Tome of the Undergates

A smile creased her face, breaking into a peal of laughter that was long, loud and unwholesome.



‘How many do you think that was worth, Squiggy?’ She cast a glance behind her, spying nothing. ‘Squiggy?’



When she discovered the bronze-clad fingers clutching at the nest’s edge, she had to fight to keep her laughter from overpowering her. She couldn’t say at that moment why the sight of Quillian dangling by one stubborn hand was so amusing to her. Perhaps it was her expression, the mixture of fear and outrage at having been hurled from the nest by the force of the collision. Perhaps it was simply the rush of having scored so many Kou’ru with one shot, the woman’s humiliation being merely the punctuation of a squeal-filled giddy sentence.



Or perhaps it was the opportunity dangling before her.



‘Help me up.’ Quillian’s voice had not even the slightest hint of request.



Kataria’s own hand lingered on the rail, her gaze contemplative. There was no real reason to watch the Serrant fall, she realised, but was hard pressed to think of a reason to haul her bronze-clad bulk back up.



And yet, something stayed her hand, a mere finger’s length from the Serrant’s own reaching gauntlet. Here was a human with genuine hate reinforced with swords, cross-bows and blind zeal. Here was a human who saw notched ears as a target.



She had seen such hate before, but only in the eyes of those not content to revile her people and wallow in deluded myth about the tribes. This hate, the undiluted foulness behind Quillian’s eyes, was reserved for those who had seen shicts. Seen, she thought, and killed.



Her suspicions were confirmed, at least as much as she needed them to be, in the grit of the woman’s teeth and narrowing of her eyes. She could not disguise her loathing, even as she dangled above the already blood-soaked deck. Even for the sake of her life, Kataria realised, this human couldn’t commit the fraud of repentance.



‘If you’re going to kill me,’ the Serrant hissed, ‘then cease drawing it out.’



Kataria made no reply besides a careful, contemplative blink. Here was a human who had killed her people. Here was a human who had committed the one sin all shicts were sworn to avenge. Here was a human who could be one less slayer of her tribeskin, a human the world wouldn’t miss.



They can always make more, she thought.



‘Do it,’ the Serrant hissed.



Kataria’s hand moved in response, wrapping around the Serrant’s wrist.



‘Don’t be such a whiner,’ the shict grunted, straining with the effort of hauling up the bronze-clad woman. ‘Just because,’ she paused to breathe, ‘I took my time,’ she gasped, ‘Riffid Alive, but you’re heavy.’



Suddenly she paused, as the woman’s chest rose just above the basket’s edge.



‘Wait a moment, how many did you say that last one was worth?’



‘What?’ Hate vanished in a moment of puzzlement in Quillian’s eyes.



‘When the ships collided,’ Kataria repeated, ‘how many was that worth? How many did I kill?’



‘I don’t know,’ the Serrant snarled, ‘I was a bit busy nearly falling to my death.’



‘Just take a guess.’



‘I don’t know . . .’ She drew in a breath through her teeth. ‘You killed . . . perhaps eight heathens.’



‘EIGHT?’



Quillian’s shriek was short and brief as the shict released her. She came to a sudden, jerking halt, her bronze fingers digging deeper into the wood to suspend herself. A staggering gasp that sounded as though the woman’s stomach was on the verge of spilling out of her mouth went unheeded by Kataria.



‘That had to be fifteen,’ Kataria protested sharply, ‘at least twelve.’



‘You’re delusional,’ Quillian growled in response. ‘Eight is being generous. You didn’t do more than shoot one man and send a few others into the sea.’



‘In a chunky jam I sent them! Give me a better number!’



‘Lying is a sin in the eyes of all Gods.’



‘Then you’d better cut it out before I send you to meet them.’



Until that moment, it hadn’t truly occurred to Kataria that she was prepared to send the woman to her death for refusing to concede a few extra Kou’ru when she hadn’t been willing to condemn her for supposedly killing her own tribesmen. It bothered her little; whether by righteous vengeance or petty numbers, still one less human.



If, Kataria told herself, she continues to act in such a human manner.



‘Do you concede?’



‘Not a chance,’ Quillian snapped back.



‘Lovely.’ The shict put on a self-satisfied smirk. ‘Bid your smelly Gods good day on behalf of Riffid for me.’



She turned about, folding her arms over her chest. She could resume shooting in a moment, when this particular distraction was over. Absently, she scratched her flank as she waited for the sound of bronze grinding against wood, gulls crying above the inevitable shriek, a pompous melon exploding in a barrel.



Either that or a plea for mercy. They’d be equally satisfying.



‘Shict,’ Quillian gasped.



So soon? Kataria resolved not to turn just yet; that would be too easy.



‘Shict!’



She can hold on for a few more moments . . . or not.



‘Damn it, you long-eared vagrant! Something’s happening below!’



Kataria’s ears twitched. The Serrant’s concerns were confirmed in a cry of pain from a familiar voice. She whirled about, leaning over the dangling woman to peer at what was occurring below.



What had begun as a melee had degenerated into a matter of swaths: swaths fleeing before Gariath as he tore through the ranks of the pirates, swaths collapsing before Dreadaeleon’s fiery hands as his arcane chant went unchallenged.



‘That hardly counts as a “happening”,’ the shict sneered. ‘I’ve already killed as many as they have.’



‘Not that, you imbecile!’ Quillian pointed a bronze finger across the deck.



Kataria’s eyes widened immediately, ears pricking up in alarm at the sight. The greatest swath of all lay at the Riptide’s helm, the sailors who had been guarding it now cast to the timbers like scythed wheat. The figure of Rashodd was immense amidst the carnage, wading unhurriedly up the steps towards the sole figure, short and wiry, standing in his way.



‘Lenk,’ she whispered.



Her arrow was up and nestled in the bowstring in an instant, aimed squarely for Rashodd’s massive back. The pirate, however, seemed less than interested in standing still and suddenly twisted, drawing up beside Lenk, uncomfortably close. Even as wiry as he was, as skilled as she was, and as massive as the Cragsman was, her fingers quivered.



No, she resolved at that moment. She would not add Lenk to her score. Besides, she reasoned, a shot from such a distance into a man of Rashodd’s girth had no guarantee to kill. To waste arrows on a single Kou’ru, no matter how big, simply wasn’t acceptable.



Her arrow was back in her quiver, bow in hand, leg over the crow’s nest’s railing as she prepared to climb down the rigging. Only a sudden shriek gave her pause.



‘Hey! HEY!’



‘Oh, right.’ She glanced over the quaking bronze digits and stared down at Quillian. ‘I almost forgot.’ She smiled. ‘Now, we’re agreeing that the collision caused at least twelve in my favour, yes?’



‘Yes, sure, whatever!’ The Serrant nodded fervently. ‘Just—’



‘Mind yourself, I have to count.’ The shict made a show of wiggling her digits. ‘Fourteen from arrows alone plus, if we’re frugal, another twelve makes . . .’ She smiled morbidly down at Squiggy, tapping her nose with a finger. ‘An even twenty-seven. Lucky number!’



The total dawned on Quillian the moment Kataria leapt from the nest and deftly seized the rigging. Squeals of fury followed her down, but she ignored them. There were more pressing concerns.



A flash of sparks at the helm drew her attention; Lenk was hard pressed against Rashodd’s twin axes, his sword nothing more than a weak stinger in the hands of a tiny wasp. Kataria gritted her teeth, splayed her legs against the ropes of the rigging and slid down, ignoring the burn of the hemp that bit through her gloves. She had no time for pain.



The game was not yet over.



Six



THE HERALD



Lenk felt a hammer explode against his belly.



The wind left him, the earth left him as he flew up into the air, sailing blissfully across currents carried by fast-fading screams in the distance. This, he thought, must be what it is to ascend to the heavens.



The Gods proved not so kind.



He struck the timbers with a crash, sliding like a limp, breathless fish. He collided with the base of the ship’s wheel with the meagrest of bumps, giving him the opportunity to lament that the blow hadn’t killed him.



‘Khetashe,’ he gasped breathlessly, ‘that didn’t work.’



‘You thought it would?’ Argaol was quick to kneel beside the young man, helping him to a sitting position. ‘Rashodd’s twice your size if you stand up straight, boy!’



‘I thought,’ he paused to breathe, ‘I could . . . strike quickly. Use size to my advantage . . . gnats and frogs, right?’



‘What?’



‘Something my grandfather told me.’ Lenk rubbed his stomach, grimacing; the indentations of Rashodd’s knuckles were all too fresh in his skin. ‘The frogs are big, slow and lumbering . . . the gnats are small and quick, they can escape.’



‘No gnat ever managed to beat down a frog, runt.’



‘Well, I know that now. When he told it to me, it sounded like good advice.’



Any further conversation went silent against the sound of distant thunder, the sound of heavy boots. The timbers shook beneath them, the ship trembling with Rashodd’s stride. They glanced up as the pirate cleared the last step to the helm.



Rashodd stalked towards them with almost insulting casualness, heedless of the dead beneath his boots, the red flecking his beard, the glistening of his axes. His gaze was unreadable behind his helmet, his voice a metallic ringing.



‘It is with no undue fondness that I recall a time when this was a respectable business. It is with nostalgia that I remember when two captains could do business without bloodshed and drinks were always proffered to guests.’ He sighed. ‘Where is my drink, Argaol? Where is the courtesy extended to a man of my particular prestige? I would give you all the mercy I could spare had you merely displayed a bit of the propriety I am inarguably due.’



Using his sword as a makeshift crutch, Lenk staggered to his feet, steadying himself with the ship’s wheel.



Rashodd inclined his head respectfully. ‘You seem to be the most decent lad amongst this merry band of rabble we’ve had the pleasure to treat with.’ He hefted one of his axes over a broad shoulder. ‘I can’t say I don’t admire your - if you’ll pardon the comparison - cockroach-like tenacity. I’ve scarce known a man to display such resilience in the face of common sense.’ He lofted a great, grey brow. ‘Mercenary?’



‘Adventurer.’



‘That would explain it, wouldn’t it? I’ve no inherent disrespect for the profession, mind you, though it’s always seemed to me that an adventurer is naught more than a pirate who couldn’t bring himself to admit he’s scum.’



‘We’re all entitled to our opinions.’



‘Regardless, I feel compelled to ask you,’ he shifted his glance to Argaol, ‘both of you . . . why put up such a fight? While I wouldn’t list it as a fault in polite company, are you blind, good man? Can you not see the merry company we keep?’ He gestured over his shoulder to the pale invaders, sliding up to reinforce their pirate allies. ‘Be frank with me - how many mere pirates do you know that command such beasts?’



‘I’ve met more than a few beasts in my time,’ Lenk grunted, standing as straight as he could. ‘I’m not impressed. ’



‘A pity.’ Rashodd shook his head sadly and turned to Argaol. ‘Then I appeal to your reason, good Captain. Is it too late to call for a cessation that we might converse as proper gents? Must it always come to violence?’



‘It came to violence ages ago,’ Argaol snarled, ‘when you started slaughtering my men.’



‘The merry boys of the Linkmaster are nothing if not famed for their bravado.’



‘What you’re famed for is rape, murder and slavery.’



‘You do me no honour with flattery, kind sir. Nor have I the patience to continue such an argument. Simply give us what we wish and we can spare you any more tidying-up.’



Argaol regarded the man hesitantly. ‘And what, pray, is it you wish?’



‘I had come intent on taking away some cargo, but I think it a bit rude,’ the Cragsman cleared his throat, ‘given that you’ll be requiring most of your merchandise to hire on crew to replace the men you’ve so unfortunately lost.’



‘Your hacking them to pieces was a bit unfortunate.’



‘Details. At any rate, we’ll simply search your cabins and take two of your gentle lady passengers.’ He held up a pair of fingers. ‘One of our choosing, one of yours.’



Argaol hummed; the sound was faint and distant in Lenk’s ears, slurred by the thunder pounding through his head. Even through blurring vision, however, he could see the captain’s gaze drifting upwards to the crow’s nest. Kataria and Quillian had both vanished from the mast; perhaps for the better, Lenk thought.



The captain’s thoughts were just as audible. He could see Argaol questioning himself, posing any number of logical scenarios in the tilt of his head. Why not, Lenk asked himself, why not abandon a savage for the sake of the crew? Please the pirates and please the Gods by ridding himself of a heathen adventurer.



Lenk clutched the hilt of his sword, unsure as to who he should turn it on once enough feeling returned to his arm to heft it.



‘As well as the priest below.’



Argaol’s neck went rigid. ‘Absolutely not! Murder is one thing, Rashodd, but I’ll not let you blaspheme this ship.’



‘Had I any manner of hat not made of iron, I would doff it in reverence of your godliness, kind sir.’ The Cragsman paused to pantomime this. ‘But I must attempt to skewer you with logic for a moment: consider the fate of your men. Resist us and the priest comes along with us, cooperate and the priest comes along with us. The only difference that remains is how big a charnel heap you’re left with.’



‘Zamanthras guides this ship,’ Argaol countered hotly, displaying the Goddess’s symbol hanging around his neck. ‘I will not risk the generosity She’s shown me by acquiescing to your logic, no matter how skewering.’ He reached for the cutlass at his hip. ‘You offer me a quick death by your own hand or a slow one by the Gods’ disfavour. I will accept neither.’



‘We aren’t giving up any woman or man, either,’ Lenk attempted to say without vomiting as the breath returned to him fiercely. ‘Heathen or faithful, adventurer or otherwise. ’ He hefted his sword and turned an icy glare upon the captain. ‘No one dies here without taking someone else with him.’



Rashodd was impassive as Lenk charged towards him, the tiny gnat levelling his tiny silver stinger against the massive, iron-clad frog. The pirate twirled an axe casually in one hand, testing its weight as he might a butchering knife in the face of a particularly choice piece of meat. As he lowered his visored stare upon Lenk’s head, he undoubtedly figured that his weapon would split a melon just as well.



The axe swung, bit only a few stray strands of silver as Lenk ducked low and thrust his blade upwards with a triumphant cackle, aiming for the small gap in his foe’s armour. Such mirth was drowned in the clamour of steel, however, as Rashodd’s second axe came up with an unfair deftness, grinding against the young man’s sword.



Undaunted, Lenk pressed the attack. The pirate might have had leverage and strength, but the young man had two hands firmly on the sword’s hilt and its tip poised tantalisingly close to the Cragsman’s intestines. Just a little farther, he thought, a good push and it’s all over. He saw his grin widen in the blade’s reflection, brimming with malicious hope.



It was then that he remembered that Rashodd had two hands.



The flat of the second axe came crashing down and slammed against his ribs. His sword clattered to the ground, hands contorting as muscles locked against the blow. Paralysed, he was barely able to let out a pained squawk, let alone squirm away from Rashodd’s massive hand.



‘Kindly use your reason, gentlemen.’ The ire boiling in Rashodd’s voice was reflected in the fingers tightening around the young man’s neck as he hefted Lenk from the deck. ‘Perhaps it has been your woe to have dealt with considerably less couth men than myself, but I can most benevolently assure you that my terms would be considered most generous by anyone slightly less deranged.’



‘There can be no negotiation where blasphemy is involved, ’ Argaol snarled in reply.



‘Ah, my dear Captain, there can be no victory where Rashodd is involved.’ He gestured out over the deck. ‘Amongst his allies are counted men who ply the waters like frogs and fight like devils. Look upon them, Captain, embrace the wisdom of our terms and we can begin the long and arduous process of restraining ourselves from the mutilation of fruits, stones and other synonyms for manhood, ’ he brought his axe up, let the blade graze Lenk’s trousers, ‘starting with this ardent young lad.’



Being strangled by a giant hand and with an axe brushing his genitalia, Lenk began to see the wisdom in surrender. He hoped between what meagre breaths he could muster that Argaol, too, had enough sympathy for his situation, if not his profession.



While he couldn’t twist his neck to see Argaol’s reaction, the captain’s derisive laughter assured the young man that godliness was, in his eyes, well above concern for an adventurer’s dangling bits.



‘And what then, Rashodd? Do we see how many more sacks are slashed before you get your men under control?’ He chuckled blackly. ‘Besides, if you want to negotiate, I suggest you find a more valuable hostage.’



‘Truly, good Captain, it is rare that I find myself in a position where callousness overwhelms me.’ The Cragsman shook his head. ‘I trust the honour isn’t lost on you.’ He looked Lenk over appraisingly like a particularly gristly piece of beef. ‘This upstanding young gent has spilled much blood for your well-being and you would cast him off so crudely?’