Tome of the Undergates (7 page)

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Authors: Sam Sykes

BOOK: Tome of the Undergates
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The sword lashed out quickly, catching the boarder by surprise as the Cragsman looked to see where his projectile had landed. It bit deeply, plunging below the pirate’s breastbone and sinking into his flesh.
His breath lasted an eternity, even as his mouth filled with his own life. The pirate looked down to see his own horror reflected in the steel, then looked up and Lenk saw his own eyes reflected in his foe’s unblinking gaze as the light guttered out behind them.
Chaff from wheat.
He pulled hard, his blade wedged so deeply in the man that he came tumbling onto the deck. Lenk smashed his boot against the man’s throat and pulled again, jerking his sword free in a spattering arc.
His senses were selective, ignoring the sound of sailors colliding into their foes in favour of the sound of feet coming up behind him. He whirled, lashing out with his blade, not caring who it was that had dared to try to ambush him.
Sparks sputtered in a quick and hasty embrace as his sword caught the pirate’s cutlass. It was enough to drive the man back with a surprised grunt, enough to give Lenk room to manoeuvre. He sprang backwards, felt something collide with his heel.
He looked.
A sailor; he recognised the face, if not the name. Such a task was difficult though, given that a hatchet had lodged itself in said visage, leaving little more than half a gasping mouth and one very surprised eye. At that, Lenk’s own eyes widened and the world returned to him.
Battle.
He could barely remember what had brought him this far: the fields of wheat, the unmoving sky and the silent screaming. What stood before him now was not something to be scythed down carelessly, but a man, towering and swinging his cutlass wildly.
Surprised, but not shocked, Lenk brought his blade up to defend. He felt the blow more solidly this time, shaking down to his bones. Behind his opponent, other tattooed, leering faces erupted over the railings, rushing to meet the defenders. He heard feet shuffling, bodies hitting the deck behind him. He was surrounded.
Imbecile
, he thought.
At what point did this seem like a good idea?
His foe swung again, he darted to the side.
Charging headlong? Who does that?
He lunged, sought the pirate’s chest and caught his blade instead.
Well, Gariath does, but he’s . . . well, you know.
An errant kick caught him, sent him staggering backwards. His foe, apparently, had long legs. Long arms, too, Lenk noted; this wouldn’t be a fight he could win if it continued to be this dance.
Run away
, he thought,
escape through the crowd and you can—
Kill.
No, no! Stop that! You just have to get away long enough to—
Fight.
NO! If . . . if you can’t escape, just keep him busy. Keep him distracted long enough for Denaos to stab him in the back or Kataria to shoot him in the neck or—
Alone.
‘What?’ he asked his own thoughts.
He whipped his gaze about the carnage that the deck had become. He could see flesh, faces rising up and down from a sea into which the sailors and Cragsmen had blended seamlessly. But they were only faces filled with fear or covered in tattoos. He could see no sign of a skinny youth, a tall and lanky cockroach, a flashing silver pendant.
Or, he noted ruefully, twitching ears and bright green eyes.
Whatever twinge of despair he might have felt must have made itself apparent on his face, for when he turned his attentions back to his opponent, the Cragsman had discarded his battle-hardened concentration in exchange for an amused grin.
‘I say, dear boy,’ he said, ‘you look to be possessed of a touch of the doubting dung beetle.’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Lenk grunted in reply, hoisting his blade up before him.
‘More’s the pity, I suppose. Had you, indeed, succumbed to the previous hypothesis of being a man of the utmost practicality and, synonymously, cowardice, I would have invited you to congenially excuse yourself from the anticipated social of disaster about to be wreaked.’
Lenk blinked. ‘I’m sorry, did you just offer me an escape route or invite me to tea?’ He made a half-hearted thrust at the man, who easily darted away. ‘Either way, you would seem to be in a poor position to guarantee either. You’re not the captain.’
‘Indeed. Our dearest chum and astute tutor Rashodd has excused himself from this particular bloody fete to better assure you of his honour. All we wish to partake of is the women in your charter, as well as a portion of your cargo, us being pirates and all.’ He tilted his head slightly. ‘And a particular priest who has decided to associate himself with your uncouth captain.’
Lenk drew back at the mention, suddenly cocking a brow.
‘Evenhands?’
‘Ah, the delicate ladies of your employ would certainly be unimpressed at the object of your concern, sir.’
‘What do you want with the Lord Emissary?’
The Cragsman offered a smirk coy as he could manage with lips like a shedding centipede. ‘A proper gentleman never tells,’ the pirate said, advancing upon the young man and grinning as his opponent took a step backwards. ‘Unfortunately, in the time it took to deliver that stirring bout of eloquence, my patience, and thusly the offer, did decline. Alas . . .’ He raised his cutlass high. ‘Generosity wasted is generosity insulted, as they—’
He was interrupted suddenly by the sound of an out-of-tune lute being plucked, followed by a whistling shriek that ended in a wet, warm punctuation. The pirate jerked suddenly, he and Lenk sharing the same expression of confusion before they both looked down to see the arrow’s shaft quivering from between two of the Cragsman’s ribs.
‘Ah,’ he slurred, mouth glutted with red, ‘that would do it, wouldn’t it?’
Lenk watched him until he stopped twitching, then turned his stare upwards.
He caught sight of Kataria’s smile first, her canines broad and prominent over the heads of the combatants as she stood upon the railing. She held up a hand, wiggling four slender fingers before scampering up the rigging, a trio of Cragsmen at her heels.
It was a well-believed idea of less-practical men that removing oneself from the reach of their opponent was low.
Scampering
away from them, however, was simply insulting. Kataria doubtlessly knew that. With dexterity better befitting a murderous squirrel, she turned, drew and loosed a pair of arrows at them, giggling wildly as they fell back, one dead, one wounded and the third apparently ready to find easier prey.
The saying was old and well-worn amongst men, but true enough that the pointy-eared savages had adopted it as their own.
Shicts don’t fight fair.
The Cragsmen, too, seemed equally aware of the phrase and voiced their retort in a whirl of thrown hatchets. She twisted, narrowly avoiding the gnawing blades, but found herself caught in the rigging as they glided over her head and bit through the rope. She shrieked, fell, disappeared into the melee.
Go back
, was his first thought.
Find her. Save her.
But his legs were frozen, his head pulling towards another direction.
She’s a shict. Savage. She doesn’t need saving. Keep going, keep going and—
Kill.
The thought came again, more urgent this time. It hurt his head to think it, chilled his skull as though it came on icy breath.
Fight.
He couldn’t help but agree; there would be time enough to worry about Kataria later, likely when she was dead. For the moment, something else caught his attention.
The sound of wheels turning with such force as to be heard over the din of battle reached his ears. A groaning of wood and metal sounded across the gap of the sea. Lenk could see, over the heads of the pirates who remained aboard the
Linkmaster
to hold their boarding chains steady, a monstrosity being pushed towards the railing.
‘A siege engine?’ he muttered to himself, not being able to imagine what else the wheeled thing might be. ‘If they can afford a damn siege engine, why are they raiding
us
?’
No answer was forthcoming from either the four Cragsmen pushing it, nor from the visor-bound gaze of Rashodd. It was not them that Lenk looked at, but rather the wisp of a man standing by the side of the titanic captain.
Or at least, Lenk
thought
it was a man. Swaddled in conservative black where the pirates displayed their tattoos brazenly, the creature’s clothing was the least curious thing about him. He was heads shorter than the others, looking like a mere shadow next to Rashodd, and his head resembled a bleached bone long scavenged of meat: hairless, pale, perfectly narrow.
Whether he saw Lenk staring at him or not, the young man did not know. But as the insignificant person’s lips twisted slightly, the bone showing a sudden marring crack, Lenk couldn’t help but feel as though it was intended for him.
To your left.
The thought came with greater clarity, with greater will, as though it was no longer even a part of his own mind, but another voice altogether. Lenk was highly surprised to hear it.
Not quite as surprised as he was to feel the rounded guard of a cutlass smash against his jaw, however.
He staggered backwards, his heel catching a dead pirate’s arm as though his foe reached out in death. His senses reeled as his sword fell from his hand, his vision blurred as he felt blood trickle down his nose. He looked up, blinking and shaking his head; the first thing he made out, shortly before the tattoos, was a long, banana-coloured grin.
‘It could hardly be said of me that so noble a man of the Crags does not endeavour to make good on his word,’ the pirate said. ‘But I do beg your pardon, kind sir. You do us no honour by sitting quietly and watching.’ He looked down at the man Lenk had tripped over and frowned. ‘Nor by the theft of so fine a fellow as this gentleman was to me.’
‘I’m . . . sorry?’ Lenk’s voice was hoarse and weak, his hands trembling as he reached for his fallen sword.
‘Ah, of course, your apology is accepted with the utmost gratitude,’ the pirate replied. ‘Even if the idea of repairing such egregious breaches of conduct is more than a tad absurd.’
His fingers felt numb, unable to sense the warmth of the hilt, the chill of the steel. He tried to regain his footing, the ringing in his skull and the uncertainty beneath his feet conspiring to keep him down. The Cragsman seemed less than concerned with the young man rising, if his very visible pity was any suggestion.
‘I don’t suppose it would help if I said I wouldn’t do it again?’ Lenk asked, trying to talk through his dizziness.
‘I’m more than a mite remorseful to inform you that such would hardly be the proper retort.’ The pirate shook his head and levelled his blade at the young man’s face. ‘Regrettably, this is the point in proper protocol where we resolve and absolve alike through the gouging of eyes and spilling of entrails upon the uncaring deck, if you’ll excuse the crudeness.’
‘Ah.’
Absently, Lenk regretted not having thought of something better for his last words.
That thought was banished as his hands thrust up weakly, catching the pirate’s wrist and holding the blade fast a hair’s length away from his face. The gesture was futile, both Lenk and his foe knew; his arms trembled, his fingers could not feel the skin and metal they sought to hold back. His breath gave up before he did, becoming short, rasping gasps in his throat.
He clenched his jaw, shut his eyes, felt his arms begin to yield.
No.
That thought lasted for but a moment, while the moment existed as a drop of moisture on the pirate’s blade, dangling for a silent eternity. Lenk felt his breath run cold in his lungs, felt his blood freeze in his veins and time with it.
Fight.
His muscles did not strengthen beneath his skin, rather they denied strength entirely in favour of the frigid fingers that crept through him. In one long, cold breath, he felt the numbness sweep up his arms, into his chest.
Into his mind.
Deny!
The thought grew stronger, louder with every twitch of his hands, every fingerbreadth he gave to the blade. It echoed through his head, down into his chest, into an arm that involuntarily broke from his opponent’s grip and sought his fallen blade.
Through shut eyes, he could see the moment dangling off his opponent’s sword.
He felt it drop.
‘
KILL!
’
Blue flashed, pitiless and cold, behind his eyelids. Eyes not his own stared back into him. Teeth that were not his clenched. Fingers that were not his gripped a hilt. The thought did not leap to his mind, did not whisper inside him.
It had a voice.
It spoke.
Lenk felt something move, a snap of cold air that sent his hair whipping about his face. He opened his eyes and stared down the long steel blade of a sword he didn’t remember swinging, life dripping down it, upon which the Cragsman’s shock was violently etched.

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