Tome of the Undergates (75 page)

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Authors: Sam Sykes

BOOK: Tome of the Undergates
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‘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
L
enk 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.
Wordlessly, an almost-silent breath hissed between its teeth. He turned it over, glancing where its stalk-like neck had been attached. A blackened, bloodied hole stretched from hair to jaw beneath. Air murmured through it, emerging from the creature’s fanged mouth.
‘Sweet Khetashe,’ he fought bile to speak, ‘it
is
alive.’
‘
It has a new duty now,
’ the voice replied.
Lenk turned to the stone slab, watching another shard crumble and slide down like a drop of stone sweat. He smiled, rose to his feet, sheathed his sword and slung the tome’s satchel about his shoulder.
‘
We have but to give it that duty
,’ the voice said, and - how, he had not the faintest idea - Lenk knew what it meant.
He walked before the slab, dangled the decapitated head by its golden tresses and whispered a word.
‘Scream.’
 
Even over the explosion, the stone shattering and the hail of rock chips, Kataria could hear the shrieking. In fragments of sound, it had been painful, uncomfortable, but tolerable. Bared to its full vocal fury, it was agonising. And in response, she became a creature of folds: folding her ears over themselves, folding her hands over her ears and folding her body over itself.
Shards of grey bit at her bare back, the earth settled ominously under her feet, dust poured into her nostrils. None of that mattered, none of that pain needed to be felt. All she thought of was the hideous wail that defiled the air, and keeping it from turning her ears into flayed pieces of glistening bacon hanging from her head.
How long it lasted, Kataria did not know, and she did not care. When it finally ceased, it still echoed in the hall, reverberating off stones and ripples and breaths she took. After an eternity of darting eyes and nervous twitching, she took her hands away from her ears, breathed a word of thanks mingled with a curse, and turned around.
And then, the screaming suddenly didn’t seem so bad.
Two thin pinpricks of light, cold and blue, stared at her from behind a cloud of dust that, mercifully, showed no signs of dissipating. She swallowed hard, clenched her teeth.
‘Lenk,’ she said, rather than asked. There was no mistaking him or his stare.
The two tiny spheres flickered, a shadow moved behind the dust cloud. It shifted against the curtains of pulverised grey, as though agitated or confused.
‘I think . . .’ a voice, faint and freezing, spoke, ‘she’s talking to you.’
The voice was familiar to her. She remembered it as well as she remembered Lenk’s own. And now they spoke in unison, each one with a crisp clarity that settled upon her skin like rime.
She could feel her heart sink. Whatever dwelt on the other side of the dust cloud was not completely Lenk.
Perhaps
, she thought,
maybe not even Lenk at all.
‘What?’ When he spoke next, it was with his own voice, but it was frightened, shrill, like a small child’s. ‘No, I didn’t mean . . . stop. Don’t yell at me!’
This was it, she knew, the sign she had been waiting for. He was a disease within a disease now, completely lost to whatever plagued him. These were the moments she should be running instead of staring at his shadow through the veil of dust. These were the moments she should turn, leave this human -
all
humans - behind her and thank Riffid for giving her the clarity to be free of her shame.
‘Stop it . . .’ he whimpered, his voice rising into a roar. ‘I said
stop
!’
He would never hear her footsteps as she walked away. She kept that in mind as she turned to the water, reassuring herself. He would think it all a dream in his fevered mind, he would think she was dead. He would never suspect that she had left him behind.
And still, she cursed herself. She should be braver, she should be able to stand before the human disease, the great sickness that plagued the world, and spit on him through a shictish curse. Her father would have wanted that. Her people would have wanted that.
For her part, Kataria merely wanted to fight back the urge to turn around.
‘Kat ...’
Damn it
, she muttered in her mind as she halted,
damn it, damn it, damn it.
She turned, only to be greeted by another sign. The curtains of smoke parted, layer by layer, exposing the shadow behind in greater detail. Her blood froze at the sight, the distorted shape of the young man, the jaggedness of his outline and the bright, ominous blue with which his eyes shone.
He extended a hand to her, trembling, far too big to be his own and whispered.
‘Please . . .’
This was the final sign, Riffid’s last mercy to her. She should turn, walk away, run away, leave this human and whatever he had become in the shadows behind her. Her ancestry demanded it. Her pride as a shict demanded it. Her own instincts demanded it.
Kataria listened carefully. And, in response, she drew in a sharp breath and walked into the cloud of dust.
‘I’m here,’ she said as she might speak to an injured puppy, her hands groping about blindly. ‘I’m here, Lenk.’
She found him in a sudden shock as her hands clasped around flesh that froze like a fish’s. She swallowed hard, ignoring this sign as she had done the last, hearing in the faintest whispers Riffid cursing her for her stupidity.
Another hand reached out to clasp about hers and she froze. Through the leather of his glove, through the leather of hers, she could feel it, a sensation that caused her to go breathless as he squeezed her fingers in his.
Warmth.
‘You’re alive,’ he spoke.
He spoke
, she told herself, unable to fight back the smile creeping onto her face.
Lenk spoke. No one else.

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