Abysmyths, a shrill whining and the collective croak of the frogmen. Of his companions, he had heard nothing; nothing to suggest they had heard his furtive cries, nothing to suggest they were still alive.

  What, he wondered, had made him not listen to Denaos? What had made creeping into a demon-infested, dying fortress seem the logical choice? Greed? Some bizarre, misplaced desire to do the proper thing? No, he told himself, that doesn’t work for adventurers.

  A lust for some breed of unpleasant death, then?

  That seems more likely.

  Whatever the reason, the stone did not answer. With no more hope to drive him to beat answers out of it, he sought to bring it down with his head. Sighing, he rested a hot brow against cold rock, giving up on it as he had given up trying to find a way out of the forsaken chamber.

  He had wondered, when panic had dissipated and calm prevailed, if there was a mechanism of some kind to make the slab rise. After all, he had thought, something must have made it fall. That hope was foetid and rotting now as calm gave way to futility. He swept his gaze about the large, circular room; if such a device existed, he’d never find it.

  What floor there was extended ten paces before him into a stubborn outcropping of rock. The rest had long disappeared, swallowed up by a pool of black water that writhed like a living thing. Torches burning emerald lined walls that rose high to form a domed ceiling, glistening with a macabre shimmer of green and ebon.

  Whatever had operated the slab before was long-decayed or long-drowned.

  The meek thought of searching the waters had been banished long ago. Black enough to eat even the emerald light, there would be no way of finding anything in its depths. The thought of something lurking in there, like the somethings he had seen lurking in brighter waters, was just one more reason to stay on land, however meagre.

  Logic and sense abandoned to futility, he turned and, with nothing else productive to do, screamed.

  ‘KATARIA!’

  He froze. His echo was joined.

  A melodic giggle reverberated through the chamber, bouncing off walls like a chorus of tinkling bells. The harmony was tainted, however, as though those bells were scratched and cracked. He felt it, rather than heard it, slithering across the water, over the stone, through the leather of his boots and into his skin.

  He whirled, eyes narrowed, hand on sword. Nothing but stale air and flame shared the room. Or rather, he corrected, shared the part of the room he could see. With the laughter ringing in his bones, he felt his gaze going ever wider, pulled to the water.

  ‘No,’ he muttered, ‘not a chance.’

  The giggle emerged once more, twisting in the air and becoming a stinging cackle. It rang familiar in his ears; his face twisted into a scowl.

  ‘Greenhair.’

  At the accusation, the laughter became a horrid, shrieking mirth, loud enough to urge his hands to his ears. Resisting, he instead slid his sword from its sheath and snarled at the water.

  ‘And what’s so damn funny?’

  ‘If you knew, it wouldn’t be quite so.’

  The voice was alien and convoluted, as though it couldn’t decide what it wanted to convey. It was deep and bass, but tinkled like glass, and carried with it a shrill, mirthful malice.

  ‘Tell us,’ it spoke, ‘what drives the landborne to try the same thing over and over and expect different results?’

  Lenk arched a brow. Wherever the speaker was, it seemed to see this.

  ‘You have been pounding at the stone for some time.’ It sighed. ‘Have you not yet realised it moves by will? Our will?’ It giggled and spoke at the same time. ‘All moves at our will, at Her will, earth and water alike.’

  ‘You haven’t moved me.’ He spat into the water.

  ‘Haven’t we? You drew your horrid metal at the sound of our song.’

  ‘Conceded,’ Lenk muttered, ‘but it’s no great accomplishment that the sound of your voice makes me want to jam something sharp into you.’ He raised the weapon in emphasis. ‘Show yourself so we can get this over with.’

  ‘Curious. What is it that drives you to fight? To think that we wish to fight you?’

  ‘I’ve been doing this sort of thing long enough to know that if someone’s referring to themselves as “we”, they’re typically the kind of lunatic I’ll have to kill.’

  ‘Astute.’

  ‘Time is too short for that sort of thing, you understand. ’

  ‘One would think all you have is time, unless we decide to move the stone.’

  Lenk ignored the echoing laughter that followed, searching the waters for any sign of the speaker.

  The stirring began faintly, a churn in the water slightly more pronounced than the others. He saw a dim shape in the gloom, the inky outline of something moving beneath the surface. Soon, he saw it rise, circling at the very lip of the rock.

  It was when he saw it, so dark as to render the void pale, that it dawned on him.

  ‘Deepshriek. .’

  ‘The servants of uncaring Gods and the blind alike have spoken that name,’ the creature replied, its voice bubbling up from the gloom. ‘To others, we are Voice and Prophet to Her Will. The landborne forgot all those names long ago, however.’ Its voice was quizzical. ‘Tell us, what green-haired maidens have you been consorting with?’

  ‘Hardly the point.’

  ‘The point? The point?’ It became wrathful, a great churning roar that boiled to the surface. ‘What heathen consorts with blasphemy with such casualness? Such callousness? ’

  ‘Yeah, I hear that a lot.’

  ‘Speak to us.’ The black shape twisted towards his outcropping. ‘What did she promise you in exchange for vengeance? Treasures of the deep, perhaps, the laden gold of the drowned? Or were you overcome with sympathy for her plight? Perhaps she appealed to your love of false, uncaring deities.’ Its voice became a slithering tendril, spitefully sliding up from the deep. ‘Or are you the breed of two-legged thing that lusts to lie with fish-women?’

  ‘I’ve come for the tome.’

  The shape froze where it floated. The voice fell silent, its pervasive echo sliding back into the deep.

  ‘You cannot have it.’ It spoke with restrained fury.

  ‘Landborne. . you all covet things you have no desire to learn from, you seek to steal them from their proper authority.’ Its echo returned with a tangible, cutting edge that seeped into flesh and squeezed between sinew. ‘Do you even know what holy rites this book contains?’

  ‘I don’t care,’ he snarled through gritted teeth. �
��I gave my word I’d return it.’

  ‘Your word is an iron weight in deep water. What is your true purpose to come with such heresy in your heart?’

  ‘One thousand pieces of gold,’ he answered without hesitation.

  ‘Meagre riches!’ the Deepshriek roared. ‘Fleeting! Trifling! They give you pleasures you will forget and in exchange forsake your purity and chastity. You would trade power, the power to return the Kraken Queen to her proper seat for shiny metal? There are infinite worlds of golden garbage in the deeps, forever clenched in the drowned hands of those who would die with it. You are no different.’

  ‘I haven’t been paid yet. If I die, I won’t even have gold to drown with.’ The irony was lost on him in a sudden fury. ‘I’ve seen what comes out of the deeps. I’ve seen it die, too.’

  ‘So it was you,’ the Deepshriek seethed from below. ‘I heard the cries of the Shepherd as you callously cut it down. And so did Mother Deep hear the wails of Her children.’

  ‘I didn’t kill it,’ he replied, ‘but I put a sword in it. That’s one thing I can do to demons.’

  ‘Demon?’ It loosed an infuriated wail. ‘Demon? A word birthed by the weak and covetous to rail impotently against the righteous. You display your ignorance with such callousness. ’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘You are blinded and deafened by hymn and terror for your false Gods. You would deny your place in the endless blue. You were not there, as we were, in ages past when Great Ulbecetonth reigned with mercy and glory for Her children.’

  ‘If you really are so old as that, you’re well past due for a sword in your face.’

  ‘This book has the power to return Her,’ the Deepshriek ignored him, ‘to return Her from worlds of fire and shadow to which She was so cruelly cast.’ Its voice became shrill, whining, pleading. ‘Join us, landborne. It is not too late to forsake this quest and aid our glorious mission. You, too, have a place in the endless blue. . for the moment.’

  ‘I’ve heard stories that a demon’s promise is the bait to hook the mortal soul.’ Lenk eyed the shape, growing larger and darker beneath the surface as it slid towards his ledge. He held his sword tightly, planted his feet upon the stone. ‘I’d sooner believe that shicts bottled my farts than believe … whatever in Khetashe’s name you are.’

  The black shape rose wordlessly to the surface. Straining his eyes, Lenk thought he could make out the edges of stubby, jagged fins, like those of a maimed fish, and a long, thrashing tail that spanned an impressive distance from the creature’s already impressive mass.

  Shark, he recalled, was the name of such a thing.

  ‘We tried, Mother Deep, how we tried.’ The Deepshriek muttered, whined and snarled all at once. ‘Let this waste of promise not enrage You.’

  The surface rippled, parted. Lenk hopped backwards, levelling his sword before him. A pair of glittering, golden eyes peered up at him and he stared back, baffled. A woman’s face blossomed from the gloom in a bouquet of golden hair wafting in the water behind her.

  Somehow, he had expected the Deepshriek to be more menacing.

  Slowly, her visage rose from the gloom entirely and Lenk found himself staring at a pair of enchanting eyes set within a soft, cherubic face the colour of milk. She smiled; he found himself tempted to return the expression.

  And she continued to rise. There were no shapely hips or swelling breasts to complement the beautiful face. From her jawline down, she rose from the darkness on a long, grey stalk of throbbing flesh. Her smile was broad, delighting in Lenk’s visible repulsion as he recoiled, sword lowered.

  But he could not turn away, could not stop staring. He spied another feminine face, another pair of golden eyes framed by hair of the blackest night. Another bobbed up beside it with a mane of burned copper. They shared their golden-locked companion’s smile, revealing sharp fangs as they rose on writhing stalks.

  In hypnotic unison, they swayed above Lenk, their sharp teeth bared, golden eyes alight against the green fire. They glided gracefully through the water to the outcropping’s flank, visibly delighted as Lenk hesitated to follow their movement.

  ‘What,’ he finally managed to gasp, ‘in the name of all Gods are you?’

  ‘We,’ they replied in ghastly symphony, ‘are your mercy.’

  The golden-haired head snaked forwards suddenly, its lips a hair’s width from Lenk’s face.

  ‘And no God will hear you down here.’

  The demon threw back all its heads and let out a hideous, screeching laughter that echoed through stone and skin alike. Lenk resisted the urge to clutch his ears, finding solace in the grip of his sword. He eyed the stalks the heads were mounted upon; they looked flimsy at a glance, like boiled corn.

  Corn cuts easy. He took his weapon in both hands, narrowed his eyes and prepared to strike.

  The golden-haired head snapped forwards once more, eyes unnaturally wide, mouth agape to an extent that should not have been possible. Lenk stared, horrified, as the very air trembled at the beast.

  A great bulge rose up through the fleshy stalk. The demon’s mouth stretched even wider. The remaining two heads smiled broadly as, in one great exhale, the Deepshriek screamed.

  The air was robbed from him, turned into a fist that struck him squarely in the chest. His ears threatening to burst in tiny blossoms of blood, he was hurled from the outcropping to slam against the chamber’s rough-cut wall.

  His sword fell from his hand, disappearing beneath the waters. He didn’t feel it, didn’t feel his heart slowly stopping, didn’t feel his body peeling off the wall to slide slowly into the waters, so numb it was.

  Fear was forgotten, fury fled. The creature’s wail had robbed him of all sense and emotion; he had not the feeling left within him to know to scream before his head slipped beneath the blackness.

  Through the gloom of the water, he saw it. The fish hurtled towards him like a grey arrow, skin the colour of rock, save for its bone-white underbelly and spattered maw. Three fleshy stalks crowned its forehead, snaking about in the water. Somewhere far above, he heard three laughing voices.

  As he saw the fish’s white, gaping jaws and the rows of jagged teeth, he wondered absently if he would feel it when they ate his head.

  Twenty-Six

  A BEAUTIFUL DEATH

  It wasn’t until after Gariath pulled himself up out of the water and into Irontide’s gaping wound that he felt his breath stop. Ear-frills spread, eyes wide open, he was terrified to blink for fear that he might miss a single moment of what unfurled before him.

  He had begun to think he’d never see it. He had begun to think he was doomed to die a miserable, peaceful death, slipping away in his sleep or being laid low by a particularly noisome cough. He had begun to think that he would never see what all Rhega yearned to see before they left this world for the spirits.

  Beautiful.

  It occurred to him that others might think him morbid for describing the carnage blossoming before him in such a way. But then again, he reasoned, that was why they were stupid and dead and he was Rhega, soon to die.

  Carnage, a symphony of metal and screaming, permeated the vast hall, pain and glory bled out of the gaping hole in Irontide’s hide on saltwater tides.

  That he had missed the beginning of it all bothered him little. The fight was still unfolding when he arrived, a humble child well on its way to becoming a furious adult of slaughter. And Gariath could see that it grew amidst the great mass of purple and white in the centre of the vast and sprawling chamber.

  That the longfaces held the advantage was obvious enough. They moved in tight, concentrated packs, bristling with their iron spikes and circular shields. Frogmen descended upon them with wailing fervour, undeterred as one after another were impaled and tossed into growing piles of humanoid litter.

  But the creatures did not falter, compensating for their lack of skill and weapons with their sheer press of flesh. The passages and archways of the hall were choked with rivers of them, pouring
out in ever-greater numbers to fight the violet invaders.

  One of the muscular women went down, skewered by a press of five bone-tipped spears. Magnificent, Gariath thought.

  A jagged throwing blade was hurled, bouncing off the stone floor to catch a charging frogman in the groin. Incredible.

  A white-haired female at the centre cut down throngs like great hedges, shearing through bone with a massive blade. Beautiful.

  And all through it, the shrieks of battle filled the air, striving to be heard over the din of agony.

  ‘Ulbecetonth!’ the frogmen screamed, rattling spears. ‘These ones shall be rewarded!’

  ‘Qai zhoth!’ the females roared in their guttural language, banging iron to iron. ‘Akh zekh lakh!’

  ‘Let all defilers know Her mercy!’ the pale creatures shrieked.

  ‘Chew them alive, netherlings!’ the white-haired female howled, the human tongue delightfully harsh on her tongue. ‘Akh zekh lakh!’ Her roar sent the tiny pale creatures scurrying into the water, sent her purple fellows shrieking with collective fury. ‘EVISCERATE! DECAPITATE! ANNIHILATE!’

  At that moment, Gariath decided he liked her best. She would be the last, he told himself, the one to give him his beautiful death.

  It was only out of a fleeting sense of fading loyalty that he scanned the melee for any signs of pink flesh. Amongst the fluids and metals exchanged, the humans were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they had fled, or perhaps they were already dead.

  Perhaps, he told himself, is a good enough reason for vengeance.

  The thrum of bowstrings was an insult to the glory of personal combat, and its sound annoyed Gariath. Quickly spying its source, a trio of the longfaces loosing jagged-headed arrows into the throng, he narrowed his eyes.

  Cowards would serve as decent preludes.

  They did not deserve to be made aware of his presence, he knew, but for this death to be true, they would have to. His chest expanded, his roar was a flash of thunder, coursing over the melee and lost in the sound of battle. The rearmost archer turned to regard him curiously, no trace of fear in her white eyes.