Tome of the Undergates tag-1

by Sam Sykes

‘But you were thinking it.’

  Her eyes were hard and cruel. ‘I’m always thinking it.’ ‘Well, if you think so little of us, why don’t you leave and go frolic in the forest with the other savages?’

  ‘Because I choose not to,’ she spat back. Folding her arms over her chest, she turned her nose upwards. ‘Who’s going to make me do otherwise?’

  ‘Me,’ Lenk grunted, hefting a hand clenched into a fist, ‘and him.’

  She glanced from his eyes to his fist and back to his face. They mirrored each other at that moment, jaws set in stone, eyes narrowed to thin, angry slits, hands that had once been close to holding each other now rigid with anger.

  ‘I dare you,’ she hissed.

  Asper tied the bandage off at Mossud’s arm. A frown ate her face in a single gulp as she looked over the tightly wrapped corpse upon the table. Skinny as he was, with his arms folded across his chest, legs clenched tightly together, the pure white bandages swaddling him made him look like some manner of cocooned vermin.

  She hated bandaging; it was such an undignified way to be preserved. Though, she admitted to herself, it was slightly better than being stuffed in a cask of rum. At least this way, when they were stuffed in salt, they wouldn’t shrivel up. He would be preserved until the Riptide reached Toha and he could be turned over to proper morguepriests.

  Still, that fact hadn’t made it any easier when she had wrapped the other men up.

  She felt sick as she looked over the bandaged corpses laid out upon the tables of the mess hall. The dusty, stifling air of the hold and the mournful creaking of the ship’s hull made it feel like a tomb.

  She could still recall laughing with sailors and passengers over breakfast that morning. .

  Tending to the dead was her least favourite duty as a priestess of Talanas. She was bound to do it, as a servant of the Healer, in addition to performing funerary rites and consoling the grieving. When she had trained in the temple, though, she had tended to the latter while less-squeamish clergy had handled the former.

  The crew of the Riptide would be dead themselves before they let her console them, however. And Miron, the only other man of faith on board, had vanished shortly after he had driven off the beast.

  She sighed to herself and made a sign of benediction over the sailor’s corpse; if it had to be done, she thought, it was better that she did it than letting him go unguided into the afterlife.

  Quietly, she walked down the hall and noted a red stain appearing at the throat of another bound corpse, tainting the pure white. A frown consumed her; that poor man might have lived if Gariath was able to tell the difference between humans a bit better. She reminded herself to rebind him when she could acquire more bandages from Argaol.

  The sound of quill scraping parchment broke the ominous silence. She turned to one of the tables, where Dreadaeleon sat, busily scribbling away. She grimaced at the casualness with which he sat next to the bandaged corpse, as though he were sitting next to an exceptionally quiet scholar in a library.

  ‘Have you finished?’ she asked, forcing the thought from her mind.

  ‘Almost,’ he replied, hurriedly scribbling the last piece of information. ‘Do you know what his faith was?’

  ‘He was a Zamanthran, I believe,’ Asper said. ‘Sailors, seamen, fishermen. . they all are, usually.’

  ‘All right,’ he said. He finished with a decisive stab of the quill and held the parchment up to read aloud. ‘“Roghar ‘Rogrog’ Allensdon, born Muraskan, served aboard the Riptide merchant under Captain S. Argaol, devout follower of Zamanthras.”’ He frowned a little. ‘“Slain in combat defending his ship. Sixteen years of age.”’

  With a sigh, he rolled the parchment up and tied it with coarse thread. He reached over the bandaged corpse and tucked the deathscroll firmly in its crossed hands. His sigh was echoed by Asper as they glanced at the pile of scrolls on the bench next to him. With solemn shakes of the head, they plucked them up and walked about the tables, delivering the deathscrolls to their silent owners.

  She hesitated as the last one was deposited in stiff, swaddled arms. Dreadaeleon’s listless shuffling echoed in the mess.

  ‘Dread.’ The shuffling stopped. ‘Thank you for helping me.’

  ‘It’s not an issue.’ He took another step before pausing again. ‘I suppose I was duty-bound, being one of the few literate aboard.’

  She smiled at that. ‘I just. . hope you don’t begrudge me anything after what I said to you earlier.’

  ‘I said things just as bad,’ he replied. ‘We all do. It’s not that big a deal.’

  She felt him look towards her with familiar eyes: big, dark and glistening like a puppy’s. It would have felt reassuring to see him look at her that way, she reasoned, in any other situation. Amongst the library of bandages and scrolls, however, she resisted the urge to return the gesture and waited until she heard the shuffling of his feet once more.

  ‘So, what was it?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘The creature,’ he said, ‘that thing. Was it some unholy demon sent from hell? Or an agent of a wrathful god? What?’

  ‘What makes you think I know?’ She scowled at him. ‘Is there nothing in any of your books that explains it?’

  ‘I have only one book,’ he replied, patting the heavy leather-bound object hanging from his waist, ‘and it’s filled with other things.’ He tucked a scroll into the arms of another corpse. ‘Nobody knows what that thing was.’ He looked up at her suddenly. ‘But the Lord Emissary seems to have a better idea than anyone else.’

  ‘What are you insinuating?’ she asked, her eyes narrowing as she drew herself up. ‘Lord Miron would never consort with such abominations.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Dreadaeleon said, shaking his head. ‘I’m just curious as to what that creature was.’ He sighed quizzically. ‘It’s certainly not something I’ve ever seen in any bestiary.’

  ‘You’re as likely to have an answer as I am,’ Asper replied with a shrug. ‘I’ve never heard of anything that can drown a man on dry land, have you?’

  ‘There are spells that can do such things. But if it had been using magic, I would have known.’ He paused and thought for a moment. ‘I wish that ooze hadn’t dried off Moscoff-’

  ‘Mossud.’

  ‘I wish it hadn’t dried off his face so easily. I could have studied it.’

  The priestess chuckled dryly and he turned to her, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘I shouldn’t be laughing, I know. But. . you’re the only man I know who would face something so horrible and wish he could have been closer to it.’ She stifled further inappropriate laughter. ‘Denaos has sent no word yet?’

  ‘No,’ the wizard replied, shaking his head. ‘The captain and he have been down there for hours.’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows what they’re doing to Rashodd?’

  ‘I’m not certain I want to know,’ Asper replied, frowning. She cast a glance to the companionway leading to the hold below and shuddered.

  ‘And what do you intend to do about him?’ Dreadaeleon asked, pointing to the far side of the mess hall.

  Asper cringed; she had purposely avoided glancing at that particular section. Swallowing her anxiety, she turned and glanced at the cold, limp corpse of the frogman lying on the table under a sheet, eyes wide open and glazed over as they stared up at the ceiling. She hadn’t even ventured near enough to close his eyes, she realised, cursing herself for such disrespect. Still, it was difficult for her even to glance at the corpse. Without the rush of combat, the man’s appearance unnerved her greatly.

  Anxiety was not a word that Dreadaeleon recognised, however, and she gasped as she saw the wizard take a seat next to the corpse and poke it curiously.

  ‘Dread!’ she cried out, hurrying over. She skidded to a halt about halfway, cringing, but forced herself to come alongside the boy. ‘Foe or not, have some respect for the dead!’

  ‘Look at this,’ the wizard said, ig
noring her. He held up the corpse’s limp arm and she cringed again. He held the arm a little closer to the light and pointed to the skin. ‘His skin is still wet and he’s been down here for hours and. . my, my, what’s this?’

  He didn’t have to point it out to her, for Asper saw it as clearly as he did. The boy gently pulled the man’s fingers apart, stretching the flaps of skin between the digits.

  ‘Webbed hands,’ he said, examining the digits. He dropped the hand and spun in his seat, lifting up the man’s leg. ‘Look here. . he has them between his toes as well.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ Asper replied. ‘Do you really have to do this now?’

  ‘And if he has webbed appendages. .’ Dreadaeleon trailed off as he inched closer to the frogman’s head.

  Asper reeled back, cringing as he lifted the corpse’s head and pulled back his ear. She nearly retched when she saw the thin red slits hidden behind the earlobe.

  ‘Interesting,’ Dreadaeleon remarked, sharing none of her disgust. ‘He has. . gills.’

  ‘So. . he really is a frogman?’

  ‘It’d be more accurate to call him a fishman, I think.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Asper replied, intentionally avoiding looking at the mutated man. ‘It’s. . good that the captain didn’t order him tossed overboard. Otherwise you might never have found this out.’

  ‘Why does Argaol want him, anyway?’ Dreadaeleon asked, examining the webbed toes again. ‘Weren’t the others tossed overboard after they were executed?’

  ‘I suppose he believes the frogmen have some connection to the creatu-’

  Asper stopped short, staring in abject horror as Dreadaeleon dropped the man’s leg and began to pull the sheet covering him down. Able to stand no more, she stamped her foot and reached for his hands.

  ‘Even if he is a loathsome creature, I won’t let you desecrate him like-’

  ‘Do you have any tattoos under your shirt?’ he interrupted.

  ‘What?’ Asper asked, pulling back with a shocked expression on her face.

  ‘You know, like on your belly or chest?’

  ‘I most certainly do not!’

  ‘Really?’ Dreadaeleon asked. With one swift jerk, he pulled the sheet from the corpse. Asper reeled back at the sight as Dreadaeleon leaned forwards to get a closer look. ‘Our friend here has an interesting one. .’

  Emblazoned on the man’s chest in ink the colour of fresh blood was a symbol of a pair of skeletal shark jaws, gaping wide and lined with hundreds of sharp teeth. The other frogmen had worn the symbol on their biceps, she recalled. Did they all have them on their chests, too?

  ‘What. . do you think they mean?’ At his curious glance, she cleared her throat and continued. ‘In your opinion, that is?’

  ‘I’m at a loss. Symbols are really more the dominion of priests, aren’t they?’

  ‘Well, maybe I-’ She hesitated, suddenly aware of the edge in his voice.

  Or rather, she noted, the lack of an edge. He’s doing it again, trying to appear nonchalant and enquiring while secretly smugging it up in his own head. She felt a familiar ire creep behind her eyes, her hand clench involuntarily. Not this time, runt.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ she finished tersely.

  ‘I. . didn’t mean anything by it.’

  ‘You leapt straight to linking those symbols to some manner of priesthood. Religious orders are hardly the only organisations to use sigils, you know. What about thieves? Assassins? Merchants? Argaol himself carries his own sigil.’

  ‘Not tattooed on his flesh.’ He held up his hands before she could retort. ‘Listen, I’ve neither the time nor inclination for a debate right this moment. I’m simply posing theories regarding a mystery that no one else seems to be thinking about besides you and me.’

  Her jaw unclenched so slowly and forcefully that it might have made the sound of groaning metal. She inhaled sharply, holding her breath as her thoughts began to melt into a fine, guilty stew in her head. She had overreacted, of course she knew that now; not everything he posited was a challenge to her faith, nor was he intentionally trying to be snide.

  The fact that he was unintentionally quite skilled at it, she chose to ignore. For now, she forced her irritation down and her smile up, offering an unspoken truce.

  ‘Though, you have to admit,’ he scratched his chin, perhaps hoping a beard would magically grow to make the gesture more dramatic, ‘it is a little odd.’

  ‘What is?’ She felt her jaw set again.

  ‘That the only one who seems to know anything isn’t answering any questions and is also a priest.’

  It unclenched in a creaking snarl. ‘Why, you smarmy little-’

  Before she could finish expressing her righteous indignation, before he could offer any stammering excuses, a noise filtered through the timbers of the mess. Growing closer with each breath, the sound of cursing, bodies hitting the wood, heavy-handed slaps and more than a little squealing filled the air.

  Both pairs of eyes turned towards the companionway as a tangle of flesh, gold and silver came tumbling out of the shadows. They tussled for a moment, all frothing saliva, bared teeth, reddened skin and sheens of sweat, before settling into a mess of limbs. Gloved hands gripped arms, ankles, tufts of hair. Feet were planted in bellies, shins, dangerously close to groins. Their teeth were glistening, their recent use testified by the red marks on each other’s skin.

  It was a horror to behold, Asper thought, but she had long since spent all her lectures on companionship and scolds for infighting. At this particular tangle, she could only blink once and sigh.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Ask this savage,’ Lenk growled. ‘She bit me.’

  ‘This round-ear bit me first!’ Kataria snapped back.

  ‘At least I don’t have teeth like a dog’s!’ Lenk spat.

  ‘And that’s only his most recent crime,’ Kataria continued, ‘before which came insanity, excessive cursing and oversensitivity!’

  ‘Lies!’ he all but roared. With a shove, he pulled free from her, clambering to his feet as she did. ‘It hardly concerns anyone else, anyway. This is between me and her.’

  ‘Have you no respect for the dead?’ Asper protested, taking a wary step to intervene. ‘These men, who fought and died alongside you, are resting here and you have to bring another squabble into their midst for no reason?’

  ‘There’s plenty of reason,’ Lenk snarled. ‘These men are dead because of us.’

  ‘Why? Because you weren’t able to kill the thing that killed them?’ Kataria turned her nose up haughtily. ‘Accept your weakness and move on. There was nothing you could have done.’

  ‘I could have grabbed the book!’

  ‘You could have had your head smashed in and lost the book anyway. Then we’d be short a book and you.’

  ‘And what do you care about that? What is it you always say?’ He pulled his ears upwards in mockery of hers, his voice becoming a shrill imitation. ‘“The world can make more humans.” I’d have thought one more of us dying would make you happy.’

  ‘In hindsight, it would have, since I wouldn’t have to suffer your voice now!’ Her ears flattened against the side of her head in a menacing gesture. ‘And don’t even think to try to imitate me, even if you’ve got the height for it.’

  It occurred to Asper at that moment, regarding them so curiously, that this was no ordinary fight. They had squab-bled before, as had all in their company, but never with such fervour. There was something animalistic between them, a frothing, snarling fury they had not deigned to show each other, or anyone else, before now. For that reason, she thought it wise to keep her distance.

  Dreadaeleon, however, had never understood the difference between intellect and wisdom.

  ‘You’re disturbing everyone here, you know,’ he said, reaching out to place a hand on Lenk’s shoulder. ‘If you’d just-’

  ‘Back AWAY.’

  Lenk seized the boy’s frail hand roughly, nearly crushing it with his fur
y-fuelled grip. He shoved Dreadaeleon off effortlessly, propelling his scrawny mass across the floor as though he were a stick wrapped in a dirty coat. And like a dirty coat, he twisted, stumbling across the floor, making a brief cry of surprise that was silenced the moment he came to a sudden halt.

  Face-first against Asper’s robe-swaddled bosom.

  He staggered back as though he had been punched in twelve places at the same time, sweat suddenly forming on his face in streaming sheets, hands held up as though he was facing some murderous wild beast. Given the red-faced, gaping-mouthed, narrow-eyed incredulous expression on the priestess’s face, he wagered it would be a reasonable reaction.

  ‘I–I’m truly sorry,’ he stammered, ‘but you must acknowledge that this was hardly my fault, you see-’

  Her slap cut through the air deftly, stinging him across the cheek and sending a spray of anxious sweat into the air. He recoiled, touching the redder mark upon an already reddened face and regarded her with a shocked expression.

  ‘What’d you do that for? I was just telling you it was an accident!’

  ‘Accident or no, a lady is always entitled to deliver a slap for purposes of preserving her dignity.’ She flicked beads of moisture off her fingers. ‘Rules of etiquette.’

  His finger was up and levelled at her in a single breath, an incomprehensible word shouted in another. A small spark of electricity danced down his arm and leapt from the tip, striking the priestess squarely in the chest. She trembled, letting out a shriek as it spread and ran the length of her body sending her hair on its ends and bathing her in the aroma of undercooked pork.

  ‘What was that for?’ she hissed through chattering teeth.

  ‘Spite,’ he replied, flicking sparks off his fingers.

  ‘How utterly typical,’ she growled, sweeping a scornful gaze across her companions. ‘You people feed off each other. When one of you acts like a vagrant, you all do.’

  ‘Us people?’ Lenk sneered. ‘You remember you’re with us, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Kataria grunted, ‘at least we involved you in the fighting. I don’t see Miron out here even talking to you, much less getting ready to jab your eyeballs out.’