Tome of the Undergates (40 page)

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Authors: Sam Sykes

BOOK: Tome of the Undergates
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‘Well, there is something more.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a ten-foot-tall fish that walks on two legs and reeks of death, you moron,’ she snapped. ‘If it’s anywhere on this island, it’ll be disgustingly hard to miss.’
He chose to leave that one in his flesh, as well. It would be easy, he knew, to sling something equally venomous at her. In fact, as he noted a particularly thick branch just next to her head, he realised it would be even easier to repay her for her earlier violence.
All you have to do is reach out, and . . .
He shook his head to dispel that thought. While he knew there to be very few problems smashing someone’s head into a tree
couldn’t
solve, this was not one of them. Tact, however little use an adventurer usually found for it, was called for in such a situation.
‘That’s all there is to it, then?’ he asked, hoping she didn’t note the civil strain in his voice.
‘In this particular case, yes.’ She ducked under a low-hanging branch. ‘Let me ask you something.’
His entire body tensed; questions from the shict, lately, had served chiefly as preludes to violence.
‘Have you thought at all about how you’re going to fight this thing if you find it?’
‘Would it distress you to hear that I don’t know?’
‘No more than usual.’
‘Well, I’ve been giving it
some
thought,’ Lenk replied. ‘The Abysmyth can’t be hurt by mortal weapons, and that’s about all we’ve got. But it
can
be hurt by fire. Dread can do something about that and, if we’ve got time, we can get torches.’
‘It’ll be hard to make a fire when it’s eating our heads.’
‘You think it eats heads?’
‘Sure.’ She shrugged. ‘It seems like the kind of thing that eats heads.’
He smiled.
‘Dreadaeleon has his headache, however.’ She grunted as she pressed her lithe body between a heavy stone and a tree trunk. ‘I’ve never seen him use magic in such a state, but I wager it won’t be pretty.’
‘You mean the spectacle of him straining himself beyond his limits?’ Lenk struggled to follow her through the squeeze but found his waist caught firmly in fingers of stone and wood.
‘I was thinking more about the greasy splatter that the Abysmyth will make of him.’ The shict took his hands in hers and, with a strained grunt, pulled him free. ‘This is all assuming quite a bit, though.’
‘Right.’ He paused to dust himself off. ‘We have to find the stupid thing first. Khetashe willing, we’ll spot it before it spots us.’
‘And then?’
‘Then we run away and hide until we can get fire.’
‘Not the bravest strategy.’
‘Bravery and effectiveness are rivers that run in different directions.’
He caught her staring at his shirt and followed her gaze. Even after he had brushed himself off, the forest proved less than willing to let him go: all manner of burrs, thorns and leaves clung to his garments. He glanced back up and she met his gaze, smugness leaking out of her every pore.
‘Perhaps you’d like to take a moment to rest,’ she said, leaning against a tree and folding her arms across her chest.
Reeking, pointy-eared know-it-all.
Despite having led the way through the underbrush, Kataria was completely free of scratches; nothing more than a slight smear of sand marred her flesh. He focused on it unconsciously, observing the sole discoloration to her pale skin, shrinking and growing with each unhurried breath she took.
Arrogant little . . .
A breeze muttered through the canopy, parting the branches to allow a shaft of light through the greenery. As though the Gods had a flair for the dramatic, the beam settled lazily on Kataria, turning her shoulders gold, setting her hair alight, making the sandy smudge glisten.
Thinks she’s so . . .
The sunlight clung to her, he realised, upon a skin of perspiration. Even as the dirt painted her body bronze, the sweat caught the sun and bathed her skin in shimmering silver. In the moments between the fluttering of the leaves, she looked like something that had sprung from the forge of the Gods, brightly polished metals, rough edges and brilliant, glimmering emeralds.
‘What are you looking at?’
He stiffened up at that, going rigid as though he had just been rudely awakened. The reaction did not go unnoticed as Kataria tilted her head to the side, eyeing him as she might a beast, her body tense and ready to flee . . . or attack.
Not the ideal response.
Now’s your chance
, he told himself,
you’ve got to talk to her and you’re alone together. Start with a compliment! Tell her about that forge of the Gods thing, she’ll like that!
‘You look like—’
Wait, WAIT!
He bit his tongue as her face screwed up in confusion.
She’s a shict; she doesn’t believe in the Gods, just Riffid. Does Riffid use a forge?
‘I look like what?’
Damn it, damn it, damn it.
He clenched his teeth.
To the pit with this, just say something.
‘Hey.’
Genius.
He sighed inside his head.
Throw away your sword and take up a pen, you Gods-damned poet-general.
‘What?’ Kataria’s long ears quivered, as though she heard his thoughts.
If she
can
hear your thoughts
, he scolded himself,
you might as well just say whatever’s on your mind.
‘I want to talk.’
All right, not bad. Straightforwardness is key.
‘We don’t talk during a hunt,’ she replied, ‘ancient shictish tradition.’
‘What?’ He blinked at her, puzzled. ‘You talk to me all the time when you’re tracking.’
‘Huh.’ She shrugged. ‘I guess I just want you to shut up this time, then.’
Easy
, he told himself, drawing in a sharp breath of air,
she wants to fight you. Don’t fall for it.
‘I want to talk,’ he repeated, ‘now.’
‘Why?’
Because
, he rehearsed in his mind,
you’re the only person I can trust not to get me killed or murder me in my sleep. It likely sounds stranger to hear than to say, but you’re the only person I can sleep easily around and I’d very much like to keep things that way.
He cleared his throat and spoke.
‘Why not?’
Damn it.
‘You don’t want to do this now,’ she replied.
‘I do.’
‘Then
I
don’t want to do this now.’
‘Then how are we going to—’
‘We’re not, that’s the point.’
Her stare was different as she slid off the tree, something flashing behind her eyes as she regarded him. He had seen everything in those green depths: her morbid humour, her cold anger, even her undisguised hatred when she met the right person. Up until that moment, though, he had never seen pity.
Up until that moment, he had never had to turn away from her.
‘Listen,’ she said, ‘it’s not that I don’t trust you any more, but you’re just . . .’ She cringed, perhaps fearing what his reaction might be should she continue. ‘You’re skulking, secretive, snarling. That
was
charming, in moderation, don’t misunderstand me. But now . . .’ Her body shuddered with her sigh. ‘You’re not even Lenk any more.’
‘
I’m
not Lenk?’ He threw a sneer at her as though it were an axe. ‘Answer
me
this, then, how is it
you
get to decide who Lenk is?’
‘I don’t,’ she retorted sharply. ‘I knew who I
thought
Lenk was, though. Apparently, now Lenk is some deranged lunatic who talks to himself and refers to himself in the third person.’
‘Lenk is most certainly
not
—’
He caught himself, bit his lower lip as she caught his sneer, twisted it into a haughty smirk and smashed him over the head with it.
‘Point taken,’ he muttered. ‘Being perfectly fair, though, you’re not Lenk.
You
,’ he thrust a finger at her, ‘have no idea what’s going on in my head.’
‘Not for lack of trying, certainly,’ she spat back. ‘Is it so shocking that someone
might
be interested in your weak, insignificant life?’
‘Oh, of course, a reminder of my humanity.’ He rolled his eyes and threw up his arms in one grand gesture. ‘You held on to that for as long as you could, didn’t you?’
‘A reminder?’ Her laughter was long, loud and unpleasant. ‘How could you not be reminded of your race? You’re reminded every time you wake up and think: “
Hooray! One more day of being a walking disease!
”’
‘Only
I
would think of death so sweetly,’ he snarled, ‘because the cold hand of Gevrauch is infinitely preferable to sharing my existence with an arrogant, smarmy, pointy-eared shict,’ he hesitated, as if holding back some vile torrent, before her hiss forced him to loose it, ‘who
farts in her sleep
! There, I said it!’
‘
I eat a lot of meat
,’ she spat back in an unabated hail of fury, ‘and perhaps if you did, too, you wouldn’t be the runt that you are!’
‘
This
particular runt can easily choke the life out of you,
savage
.’
‘You haven’t been successful yet,
round-ear
!’
‘Then maybe I just need a little more time to—’
‘
No.
’
The voice began as a mutter, a quiet whisper in the back of his mind. It echoed, singing through his skull, reverberating through his head. His temples throbbed, as though the voice left angry dents each time it rebounded against his skull. Kataria shifted before him, going from sharp and angry to hazy and indistinct. The earth under his feet felt softer, yielding as though it feared to stand against him.
The voice, however, remained tangible in its clarity.
‘
No more time
,’ it uttered, ‘
no more talk.
’
‘More time to what, you fart-sniffer?’ Kataria was hopping from foot to foot, fingers twitching, though before Lenk’s eyes she resembled nothing so much as a shifting blob. ‘Not so brave now?’
‘I . . .’ he began to utter, but his throat tightened, choking him.
‘You what?’
‘
Nothing to say
,’ the voice murmured, ‘
no more time.
’
‘What,’ he whispered, ‘is it time for?’
‘What the hell does that mean?’ If she looked at him oddly, he did not see. Her eyes faded into the indistinct blob that she had become. ‘Lenk . . . are you—’
‘
Time
,’ the voice uttered, ‘
to kill.
’
‘I’m not—’
‘
Kill
,’ it repeated.
‘Not what?’
‘
Kill.
’
‘I can’t—’ he whimpered.
‘
No choice.
’
‘Shut up,’ he tried to snarl, but his voice was weak and small. ‘Shut up!’
‘
Kill.
’
‘Lenk . . .’ Kataria’s voice began to fade.
‘
KILL!
’
‘
SHUT UP!
’
When he had fallen, he could not remember, nor did he know precisely when he had closed his eyes and clamped his hands over his ears, lying twitching upon the earth like a crushed cockroach. When he opened his eyes once more, the world was restored: the ground was solid beneath him, his head no longer ached and he stared up into a pair of eyes, hard and sharp as emeralds.
‘It happened again, didn’t it?’ she asked, kneeling over him. ‘What happened on the
Riptide
. . . happened again.’
His neck felt stiff when he nodded.
‘Don’t you see, Lenk?’ Her whisper was delicate, soothing. ‘This isn’t going to stop. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s happening to you.’
‘I can’t.’ His whisper was more fragile, a vocal glass pane cracking at the edges. ‘I . . . don’t even know myself.’
‘You can’t even try?’ She reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder; he saw her wince at the contact. ‘For your sake, Lenk? For mine?’
‘I ... don’t ...’
His voice trailed off into nothingness, punctuated by the harsh narrowing of her eyes. She rose, not swiftly as she usually did, but with all the creaking exhaustion of an elder, far too tired of life. She stared down at him with pity flashing in her eyes once more; he had nowhere to turn to.

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