Tome of the Undergates
Page 51

‘Clever,’ Dreadaeleon interrupted, taking a step forwards. ‘I’m less interested in where you came from and more in how you’re still standing.’
‘Ah, after this, you mean?’ He gestured over the burning sacs, the seas of ash. ‘Duty, I suppose someone of your breed might call it. The underscum are in our way. Sheraptus desires them dead and . . . well, look. The price one pays for nethra would be a further detriment. Thusly . . .’ He snapped his fingers, smiled. ‘We removed it.’
‘Impossible.’
‘We do not know that word, either.’
‘How many of you are there?’ the boy demanded. ‘How many heretics remain?’
‘Perhaps you refer to males, the only ones capable of nethra.’ The longface shrugged. ‘Not so many, but if power were not a rare quality, any thick-of-skull female could do it.’ He glanced sidelong at Asper. ‘Speaking of which, I have business with this one. If you had claims on her arm, you must live with that disappointment.’
‘Arm?’
In any other moment, Asper’s pulse would have risen, mind gone racing for excuses. Now, what did it matter what Dreadaeleon knew? He would be dead. She would follow. Nothing remained to be spoken, nothing remained to resist as the longface took a step forwards.
‘As well as whatever else I can salvage,’ he said, chuckling. ‘An arm is not such an important thing to one who carries no weapons, is it?’ His eyes ran up and down her body hungrily. ‘Particularly when the rest of her can be put to a much more proper use.’
His purple hand extended with the vaguest hint of an excited tremble coursing down his digits. His tongue flicked out, a tiny line of pink sliding across long, white teeth.
‘GET AWAY FROM HER!’ Dreadaeleon’s roar was followed by a racking cough, a shudder in his stance. The longface, if his quirked brow was any indication, seemed less than impressed.
‘This belongs to you? I am sorry in a terrible way, but I must damage your property. I need the arm.’ He waved dismissively. ‘You can have the rest when I am finished.’
‘I said,’ the boy uttered against the hiss of flames, ‘stay away from her.’
At that, Asper’s eyes did go slightly wider. The flames that danced on Dreadaeleon’s outstretched palm were barely stronger than that of a candle, but every moment they burned caused his body to shudder, to tremble. Why, she asked him silently, why don’t you do it? Burn your heretic. Save your laws.
She then saw the longface’s hand, also outstretched, a single finger pointed directly at her. She glanced back to Dreadaeleon. No, she wanted to cry out to him, but had no voice in her raw throat, don’t do it. Not for me, Dread. I want this to happen . . . I want—
Dreadaeleon shuddered suddenly. The longface’s grin broadened as the boy shifted slightly, trying to conceal the dark stain that appeared on his lap.
‘Pushed yourself too far, it is apparent.’ The purple man laughed. ‘Is it really worth the shame, pinkling? I am no bloodthirsty female. Step aside, let me do my business, and you may clean yourself in peace. I have no wish to harm a fellow user.’
‘I’m not your fellow.’
‘Whatever laws separate us are as trivial and fleeting as the gods your breed claims to love.’
‘It’s not about laws.’
‘Oh . . .’ The longface’s mouth twisted into a frown. ‘All this over a female, then? You do not have many where you come from?’
‘Stop talking about her,’ the boy spat. The sphere of flame growing in his palm bloomed into an orchid of fire. ‘I’m the only one standing in your way. Face me.’
The only one . . . Asper let that thought drift into nothingness as the male longface raised his hand, levelled it at Dreadaeleon.
‘Point,’ he said simply, ‘goodbye.’
The longface thrust his hand forwards with a grunt. The air rippled as an invisible force struck Dreadaeleon, his fire extinguished and his frail body sent flying to crash against a pillar. He staggered to his feet, swayed precariously with only a moment to cast a desperate stare in her direction before crashing upon the floor, unmoving, unbreathing.
‘Dread.’ Asper could do no more than whisper, could find no strength. That was going to happen, she knew, he would die before she did, as the only one who had stood in the longface’s way. That was logical.
Why, then, did she want to cry out so much louder?
‘Annoying,’ the male muttered, turning back to her. ‘Perhaps it is worth taking whatever consists of your thoughts to find out what makes you do things like that.’ He flicked his fingers and spoke a word that called flames to his palms. ‘Small steps, I suppose. Arm first. Brain later.’
‘Dread . . .’ she whispered again, watching the boy lying motionless in a puddle of salt water.
He could have stayed behind, she knew, he could have crept up on the longface and struck him from behind. If she had died, his laws would have been upheld, his faithlessness upheld. Maybe even proven, she thought.
Instead, he had stood against the longface, weakened as he was. He had died, his pants soiled, face-down upon unsympathetic stones. For what? That he might preserve her? Though he might not have known it, all he had preserved was a curse. And not knowing that, all he had done was give her the few breaths it took for the longface to approach her.
Where was the reason? Where was the logic?
By the time the longface stood over her, all teeth and fire, she had no answer and Dreadaeleon was still dead.
‘Do not think this to be unkind, little pinkling.’ He extended his hand, the fire engulfing it from tip to wrist. ‘It is the way of things, you find, as all others shall. We are netherling. We are Arkklan Kaharn.’ He narrowed his eyes, glowing red. ‘Ours is the right to take.’
There was no cry from her, no protest as he eyed her arm hungrily. She barely had eyes for him and his wicked fire. Her gaze was upon Dreadaeleon, her lips quivering as they sought the words to offer his limp body.
You shouldn’t have bothered, she thought. It’s better this way . . . you didn’t have to die, Dread. I did. You shouldn’t have become involved.
‘Forgive me,’ was all she whispered.
All that she heard, however, was the throaty, ragged breath from above. Longface and priestess looked up as one, seeing the massive, red chest that rose and fell with each red-flecked burst of air. They looked up further, past the massive, winged shoulders and into the narrowed, black eyes that stared down contemptuously upon them.
‘Oh . . . my . . .’ The longface swallowed hard at the sight of rows of white, glistening teeth bared at him.
Gariath’s jaws flashed open, his roar sending the male’s white hair whipping across his purple face. The netherling responded swiftly, hands up like torches against the night, mouth straining not to fumble in fear as he uttered the words that caused the flames to leap from his palms and into the gaping maw of this new aggressor.
The dragonman vanished behind the curtain of fire for but a moment before emerging, flesh smeared black, blood boiling in the crevasses of his scowl, eyes painted a ferocious orange by the flame. His hands rose, pressing against the fire, containing it within his claws until he reached down to seize the netherling’s own digits with an extinguishing hiss and a sputter of smoke.
The longface’s shriek was louder than the sound of his fingers snapping, the tears streaming from his eyes thicker than the blood coating his foe’s face. He staggered backwards as Gariath released him, his appendages hanging limply at his sides, oozing liquid that sizzled as it spattered upon the ground.
‘You . . . you dare!’ the longface tried to roar, but could only whimper as he fought to scowl through his sobs. ‘It is futile, beast! Your whole fleeting life is nothing but a sigh on the wind before Sheraptus finds you! Both of you! ALL OF YOU!’
Gariath ignored him, stalking towards the netherling with claws flexing.
‘We are netherling!’ the longface continued to shriek. ‘We come from nothing! We return to nothing! And nothing you do can change—’
‘Stop.’
Gariath interrupted the longface, sliding the tips of his claws between delicate teeth. He hooked another two digits under his prey’s upper jaw. The skin of the netherling’s mouth gave one groan of protest, choked on the man’s terrified sob.
‘Talking.’
Asper was jolted by the sound. The sudden rip, the shudder of the longface’s body as it twitched, then hung in Gariath’s grasp for a moment. When the body hit the floor, when Gariath stood, breathing heavily, streaked with blood and black, something purple, white and glistening clenched in his hand, she realised.
I’m still alive.
For all the death that surrounded her, all the ash pervading the air, all the blood on the stones, the only person who should have died was still alive. Her, she realised, and Gariath.
But Dread . . .
‘Dread,’ she said suddenly, clambering to her feet. She looked to Gariath with desperation. ‘He’s—’
‘Still alive,’ the dragonman grunted, tossing the glistening object of purple and white over his shoulder to clatter and bounce across the floor.
‘He . . . is?’
He is. She could see it, the faint stir of his body as he pulled himself out of the salt water, only to collapse again.
‘He is! He’s still alive.’
‘I am still alive.’
Asper looked up, took a step back as Gariath staggered forwards. The murder in his eyes had not dissipated, the red did not coat his hands entirely. His teeth were bared at her, his body shuddering with every haggard step he took towards her.
‘Still alive,’ he repeated, ‘because of you.’
‘Because of . . .’ She glanced over his body, saw the gaping wounds, the chunks of missing flesh, the countless bruises. ‘Gariath, you need help.’
‘You already helped me,’ he snarled, taking another step forwards. ‘You fought that one longface, left me with three others.’ His wings twitched and his lip curled. ‘Does it look like three could kill me?’
At that moment, it looked like a half-blind, incontinent kitten could kill him, but she chose to say something more sympathetic.
‘I can tend to you, Gariath. I can—’
‘What can you do?’ he roared and his body trembled with the effort. ‘You cannot kill. You cannot let me be killed. You can’t do anything!’ She recoiled, not at his bared teeth, but at the tears that glistened in his eyes. ‘I should be dead! I should be with my ancestors! I should be with my family!’ He levelled a finger at her. ‘And all I have now . . . is you.’
‘I . . . didn’t—’
‘And you won’t.’ He drew his arm back. ‘Ever again.’
The blow came fiercely, but slowly. Asper instinctively darted away from it, but it did not stop. His great red fist became a falling comet, dragging the rest of him to the floor where he struck with a crash. She remained tense, even as he dragged himself towards her, extended a quivering hand and uttered two words.
‘Hate . . . you . . .’
And he fell. Still breathing, she noted, but not moving, like Dreadaeleon, like the rest of Irontide. Whatever it had been before, before it was taken by pirates, before it was taken by demons, it was truly forsaken now.
Bodies lay everywhere, the salt choked with blood, the stones littered with flesh, the air tainted by ash. Whatever netherlings had escaped were gone now, their snarling cries absent in the silence as smoke and water poured out of Irontide’s jagged hole. Death drew a merry ring about the hall, haphazard bodies scattered artistically in a ritual circle at the centre of which stood Asper, still alive, still breathing.
Still cursed.
‘Why,’ she asked as she collapsed to her knees, ‘why am I still alive?’
‘Good question.’
Denaos did not look entirely out of place, standing nearby, hands on hips as he surveyed the carnage. Clad in black, his flesh purple in places from bruising, he looked the very spectre of Gevrauch, come to reap a bloody harvest from the white and purple fields. The rogue merely scratched his chin, then looked to her and smiled.
‘Still alive, I see.’ His eyes drifted to Gariath and Dreadaeleon. ‘And them?’
‘Yes,’ she replied.
‘Not by much, it looks like,’ he said, wincing. Quietly, he stepped forwards. ‘Netherlings gone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Demons dead?’
‘Yes.’
She felt his shadow, cool against the heat of the flames. She felt his hand on her shoulder, strong against the softness of her aching body. She felt his eyes on hers, hard and real, full of questions and answers.
‘Asper,’ he asked, ‘are you all right?’
She bit her lower lip, wishing more than anything that she had tears left to weep with. Instead, she collapsed forwards, pressing her face against his shoulder as she whispered.
‘Yes.’
Thirty
MORE PERSONABLE COMPANY
Lenk held his hand before his face, turning it over.
‘That’s odd,’ he muttered.
‘Hm?’ someone within replied.
‘My skin . . . I don’t remember it being grey.’
‘An issue worthy of concern.’
‘And my head . . . it feels heavy.’
‘Moderately distressing.’
‘Only moderately?’
‘In comparison to the fact that we’re still alive, I should have added. Apologies.’
‘It’s fine.’ He blinked, lowered his hand to feel the cold rock beneath him. ‘I am still alive, aren’t I?’
‘We are, yes.’
‘Apologies. I forgot you were there.’
‘Think nothing of it.’
‘I thank you . . .’ Lenk furrowed his brow. ‘You know, I don’t ever recall you being quite so chatty. Usually, it’s all “kill, kill” with you.’
‘You haven’t really cared to hear what I have to say,’ the voice replied. ‘When one speaks to closed ears, one places a priority on available words.’
‘Point taken.’ He let the silence hang inside his head for a moment. ‘Who are you?’
‘Pardon?’
‘We’ve never been properly introduced.’
‘Is that really necessary at this point?’
‘I suppose not . . . but I feel I should know who you are if you’re going to do what you did back in the water.’
‘Excuse that intervention. Things were looking quite grim.’
‘I suppose they were. But there are no worries now.’ He smiled at the familiarity of the satchel beneath his head, the tome safe and supportive within. ‘We have the book. The Deepshriek is gone. It’s over.’
‘It is not.’
The voice was painfully clear and crisp now, as though it was hissing in his ear. He could almost feel its icy breath upon his water-slick skin. And yet, he did not so much as shiver. The chill felt almost natural, as did the presence that settled all around him, within him. It felt familiar, comforting.
And cold.
‘I . . . beg to differ,’ he replied. ‘We’re alive. We’ve got a tome and a sword. What else do you need?’
‘Duty. Purpose. Death.’
‘There you go with the “death” thing again—’
‘You think it wise to leave the Deepshriek alive?’
‘No, but I—’
‘You chopped off a head. It has three.’
‘That usually suffices with most people.’
‘That thing is not people.’
‘Point taken.’
‘What of the others? They are weak . . . purposeless. Let us lie here if you wish them all to die.’
‘The Deepshriek said—’
‘Three mouths to lie with . . . apologies, two now. We should have killed it when we had the chance.’
‘It ran.’
‘We could have pursued.’
‘Through water?’
‘Through anything. It fears us. It fears our blade.’
‘Our blade?’
‘The hand that wields it is nothing without the duty to guide it.’
‘I’m . . . not quite up for philosophy at this point. How do we get to the others?’
‘Others?’
‘Kataria . . . the others—’
‘Ah. That remains a problem.’
Lenk looked upwards. The stone slab loomed, impassable as ever despite the deep gash that had been rent in its face. A tiny fragment of grey broke off, tumbling down the depression to bounce off the ledge and strike Lenk’s forehead.
‘It’s mocking me,’ he growled.
‘It’s stone.’
‘Have you any idea how to get out?’
‘I do.’
Lenk waited a moment.
‘Well?’
The voice made no reply.
Water lapped against water, against stone. Fire that had shifted from unnatural emerald to vibrant, hissing orange sputtered and growled in the wall sconces. The waves made lonely mutters against the stone wall. Something heavy bumped against the outcropping.
Wait . . .
He rolled over and stared into the water, into the golden eyes staring back up at him. He froze momentarily before realising the eyes did not blink, the mouth lay pursed, the golden hair wafted in the waters as the head bobbed up and down with the rhythm of the churning gloom.
Lenk grimaced. He was a moment from turning his gaze away when a hint of movement caught his eye. He leaned over, staring intently at the severed head. The eyes twitched, he felt his heart stop.
Is . . . he thought to himself, is that thing . . . still alive?
Fingers trembling, he reached down and poked it. It bobbed beneath the waves, then rose again, still staring. Swallowing his fear and his vomit, he seized it by its hair and pulled it out of the water. The eyes twitched, glanced every which way, as if seeking the shark it had been attached to. Its lips quivered, mouthing wordless threats to empty air.
‘Disgusting,’ he said, blanching. He caught an errant glance of himself in the void-like waters, then raised a brow. ‘That’s . . . unusual. I don’t really ever recall having—’
‘Time is limited,’ the voice interrupted. ‘We must focus on this newfound gift the Deepshriek left us.’
‘I beg to differ.’
He was prepared to throw it back into the gloom, regardless of the answer, when he heard it. A faint, barely audible sound, as though someone whistled from miles away. Against all wisdom, he drew it closer to his ear.