Tome of the Undergates (14 page)

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Authors: Sam Sykes

BOOK: Tome of the Undergates
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‘A hazard with wizards, I’m informed. Still, this may have done more good than ill.’
‘Forgive me, Lord Emissary, but I find it difficult to see the good in a man being torched.’
‘There is yet joy in simply staying alive, Priestess.’ He looked down at the man’s bandages and frowned. ‘Or there would be, had you left him a hole through which to breathe.’
She began to stutter an apology, but found no words before Miron gently parted the bandages about the man’s charred lips.
‘There we are.’ He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘After your capable treatment, sir, I must insist that you retire to whatever quarters you’re permitted. Kindly don’t scratch at your wrappings, either; the charbalm will need time to settle into the skin.’
On muttered thanks and hasty feet, the man scurried into the depths of the ship’s hold, sparing a grunt of acknowledgement for Asper as he left. Though she knew it to be a sin, she couldn’t help but resent such a gesture.
He would have thanked me proper if I had killed for him
, she thought irritably,
if only out of fear that I might have killed him. He’d be at my feet and mewling for my mercy if I were a warrior.
‘Tea?’
She turned with a start. Miron sat delicately upon one of the mess benches, pouring brown liquid from a clay pot into a cup: tea that had been left cold when the Cragsmen arrived.
Unperturbed by the temperature, the priest sipped at it delicately, smacking his lips as though it were the finest wine. It was only after she noted his eyes upon her, expectant, that she coughed out a hasty response.
‘N-no, thank you, Lord Emissary.’ She was suddenly aware of how meek her voice sounded compared to his and drew herself up. ‘I mean to say, is this really the proper time for tea? We
are
under attack.’
 
So much blood.
The air was thick with it. It clotted his nostrils, travelled down his throat and lingered in his chest like perfume. Much of it was his. He smiled at that. But there was another stench, greater even than the rank aroma of carnage.
Fear.
It was in the tremble of their hands, the hesitation of their step, the eyes of the man who struggled in his claws. Gariath met his terror with a black-eyed scowl. He drew back his head and brought his horns forwards, felt bone crunch under his skull, heard breath in his ear-frills.
Still alive.
He drew back his head again, brought forth his teeth. He felt the life burst between them, heard the shrieks of the man and his companion. He clenched, gripped, tore. The man fell from his grasp, collapsing with an angry ruby splotch where his throat had been. He turned towards the remaining pirates, glowering at them.
‘Fight harder,’ he snarled. ‘Harder . . . or you’ll never kill me.’
They did not flee. Good. He smiled, watched their fear as they caught glimpses of tattooed flesh between his teeth.
‘Come on, then,’ he whispered, ‘show me my ancestors.’
‘That being the situation, it would seem wiser for us to stay down here, wouldn’t it?’ Miron offered her that same smile, the slightest twitch of his lips that sent his face blooming with pleasant shadows born from his wrinkles. ‘And, when confined to a particular spot, would it not seem wise to spend the time properly with prayer, contemplation and a bit of tea?’
‘I suppose.’
‘After all,’ he spoke between sips, ‘it’s well and good to know one’s role in the play the Gods have set down for us, no? Fighting is for warriors.’
She frowned at that and it did not go unnoticed. The wrinkles disappeared from his face, ironed out by an intent frown.
‘What troubles you?’
If fighting is all there is, what good are those who can’t fight?
Her first instinct was to spit such a question at him and she scolded herself for it. It was a temporary ire, melting away as she glanced up to take in the full sight of Miron Evenhands.
Of course, it’s easy for him to make such statements.
The Lord Emissary seemed out of place in the wake of catastrophe, with his robes the colour of dawning clouds and the silver sigil of Talanas emblazoned upon his breast. She had to fight the urge to polish her own pendant, so drab it seemed in comparison to his symbol’s beaming brightness.
The Healer Himself even seemed to favour this servant above all others, as the cloud shifted outside the mess window, bathing the priest in sunlight and adding an intangible golden cloak to his ensemble.
Evenhands cleared his throat and she looked up, eyes wide with embarrassment. One smile from him was all it took to bring a nervous smirk to her face.
‘Perhaps you feel guilty being down here,’ he mused, settling back, ‘attending to an old man while your companions bleed above?’
‘It is no shame to attend the Lord Emissary,’ she said, pausing for a moment before stuttering out an addendum, ‘not that you’re so infirm as to require attending to . . . not that you’re infirm at all, in fact.’ She coughed. ‘And it’s not merely my associates - not companions, you know - who bleed and die above. I’m a servant of the Healer, I seek to mend the flesh and aid the ailing of all mankind, just not—’
‘Breathe,’ he suggested.
She nodded, inhaling swiftly and holding the breath for a moment.
‘At times, I feel a bit wrong,’ she began anew, ‘sitting beyond the actual fighting and awaiting the chance to bind wounds and kiss scratches while everyone else does battle.’
‘I see.’ He hummed thoughtfully. ‘And did I not just hear you rend asunder your companions verbally for taking lives themselves?’
‘It’s not like they were here to hear it,’ she muttered, looking down. ‘The truth is . . .’ She sucked in air through her teeth, sitting down upon the bench opposite his. ‘I’m not sure what good I’m doing here, Lord Emissary.’
He made no response beyond a sudden glint in his eyes and a tightening of his lips.
‘I left my temple two years ago,’ she began.
‘On pilgrimage,’ he said, nodding.
She returned the gesture, mentally scolding herself for not realising he would know such a thing. All servants of the Healer left the comfort of their monasteries on pilgrimage after ten years of worship and contemplation. This, they knew, was their opportunity to fulfil their oaths.
She had been given ample wounds to bind and flesh to mend, many grieving widows to console and plague-stricken children to help bury, and had offered many last rites to the dying. Since joining her companions, the opportunity for such services had doubled, at the very least.
‘But there are always more of them,’ she whispered to herself.
‘Hm?’
She looked up. ‘Forgive me, it’s just . . .’ She grimaced. ‘I have a hard time seeing my purpose, Lord Emissary. My associates, they—’
‘Your companions, you mean, surely.’
‘Forgiveness, Lord Emissary, but they’re something akin to co-employees.’ She sneered. ‘I share little in common with them.’
‘And that’s precisely what troubles you.’
‘Something . . . something like that, yes.’ She cleared her throat, regaining her composure. ‘I’ve aided many and I’ve no regrets about the God I serve or what he asks of me . . . I just wish I could do more.’
He hummed, taking another sip of his drink.
‘We’ve done much fighting in our time, my comp—
them
and myself. Sometimes, we’ve not done the proper work of the Healer, but I’ve seen many fouler creatures, some humans, too, cut down by them.’
 
And it had started as such a good day . . .
Lenk hadn’t planned on much: a breakfast of hard tack and beans, a bit of time above deck, possibly vomiting overboard before dinner. Nothing was supposed to happen.
‘
Unfair.
’
The voice rang, steel on ice. His head hurt.
‘
Cheaters. Called to it.
’
‘To what?’ he growled through the pain.
‘
Coming.
’
‘What is?’
He felt the shadow over him, heard iron-shod boots ringing on the wood. He whirled and stared up into the thin slit of an iron helmet ringed with wild grey hair that was a stark contrast to the two young, tattooed hands folded across an ironbound chest.
‘Oh, hell,’ he whispered, ‘you sneaky son of a—’
‘Manners,’ Rashodd said.
An enormous young hand came hurtling into his face.
 
It was a bitter phrase to utter, but it came freely enough. She had learned many years ago that not everyone deserved the Healer’s mercy. There was cruelty in the world that walked on two legs and masqueraded behind pretences of humanity. She had seen many deserved deaths, knew of many that were probably occurring above her at that moment.
While she sat below, she thought dejectedly, waiting quietly as others bled and delivered those richly deserved deaths.
‘I heal wounds,’ she said, more to herself than the priest, ‘tend to the ill and send them off, walking and smiling. Then they return to me, cold and breathless in corpse-carts. I heal them and, if they don’t go off to kill someone themselves, they’re killed by someone who doesn’t give a damn for what I do.’
She hesitated, her fists clenching at her sides.
‘Lenk, Kataria, Dreadaeleon, Gariath,’ she said, grimacing, ‘even Denaos . . . they kill a wicked man and that’s that. One less wicked man to hurt those who Talanas shines upon, one less pirate, bandit, brigand, monstrosity or heathen.’
‘And yet there is no end to either the wounded or the wicked,’ Miron noted.
Asper had no reply for that.
‘Tell me, have you ever taken a life?’ The priest’s voice was stern, not so much thoughtful as confrontational.
Asper froze. A scream echoed through her as the ship groaned around her. Her breath caught in her throat. She rubbed her left arm as though it were sore.
‘No.’
‘Were I a lesser man, I might accuse those who were envious of the ability to take life so indiscriminately of being rather stupid.’ He took a long, slow sip. ‘Given my station, however, I’ll merely imply it.’
She blinked. He smiled.
‘That was a joke.’
‘Oh, well . . . yes, it was rather funny.’ Her smile trembled for a moment before collapsing into a frown. ‘But, Lord Emissary, is it not natural to wish I could help?’
His features seemed to melt with the force of his sigh. He set the clay cup aside, folded his hands and stared out through the mess’s broad window.
‘I have often wondered if I wasn’t born too soon for this world,’ he mused, ‘that perhaps the will and wisdom of Talanas cannot truly be appreciated where so much blood must be spilled. After all, what good, really, can the followers of the Healer be when we simply mend the arm that swings the sword? What do we accomplish by healing the leg that crushes the innocent underfoot?’
The question hung in the air, smothering all other sound beneath it.
‘Perhaps,’ his voice was so soft as to barely be heard above the rush of the sea outside, ‘if we knew the answers, we’d stop doing what we do.’
He continued to stare out at the roiling seas, the glimmer of sunlight against the ship’s white wake. She followed his gaze, though not far enough; his eyes were dark and distant, spying some answer in the endless blue horizon that she could not hope to grasp. She cleared her throat.
‘Lord Emissary?’
‘Regardless,’ he said, turning towards her as though he had been speaking to her all the while, ‘I suggest you spare yourself the worry of who kills who and work the will of the Healer as best you can.’ He plucked up his teacup once more. ‘Do your oaths remain burning in your mind?’
‘“To serve Talanas through serving man.”’ She recited with rehearsed confidence. ‘“To mend the bones, to bind the flesh, to cure the sick, to ease the dying. To serve Talanas and mankind.”’

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