Tome of the Undergates (69 page)

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Authors: Sam Sykes

BOOK: Tome of the Undergates
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She didn’t have to strain her ears; even weakened as they were, the distant furore sounded violently close. There was the sound of weapons clattering to the floor, harsh and croaking war cries mingling. Mostly, there was the screaming: loud and sporadic, flowing into a continuous river of agony that flooded into her ears and filled her mind like a bubbling pot.
She winced, folded her ears over themselves. They ached terribly; why did they hurt so bad? With a pained expression, she reached up and rubbed them gently. Her horror only grew at the flecks of dried crimson that crumbled out into her palms.
‘Ah, yes,’ she muttered, remembering. ‘Screaming.’
‘Plenty of it,’ Denaos confirmed. ‘So, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to do this nice and quietly.’
‘Do . . . what?’
Denaos rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘I’d
like
to get out of here without having anything stuffed inside me that I didn’t put there.’ He eyed her warily. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? Because I’m starting to think this might be easier if you were dead.’
‘Get out of here?’
Kataria looked over her shoulder. The great stone slab loomed at the end of the hall, the cracks in its grey face made haughty, shadowy grins against the emerald torchlight. It was mocking her, she realised, as she recalled what had happened. As she recalled who lay beyond it.
‘We aren’t going anywhere,’ she muttered, rising to her feet. Her bones groaned in protest. She ignored them, as she did the throbbing of her ears, the agony of her body. ‘Not without Lenk.’
‘I’m sure he appreciates the sentiment.’ Denaos crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. ‘However, given the fact that he’s behind Silf knows how much solid stone and we’re out here and . . . you know,
alive
, he probably wouldn’t hold it against us.’
She ignored him, collected her bow and quiver from puddles of salt and slung them over her shoulder. With equal contempt for the limp she walked with, she trudged to the stone and ran her fingers down it.
‘It’s rather large, if you hadn’t noticed,’ Denaos muttered. ‘And thick. I checked.’
She looked over her shoulder at him with an even stare.
‘Admittedly, with not much care.’ He sighed. ‘There was the issue of the half-dead shict to attend to.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘But you’re up. You’re moving about. Whatever else is down here is distracted, thus leaving us a fairly good opportunity to do that activity I enjoy so much where I don’t get my head chewed off.’
‘You could have run already,’ she replied, turning back to the stone.
‘I stand a better chance with you watching my back.’
‘And we’ll stand an even better chance with Lenk watching both our backs. Help me look for it.’
‘For what?’
‘A switch . . . a lever . . . something that moves this thing, I don’t know. You’re supposed to be good with these things, aren’t you?’
‘With hopeless situations?’ He shook his head. ‘Only by virtue of experience. If there was anything that could move that thing, I’d have found it. The only chance you have at this point is to bash it down with your ugly face.’ He sneered. ‘Granted, while it seems tempting . . .’
His voice faded into another babbling tangent, easily ignored as she pressed her ear against the rock. The noises were faint: scuffling, splashing, something loud and violent. Through it, though, there was a familiar, if fleeting, sound.
He’s alive.
At least, he sounded alive to her. It was difficult to tell; what she heard was but a fragment of his voice. It was a weak and dying noise, there and gone in an instant. Perhaps, she wondered, she imagined it?
A trick of her mind or her bloodied ears? Or maybe, in her heart if not her mind, she knew he was already dead and heard the last traces of his breath escaping this world before he followed it. Either way, it was a flimsy, weak excuse to linger in a forsaken fortress filled with demons.
Still
, she thought as she cracked her knuckles,
I’ve gone off less before.
‘Hurry it up,’ she growled as she leaned down to inspect the bottom of the slab. ‘He’s not well.’
‘Compared to you?’ She heard Denaos’s long sigh. ‘Good luck.’
She turned at the sounds of boots scraping across the stones. Denaos, with no particular rush or hesitation, stalked down the hall towards the drowned section. She quirked a brow.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Let’s not belabour this, please. We all knew there was going to have to be a parting of ways, eventually.’ He threw his hands up in resignation. ‘I did what I could. Let Silf bear witness.’
‘You did
nothing
!’ she spat at his back, as though her words were arrows. ‘I know your petty round-ear God rewards cowardice, but I don’t. Now get back here and help.’
He could feel her eyes boring into him, that emerald stare that he had seen even Lenk flinch at. But he was not Lenk. He was not Gariath. He was not Kataria. He was a reasonable man. He was a cautious man. He was a man who knew when to run.
Keep telling yourself that
, he thought.
Eventually, you’ll believe it.
He stooped, making certain that the shict wouldn’t see his bitter frown, hear his sigh.
Don’t turn around
, he reminded himself,
don’t turn around. She doesn’t deserve a second look from you. None of them do. You told them. You warned them. They didn’t listen and this is what happened.
It’s not your fault.
He paused at the edge of the water, blanched at its blackness and noted that it wasn’t nearly black enough to hide the frowning face that looked back up at him.
No . . . still don’t believe it.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a bowstring drawn. He couldn’t say that the sight of her eyes, narrowed to venomous slits over a glistening arrowhead, was particularly unexpected.
‘No clansman is left behind,’ she snarled, ‘ever.’
Steady now
, he told himself, holding his hands up for peace.
She’s clearly lost what little mind she had.
‘Must we do this
now
?’ he half-whined.
Brilliant.
‘It should have been done long ago,’ she hissed, pulling the fletching to her cheek. ‘I’ve been lingering amongst your diseased race for too long. I wanted to believe the stories my father told me weren’t true.’ He caught the briefest sliver of a tear murmuring at the corner of her eye. ‘I
wanted
to believe that.’
Sweet Silf, she’s completely mad.
Mad, he realised, and perceptive. His hands twitched, fingers eyeing the dagger at his belt. She responded, string drawing taut, teeth clenched.
‘But every time I try, every legend proves true, every story about your cowardice and sickness . . .’ Her eyes went wide, like a crazed beast’s. ‘All of it was true.’
Grief-ridden, perhaps
, he suspected.
Gods know Lenk was a decent man, but this seems a bit extreme.
He noted the trail of blood that had dried upon her temple.
Maybe that last blow did it . . .
His attentions were drawn back to the arrow.
Either way . . .
‘If I can’t do anything for Lenk . . .’ She growled, her fingers twitched anxiously. ‘I have to do
something
.’
‘He’s not a shict.’
Her fingers twitched, bowstring eased just a scant hair.
Good enough
, he thought as his hand slid a little closer to his belt.
‘W-what?’ Her expression seemed to suggest she hadn’t contemplated that fact in some time.
‘He’s human, you know,’ the rogue continued, pressing a thumb to his chest. ‘Like me, not you.’ He raised one hand in appeal, all the better to draw attention from the other. ‘You call him “clansman”, like that means anything to him ... to
us
. But it only bears any weight on long, notched ears.’
There might still be a way out of this
, he told himself,
you don’t have to kill her.
Yet, as his fingers brushed the weapon’s hilt, it seemed to add:
But just in case . . .
‘Lenk’s . . . not like you,’ she muttered without much conviction.
‘Fair enough. What would he suggest you do, then?’ The rogue shrugged. ‘Sit here? Wait for whatever’s happening out there to find its way in here?’ He shook his head. ‘No, Lenk might not be like me. He’s reasonable. He’s cautious.’ He levelled an even stare at her. ‘He would run . . . but he would want you with him.’
I can’t really afford to make that kind of choice right now
, he added mentally.
I’m sorry, Kat.
The dagger slipped into his palm.
This isn’t my fault.
He didn’t believe it then, either.
Something heavy slammed against the stone, water erupted behind him.
He whirled about, springing backwards at the sight of the great, white-eyed shadow barrelling out of the darkness. The Abysmyth clawed its way into the corridor, dripping water and black ichor from a number of festering emerald wounds that criss-crossed its body.
Denaos held the dagger high, ready to throw as the beast stretched out a claw. Yet, as vacant as the creature’s stare was, there was no mistaking its direction. The Abysmyth looked past Denaos, past Kataria, to the great, stone slab. Its mouth dropped open.
‘Prophet . . .’ it gurgled, ‘why . . . won’t you help—’
Its question ended in a violent sputter and a blossom of iron. Faster than Denaos could even gasp, a great wedge of metal burst out from between the thing’s jaws. It spasmed as green-tinged froth spilled out of its maw to splatter on the floor, twitched as something pulled on the metal and ripped the weapon free from the back of the demon’s skull. It toppled forwards and Denaos immediately forgot how close he had been to killing his companion.
The appearance of the newcomer demanded far more attention.
The woman, or what appeared to be a woman, swung her massive weapon over her shoulder, heedless of the black liquid dribbling down its length. With equally callous casualness, she stepped atop the creature, iron boots crunching upon spine and ribs.
Kataria met her gaze. It occurred to her that the stare, milky white, was not unlike the slain Abysmyth’s. Where the demon’s was vacant and unfeeling, however, this . . . woman’s stare leaked hunger and scorn as though they were tears.
Her purple flesh was as lean and hard as her black armour. Even her face was long and thin like a spear. The fact that her metal was still slick with the Abysmyth’s essence did not encourage the shict to lower her weapon. She had cut down a demon with such cruel callousness and now regarded the rogue and shict with an angry ivory scowl. Any idiot could tell she was no ally.
And, as if on cue, Denaos rushed up to meet her.
‘Well done!’ He slid about the female, seeming to place her between himself and Kataria. ‘Quite a fine blow there.’
You can’t be serious
, Kataria thought. Was the woman’s malice not apparent to him? Did she strike him as another lusty tramp eager for his seduction? She would have put an arrow through the woman in that breath, but white eyes held her in check, daring her and warning her at the same time.
‘Any lady that is a foe to any Abysmyth is a friend of ours,’ he said, smiling broadly to compensate for the cold scowl she shot him.
‘Abys . . . myth?’ Her voice was a knife, raspy and cold. ‘Is that what they are called? Master Sheraptus refers to them as “underscum”.’
‘A fine term.’ Denaos’s laugh was a bit strained. ‘What does he call us humans?’
‘Overscum.’
‘Clever. And what do we call you?’
The woman regarded him cautiously for a moment, then turned her gaze back to Kataria. Her eyes narrowed, she forced the word into a sharpened blade aimed at the shict’s head.
‘Xhai.’ She swept that scornful gaze about the corridor. ‘Semnein Xhai.’ She waved a hand. ‘Unimportant. Where is the leader of this weak gathering? Where is the Deepshriek?’
‘We’re not entirely certain,’ Denaos replied. ‘Our friend slipped into that room there, see, and—’
‘Useless.’
His jaw became a gong of bone and blood, her gauntlet the hammer that sent it ringing through the hall. His whimper was somewhat less impressive as he crumpled to the floor in a whisper. She spared a derisive glob of saliva for his body before turning to the shict.
There was no time for Kataria to wonder whether her companion still drew breath. Her bow was up and levelled. All that stayed her arrow was the odious malice that oozed from every inch of the female’s skin.
‘Your males,’ the purple woman muttered, ‘have a great love of hearing themselves speak.’
‘Stay back, longface,’ Kataria hissed in reply.
‘Longface?’ The female arched a white brow. ‘We’ve been called that before.’

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