Tome of the Undergates tag-1

by Sam Sykes

  Gariath’s own dark orbs were fixed upon the longface, apparently heedless of the captive she held, as he unfurled his wings, dropped upon all fours and charged, leaving sundered earth in his wake.

  ‘Not yet, anyway,’ the longface muttered, dropping the priestess and turning her weapon to face the new threat.

  She did not have to wait long.

  With a roar, Gariath sprang from the sand, wings flapping, claws outstretched and aiming for a tense purple throat. What he received instead was a vicious handful of iron as she raised her spike to strike at him. He seized it and twisted it away. She was driven backwards by the force of his lunge but did not stagger, her heels digging deeply into the sand.

  His free hand came up, claws glistening, and was caught in her grasp. His muscles tensed, eyes widened, if only in momentary appreciation for a hand large and strong enough to hold his killing grasp at bay. A good fight, his toothy smile said without words, a good opponent. And, as he reared his head back, his horns finished the thought.

  Not good enough.

  His skull crashed against her nose, snapping her head backwards. When he drew away a face glistening with a moisture not his own, his eyes spoke of a deeper surprise. The longface’s grip held firm, her hands unshaking, as she turned upon the dragonman a scowl burning white through the crimson dripping down her face.

  She snarled, a noise as vicious and fierce as Asper had ever heard Gariath utter, and returned the gesture, slamming her face against his snout. He reeled and Asper’s breath caught in her throat; Gariath had never reeled before.

  He made a long, slow effort of drawing his face back up. And it was with longer, slower and far more unpleasant effort that he drew his tongue across his lips, tasting the red that dripped upon it.

  ‘Oh,’ he said through his smile, ‘I like you.’

  His nostrils flared, snorting a cloud of crimson into her eyes. Her flinch left her unprepared for the head that followed. His skull smashed against hers; she quivered. His horns crushed her forehead; she released him and staggered backwards.

  As if infuriated by the sudden lapse in her strength, Gariath drove his head forwards a third time, sending the longface to her knees. His rage-laden howl became the song of a violent choir as he brought his fists down upon her back. She withstood two hammering blows before buckling, collapsing to the earth.

  Not nearly satisfied, Gariath fell on her, continuing to rain fists upon her until the sound of meat slapping meat became the sound of thick branches snapping.

  It wasn’t until the sound of a particularly moist sponge being wrung reached her ears that Asper finally spoke up.

  ‘Enough, Gariath.’

  ‘You’re right.’ The dragonman rose, flicking thick droplets from his hands. ‘This one’s almost finished.’ At an errant twitch from the purple body, he brought his foot up and then down, smiling at the sound of undercooked porridge being spilled. ‘Tough one, though.’

  ‘There are more of them.’

  His eyes lit up with a glimmer that Asper often found charming in children being handed presents.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Later. We need to find Dread and-’

  ‘Where?’

  He stood before her, the stink from his body, and parts of the longface’s body, roiling into her nostrils. She did not turn away, despite the pleas of her senses; his twitching arms suggested that there was only one acceptable gesture to make. And, with a sigh, she pointed out over the sea to the black vessel.

  He shoved her aside, scowling across the waters. The ship cut through the froth like a black spear, propelled by its harmony of oars. Purple bruises lined the low deck, and in each pulse of purple muscle, Gariath saw something that made his smile threaten to split his face in two.

  ‘They’re not so fast,’ he grunted, stalking towards the water. ‘I can still catch them.’

  ‘Catch them?’ Asper turned an incredulous glare on him. ‘Catch them? There are over thirty of them on that ship!’

  ‘A ship heading for the tower,’ Gariath pointed out. ‘A tower filled with Lenk and two other weaklings.’

  ‘Don’t insult my intelligence by pretending you care about them.’

  ‘Fine, but only because I can insult you in so many other ways. Like this.’ His hands went limp at the wrists as he began dancing from foot to foot on his toes, whining through his teeth. ‘Oh! Oh! A bunch of scary purple women! Whatever shall we do?’ He gasped, reached out and slapped her face hard. ‘How about we kill them?’

  ‘Just because that’s the only answer you know doesn’t mean it’s the right one,’ she snarled, rubbing her face. ‘They’re dangerous. That last one almost killed me.’

  ‘Such a phenomenon ceased being interesting the last four hundred and twenty-six times it happened.’

  ‘With Dread, we can-’

  ‘You can. With the skinny little runt, I can sit around listening to two spineless imbeciles and waste time that could be better spent killing.’ He waved her off, stalking into the surf. ‘See you in the afterlife, if you ever make it.’

  ‘You expect to die,’ she called after him, ‘and you’re still going?’

  ‘It should have ceased to be shocking after the four hundred and twenty-seventh time.’

  The curse she flung at his tail was lost, as was the tail, behind a screen of froth. She watched him become a red blur, his wings, arms and legs pumping to propel him beneath the waves and towards his target. She snarled, stamped her foot and found herself caught between cursing and envying him.

  He, at least, would be doing something to help the others.

  Gariath’s words were true, she knew; should their companions run into the longfaces, there would likely be nothing left to drift ashore. She admitted to herself with less shame than she expected that the dragonman had voiced concern for their companions before she had.

  Now he was off, with at least a shallow facade of compassion behind him, to at least attempt to help Lenk and the others. And she stood on shore, helpless, left arm burning with impotent fury.

  ‘Where’s he going?’

  She glanced up at Dreadaeleon’s approach, immediately noting the smoky tendrils he flicked from his fingers.

  ‘What happened to you?’ she asked.

  ‘Found something purple further up the beach,’ he replied, ‘fried it.’

  ‘It’s not important. Look, there’s-’ She paused, blinked at him. ‘Wait, what? Fried her? Just like that?’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘It was a woman.’

  ‘Oh. . wait, really?’ He flapped a hand. ‘It. . she had a sword, she was waving it at me. I was busy searching for Greenhair, I didn’t have time not to fry her.’ He stared out over the sea. ‘But where’s Gariath going?’ His eyes went wide at the sight of the black ship. ‘Furthermore, what’s that?’

  ‘A ship,’ she replied curtly. ‘Isn’t that obvious? It’s also full of more purple women, all armed, all irate, all heading for Lenk and the others.’

  ‘As well as the demons,’ Dreadaeleon pointed out.

  ‘Right. There are demons in there, too.’ She began to wade into the surf. ‘Gariath’s heading out to help and we have to, as well.’

  It wasn’t until the water was up to her thighs that she realised both that she was not dragonman enough to swim out to Irontide and that Dreadaeleon was still standing on the shore, staring at her in befuddlement. She whirled, turning a scowl upon him.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ She gestured wildly at the water. ‘Make an ice bridge. . or an ice boat, some kind of ice. . whale. Do something.’

  ‘Like what?’ He held his hands out to his sides. ‘It doesn’t seem like anything needs to be done. The longfaces hate the demons. We hate the demons and the longfaces. Let one kill the other and we can clean up afterwards.’

  ‘If Lenk and the others get caught between the demons and the longfaces, there won’t be enough left of them to clean up with a dirty rag,’ she snarled. ‘If you won’t help, sit her
e and wallow in a pool of your own cowardice, but at least call Greenhair to see if she can help me.’

  ‘Call her? She’s not a dog.’ He snorted. ‘Besides, I couldn’t find her. She vanished beneath the water.’

  ‘All the more reason for you to help me,’ she replied hotly. ‘What do you suppose will happen to her when whoever’s the victor of this little clash comes out?’

  ‘What do I suppose will happen to a siren capable of hiding anywhere in the limitless blue sea?’ He tapped his chin, her scowl deepening with each strike of his finger. ‘Goodness, maybe she’ll come out and ask for a hug?’

  Her face grew red with the scathing fury building up behind lips twisting into a grimace fierce enough to spew it. Her left hand trembled at her side, burning angrily, demanding to be wrapped about the boy’s throat. If he noticed such a thing, however, he paid it only as much care as was required to wave a hand as though batting away a particularly irate gnat.

  ‘It may seem callous,’ he continued, turning to walk away, ‘but my solution is both logical and fair. They’d abandon us in a heartbeat and you know it.’

  ‘Being an adventurer isn’t about being fair,’ she snarled, tearing through the water towards him, ‘it’s about suffering every miserable person the Gods deem fit to throw into your company.’ She raised a fist angrily, his head a greasy black pimple waiting to be popped. ‘And dealing with it the best you can at the mo-’

  The burning in her arm dissipated with such force as to be painful. Quietly, she lowered it, stared at it with wide eyes. It felt strange in its socket: no longer so heavy, no longer so hot. It felt exactly like her right arm, it felt. . normal.

  That, she thought, has never happened before.

  But it paled in comparison to the sensation that followed.

  A feeling straddling pain and ecstasy swept over her. Her flesh grew gooseskin beneath her robe, a chill crept down her back, wrapping about her spine like a centipede with icy, frigid legs. She felt her voice catch in her throat, unsure how to respond to the feeling. Then, with a suddenness that made her knees buckle, the chill twisted inside her body, becoming violently hot.

  The sun seemed incredibly oppressive at that moment, as though it reached down with a golden hand to glide past cloth, flesh, muscle and bone. It seized her essence in a scalding, fiery grip and shook vigorously. She could feel it pushing down upon her, a great pressure forcing her skin in upon itself.

  She would never have noticed Dreadaeleon’s hand clenching about her arm had she not spied his scrawny fingers. He seized her with a strength belied by his frailty, he stared at her with an intensity she’d never seen in him. Behind the dark orbs of his eyes, crimson light danced like a flock of agitated fireflies.

  ‘What. .’ Her voice came reluctantly to her lips. ‘What are you-’

  ‘You feel it.’ He spoke with a firmness not his own.

  ‘Feel. . what?’

  ‘It. Cold. Hot.’

  With surprising strength, he tightened his grip on her left arm. She felt her heart leap into her throat. He knows, she screamed in her own mind, he knows, he knows, he knows. Of course he knows. He knows everything. He knows what it is. She tensed her fingers, the burning returning. It’s hot enough to torch him. He knows.

  If he intended to act on that knowledge, however, he did not. At least, not the way she expected. Instead, he pressed his palm against hers. It felt freezing, then hot enough to rival even her own heat.

  ‘You can sense it,’ he whispered, ‘can’t you?’

  ‘Sense what?’ she asked, hysteric as she tore her hand away from his. ‘I don’t know what you’re-’

  ‘Venarie. Magic.’

  The fireflies behind his eyes, the ever-present, if faint, mark of wizardry in his stare, went alight. His gaze became a pair of pyres, crimson energy seeping out in great flashes. He turned his scowl out to sea, the pyres becoming thin red gashes.

  ‘There is. . a wizard out there.’

  Her gaze followed his, towards the only thing present upon the sea.

  The black ship drew into Irontide’s ominous shadow, blending into the darkness. But Asper could still see it, clear as a fire on fresh-fallen snow. Though she knew she stared into darkness, she felt the ship, sensed it as she might an itch between the shoulder blades. She felt it throb, felt it twitch.

  And then she felt it stand up and stride to the prow of the ship.

  Something stirred atop the tower’s battlements. A chorus of chattering teeth and throaty gibbers cut through the sky. The great crown of white shifted as a hundred bulbous blue eyes spotted the ship.

  Like a wound bleeding white, the Omens toppled from the tower, pouring over the side with flapping wings and gnashing teeth. In twisting, chattering harmony, they reared, their mimicked voices of the long dead clashing off one another in a hideous howl as they rose, then descended upon the purple invaders.

  ‘NYUNG!’ The command went up from the longfaces, audible even over the cacophony.

  The vessel came to a sudden halt, bobbing upon the water like a floating coffin. Purple figures rose, drawing back bows made of the same black wood as the ship, arrows aimed at the descending gibber.

  The male stood before them, his white hair whipping about his face, his robes billowing about his frail body as he turned a defiant stare towards the winged frenzy.

  ‘Here it comes.’

  Asper was numb to Dreadaeleon’s voice, numb to everything save the freezing sensation coursing through her body and the sudden weight in her left arm.

  The Omens swooped upon the ship in a twisting column, shadow and sky painted writhing white as they tucked their wings against their plump bodies and turned their hooked noses and yellow teeth to the longfaces.

  With an eerie casualness to his movements, the male raised his hands. His purple, bony fingers knotted together in agonised symmetry as they bent in ways they were not meant to. He shouted a chorus of words not in his own tongue, nor the tongue of humans. They were familiar, if incomprehensible to Asper, and her eyes widened as she realised she had heard them from Dreadaeleon’s mouth before.

  ‘Magic,’ she gasped.

  His voice boomed, granted an unnatural echo. An un-present wind swept his hair back, revealing a frigid blue glow engulfing his eyes. He continued to speak the words and the azure energy bathed his fingertips, sweeping up his arms.

  The spectacle was not lost on the Omens.

  Those in front reared in mid-descent, colliding with the ones still swooping, and the column became a messy cloud. The flying parasites beat each other with their wings, bit each other with their needles, struggling to get free of the mob of feathers and flesh. Their crazed gibberish became a unified howl of terror as the blue glow rose from below.

  ‘This,’ Dreadaeleon gasped, ‘will be big.’

  He was not mistaken. The longface’s words of power ended with an echo that stretched into eternity as his mouth opened wide. In the wake of his voice, a howl rose.

  The ship shuddered as an angry gale tore itself from the longface’s mouth. The air became blue, shimmering blades tinged with razor shards of frost. From the slight, wispy creature, a maw of frigid azure and ivory swept up to crunch rime-laden teeth about the Omens.

  The gale grew high, kissing the battlements and devouring the creatures’ wailing. The Omens were swept inside it, caroming off one another in bursts of black blood and broken bones. They thrashed, bit, rent each other as they struggled to escape. Many died immediately, limp bodies twisting silently in the wind. More lived, thrashing even as their feathers hardened upon their flesh.

  The maw glowed with a horrific blue. The Omens lost their colour in it, frozen bodies becoming so many flakes inside it. Still and silent, the statues clashed against each other, frozen anatomies snapping to become lost in the wind. Hooked noses, lipless mouths, bulging eyes: one by one, they snapped off, crashed against wings, feet and heads before twisting off to crash into torsos, tails and scalps.

  Only after there
was nothing left to crash did the longface close his mouth.

  His trembling fingers undid themselves, his eyes returned to their heavy-lidded whiteness and the wind that had whipped his hair vanished. Folding his hands inside his sleeves, he turned and took a seat at the end of the ship.

  As though nothing had happened, the females took up their oars in resignation to duty. The chant resumed, the rowers worked. The ship glided across the sea, towards Irontide, through an artificial snowfall of powdered blood and pulverised flesh.

  Asper could but stare. In an instant, the harbingers of hell, the precursors of horror, the Omens had been reduced to nothing. Reduced to nothing, she added to herself, by a display of magic she had not even dreamed possible. And now the ship continued forwards, the male’s expression as casual as the hand that brushed red flakes from his shoulder.

  Asper could but stare as they continued towards Irontide. Asper could but stare as such a force continued towards her friends.

  Dreadaeleon seemed much less indecisive.

  ‘Come,’ he said, brushing past her with a forcefulness that she might have gone agog at, were she not already dumbstruck. ‘We have to go.’

  ‘What?’ she gasped, breath returning to her. ‘Now?’

  ‘That longface is a heretic.’

  ‘You don’t even know what religion he is.’

  ‘Not a heretic of whatever made-up god you choose to serve,’ the boy snarled at her. He gestured towards the ship. ‘Look at him! He’s not even breathing hard!’

  Asper frowned; she could sense his calm well enough, as she had sensed his power before. Without seeing the longface, she knew Dreadaeleon was right. Dreadaeleon, of course, wasn’t waiting for her approval. He waded out from the shore, inhaled deeply and blew a cloud of frost over the ocean. In the few gasping breaths that followed, a small ice floe had formed, bobbing upon the surface.

  ‘It violates all laws of magic, all laws of the Venarium.’ The boy climbed upon the white sheet, surprisingly sure-footed. ‘That, at least, is worth getting involved over.’

  ‘But not your friends?’ Asper asked, raising a brow.