Tome of the Undergates

Before Lenk could respond, Argaol interjected with a rough cough. ‘What of the Lord Emissary?’



‘Evenhands is—’



‘Kindly refer to our charter by his proper name,’ the captain interrupted sharply. ‘This ship is free of all blasphemy, no matter how minor. I won’t have a . . .’ He stared hard at Lenk. ‘What’s your faith, boy?’



‘None of your business,’ Lenk responded hotly.



‘Khetashite,’ Sebast muttered. ‘All adventurers follow the Outcast, I hear.’



‘The proper title is the Wanderer.’



‘Khetashe gets a proper title when he’s a proper God and not some patron of misfits.’ Argaol coughed. ‘At any rate, what of the Lord Emissary?’



‘Evenhands is safe. No pirate managed to get through us.’



‘Aye, thanks to that monster of yours, no doubt.’ Argaol laughed, his humour tinged with an edge of hysteria. ‘Your boys are good at killing, Mister Lenk, no doubt about that. A shame you couldn’t find a more decent skill to devote your life to.’



Lenk’s only response was an acknowledging hum. There was no real sense in getting angry at slights towards his profession. He had heard them all, up to and including slights against his God, Khetashe. There was, after all, little sense in getting irate about insults to a God who watched over people who killed things for money.



‘Speaking of faith, your men are all Zamanthrans, I hear.’



‘All men of the Riptide pay homage to the Sea Mother, aye.’



‘Should we not stop to give them their proper burial, then?’



‘Not with Rashodd’s boys on our backsides, no.’ Argaol shook his head. ‘We’ll attend to the rites when we’re free and clear.’ He turned to his mate and gestured with his chin. ‘Mister Sebast, inform the men to trim up the sails. They won’t be catching us anytime soon.’



As the sunburned man nodded and scampered off, Lenk stalked to the edge of the railing. The Linkmaster wasn’t fully out of sight, but far enough away to resemble a glistening black beetle on the horizon.



‘Are you sure it’s wise to trim the sails?’ he asked. ‘They might catch up.’



‘Not so long as Zamanthras loves us,’ Argaol grunted. ‘And I don’t need the wind ripping my sails while it’s on our side. We’ll be out of their sight before the Sea Mother even realises I’m carrying a shipload of heathens.’



‘Of course, Captain,’ Sebast interjected as he clambered back up the stairs, ‘you are also carrying the Lord Emissary of the Church of Talanas and one of the Healer’s holy maidens.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps the two cancel each other out?’



‘And that’s why you’re first mate, Mister Sebast.’ The captain sighed. He jerked his chin towards the railing. ‘Have a glimpse, then. Tell me how far they are behind us and see if you can’t assuage the adventurer’s fears.’



The man came up beside Lenk and peered out over the rail. ‘A good ways, I should say, Captain.’ Sebast hummed thoughtfully.



‘How the hell far away is a “good ways”, Mister Sebast? Can you see their faces?’



‘Nay, sir. I wouldn’t wager they can see me, neither. They look a mite busy loading up that huge crossbow.’



‘Crossbow?’ Lenk’s eyes widened at the calm expressions of the captain and mate. ‘So they do have a ballista.’



‘How do you think they launched that chain in the first place, boy?’ Argaol snorted, then spat. ‘Back in the day, a pirate would be as concerned with the condition of a ship he meant to take as her captain would be. Nowadays, they don’t even bother. Who cares for the condition of a ship if you’re just going to scuttle it, aye?’



‘A tragic example of the decline of ethics, Captain,’ Sebast agreed.



‘Should we be worried?’ Lenk asked, though their expressions seemed to answer that already.



‘As I said, not so long as we’ve got the wind on our side,’ Argaol replied. ‘And the Sea Mother is apparently overlooking your various blasphemies today and giving us Her blessing.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Tell me, Mister Sebast, have we lost Rashodd yet?’



‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Captain, but assuming we are losing him, he should be getting smaller, shouldn’t he?’



‘What are you trying to say, Sebast?’



‘He’s right.’ Lenk pointed out to sea as the black blot that was the Linkmaster gained shape and definition. Dozens of figures swarmed over its deck. ‘They’re catching up.’



‘Whoresons must—’ Argaol paused, staring at the wheel as though it were suddenly something alien. It remained unmoving, even as his thin, dark fingers gave it a swift jerk. The helm made no response. Nor did it move even as he gritted his teeth, set his feet and pushed with his shoulder.



‘Gods-cursed piece of . . .’ The captain’s words faded into an angry snarl as he pushed. ‘Move, you stupid thing!’ A growl became a roar. ‘MOVE!’



The wheel obeyed.



It spun with such ferocity and suddenness as to hurl the captain to the deck, whipping around in opposition to his will. Everyone’s eyes went wide, staring at the possessed device with horror as it continued to spin, whirling one way, then the other. The roar of the sea became a low, dejected sigh. The ship rocked, its headway dying to a crawl.



‘Something’s wrong,’ Argaol gasped, ‘something . . . something’s wrong with the rudder.’



Lenk peered over the railing, glancing down at the ship’s stern. His breath caught in his throat, denying him any curses he might have uttered. Beneath the pristine blue, stark against the white froth of the ship’s wake, was blackness, an inky, shapeless void that clung to the Riptide’s rear like a sore.



‘What the hell are those?’ Sebast muttered.



It took Lenk a moment to realise the first mate wasn’t referring to the lightless stain at the rudder. He then saw the flashes of pale skin in the water, gliding towards the Riptide like fleshy darts.



‘Are those . . . men?’



Lenk blinked; they were indeed men. Bereft of hair, bereft of clothing save for what appeared to be black loincloths wrapped about narrow waists, a small company of men swam towards the ship with unnerving speed. In bursts of white froth, they leapt from the sea, arms folded, legs pressed tightly together, in a flash of bone-white and black, before diving below the waves to re-emerge moments later.



‘Oh, no, no, no.’ The captain’s growl had degenerated into a sharp whimper as he pointed out to sea. ‘No, no, not now, not now!’



The Linkmaster had closed with such swiftness as to make it seem like a shadow upon the waves cast by the Riptide, a trailing darkness that quickly shifted, gaining on its prey. Lenk could see faces, tattoos, nicked blades clearly. More than that, he could see their chain, its massive links attached to a great spear ending in a claw, once more loaded in the massive ballista.



‘This is what they were waiting for—’ Lenk muttered.



‘This is all your fault!’



He whirled at the accusation, facing a wide-eyed, clenched-teeth Argaol.



‘My fault?’



‘You and your wretched blasphemies! Your wretched God and your wretched profession! You’ve brought the damned wrath of the Gods on my ship!’



‘Why, you simpering piece of—’



‘BOARDERS! WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!’ The call rang out from the deck.



‘AGAIN!’ someone added.



Argaol’s mask of scorn was quickly replaced with shock. ‘Well?’ he demanded harshly.



‘Well, what?’ Lenk responded, equally vicious.



‘Get down there!’



‘You just called me wretched. Why should I do anything you say?’



‘Because you’re on the Lord Emissary’s coin, the Lord Emissary’s on my ship and my ship is about to be simultaneously boarded by Rashodd’s boys and . . .’ his face screwed up as he searched for the words, ‘some manner of fish-men.’



‘They look more like frogs from up here, Captain,’ Sebast offered.



‘That had occurred to me,’ Lenk replied, stroking his hairless chin and hoping that was as effective as caressing a beard. ‘And rest assured, I’ll get right on it . . . after you pay.’



Shock, anger and incredulity gave way to a moment of sheer, unexpected consternation on the captain’s face.



‘Pay?’



‘Blasphemers live by coin.’



‘Are you actually trying to extort me while our lives hang in the balance?’



‘I can’t think of a better time for extortion, can you?’



It was a purely bitter demand, Lenk knew, as much motivated by pettiness as pragmatism. Still, he couldn’t deny that it was purely satisfying to watch the captain reach into his pocket and produce a well-worn pouch, hurling it at Lenk as though it was a weapon.



‘Of all the vile creatures you consort with, Mister Lenk,’ he forced through his teeth, ‘you are by far the most disgusting. ’



Lenk weighed the pouch in his hand, hearing the jingle of coins within. Nodding, he tucked it into his own belt.



‘That’s why I’m the leader.’



In a perfect world, Lenk would have faced well-trained ranks of soldier-sailors armed with steel and discipline scrawled on their faces as he arrived on the main deck. In a less-than-perfect but still optimistic scenario, he would have found shaken but stalwart men, armed with whatever they had to hand.



Perfection and optimism, however, were two words he had no use for.



He shoved his way through herds of visibly panicked sailors, shrieking and screaming as they tripped over bodies and fought over the swords their foes had left behind. He didn’t spare a glance for them as he heard the senior members of the crew barking orders, trying to salvage a defence from the mob.



Let them deal with their squealing, milksopping idiots, he advised himself, you’ve got your own psychotic, cowardly idiots to deal with.



The sight of said idiots, for whom hope of perfection or optimism had long ago died a slow and miserable death, was modestly heartening. After all, he reasoned, if they hadn’t already looted the bodies and fled he could likely hope for them to put up a fight long enough to abandon him in the middle of it.



Gariath stood at the centre of the deck, Dreadaeleon little more than a dwarf beside his towering form. Kataria and Denaos were at arms, arrow drawn and dagger at the ready. Quillian stood distanced from them, a crossbow strapped on her back to complement her sword; why she lingered, Lenk could only guess. Perhaps she wished to be present to deliver a smug lecture as they lay dying shortly before being impaled herself.



If Khetashe loved him, he thought, he’d be dead first.



‘Where’s Asper?’ he asked, noting the absence of the priestess.



‘Tending to the wounded below before tending to the soon-to-be dead above,’ Denaos replied. ‘As well as saying whatever prayers she says before engaging in acts of futility.’



‘You’re not showing her the proper respect,’ Dreadaeleon snapped, lifting his chin.



‘Warriors get respect. Humans get their faces caved in,’ Gariath rumbled as he turned a black scowl upon the rogue. ‘You will get a pair of soiled pants the moment someone turns their back so you can run.’



‘If you happen to turn your back on me, monster,’ Denaos forced through clenched teeth as he flipped his dagger about in his hand, ‘it won’t be running I do.’



‘So rarely,’ Lenk interjected with as much ire as he could force into his voice, ‘do I find an opportunity where I’m actually pleased you people are around. Would you mind terribly waiting until this uncomfortable feeling has passed to kill each other?’ He pointed over the railing to the fast-approaching black ship. ‘In a few breaths, we’ll be swarming with pirates and Gods know what else is swimming up to the ship. If you’ve any intention of surviving long enough to maim each other, you’ll listen to me.’



Indignant scowls, resentful stares and frustrated glowers met him. Not quite the attention he was hoping to command, but good enough.



‘They’ll be upon us shortly,’ he continued, ‘they outnumber us, outarm us—’



‘“Outarm” isn’t a word,’ Dreadaeleon interrupted.



‘Shut up,’ Lenk spat before proceeding, ‘and are likely slightly irate at our having killed some of them. It’s not an impossible fight, but we’ll have to bleed them, make them pay for every step.’



At the angry call of a gull from above, his eyes drifted towards the top of the central mast. The Riptide’s flag, with its insignia of a roiling wave encircling a golden coin, flapped with brazen majesty despite the blood spilled beneath it. His eyes settled on the flag for only a moment, however, before he found the tiny crow’s nest perched beneath the banner.



‘Kataria, Squiggy,’ he said, glancing at the crossbow resting on the latter’s back, ‘you’re both archers.’



‘Sniper,’ the Serrant corrected sharply.



‘What’s the difference?’ Kataria quirked a brow.



‘It is purpose and duty, not mere coin and savage lust, that drive my arrows.’ Quillian puffed up proudly. ‘I’ve twice the skill, twice the authority,’ she paused, casting a disparaging glance at the shict’s muscular, naked midriff, ‘and about half a tunic more.’



‘Whatever,’ Lenk interjected before Kataria could do more than scowl and open her mouth. ‘I need you both to climb up there and—’



‘I serve a higher calling than you, heathen,’ the Serrant interrupted with a sneering growl. ‘Do you suppose I am one of your raving lunatics to command like a hound?’



‘I suppose you’d be interested in preserving the life of your employer, as well as that of the priestess below,’ Lenk retorted sharply. ‘Listen to me and you can avoid earning yourself another red oath, Serrant.’



At that, the woman narrowed her eyes and shifted a stray lock of black hair from her rigid face. She didn’t make any other move and Lenk supposed that was as close to assent as she would come.



‘Right,’ he grunted. ‘If we put you up in the crow’s nest, you can shoot down whoever comes across.’



‘A shict can shoot down anything with round ears and two legs,’ Kataria said, casting a sidelong smirk at Quillian. ‘Squiggy here throws arrows away like flowers at a wedding. Perhaps she’d better stay down here and see if she can’t absorb some steel.’



‘Why, you barbaric, mule-eared little—’ Quillian began to snarl before Lenk’s hand went up.



‘Stop.’ He pointed a finger up to the rigging. ‘Go.’



With cold glares exchanged, the two females grudgingly skulked off towards the rigging together. Lenk watched as they nimbly scaled the ropes, if only to make certain they didn’t shove each other off, before turning to the others.



‘Dread,’ he glanced at the boy leaning against the mast, massaging his temples, ‘you’ve got the most important job.’



‘Naturally,’ the wizard muttered. ‘Somehow, having the talent to hurl fire from one’s palms always predisposes one to being given the “important” jobs.’



‘Yes, you’re incredibly sarcastic,’ Lenk sighed, ‘and if we had more time I’d eagerly indulge your staggering intellect. However,’ he gestured over the side towards the ever-growing Linkmaster, ‘the whole impending disembowelment aspect is a factor.’



‘Fine.’ The boy rose dramatically, coat sweeping about his feet, book banging against his hip. ‘What do you need?’



‘A fire. Nothing much, just make something go ablaze on their ship to keep a few of them busy.’



‘That’s it?’



‘Well, Khetashe, don’t let me stop you from making their captain eject his intestines out through his ears if you’ve got that trick up your sleeve.’



‘I’m not sure . . .’ Dread scratched his chin. ‘I’ve done so much already. I can only cast so many spells in a day. If I don’t rest, I get headaches.’



‘A headache is slightly better than a sword in your bowels.’



‘Point.’ Dreadaeleon stalked to the railing. He slid his legs apart slightly, knotted his fingers together and drew in a deep breath. ‘It’ll take concentration. Whatever happens, make certain that I’m not disturbed or something could happen.’



‘Such as?’



‘Where massive fires are concerned, is further explanation really necessary?’



‘Point.’



‘Here they come,’ Gariath said with a bit more eagerness in his voice than seemed acceptable.



The black-timbered ship slid up beside them like a particularly long shadow laden with flesh and steel. The deck swarmed with pirates, their boarding chains and hooks ready in hand, their faces splitting with bloodthirsty grins. The ballista stood drawn and taut, the metal claw of its mother chain glistening menacingly in the sunlight.



No sign of the bell, Lenk noticed, or the black-shrouded man. Or were they simply standing behind the titanic amalgamation of tattoos and iron at the helm? Rashodd was ready to lead this second charge, if the hands that caressed the axes at his hips were any indication.



Young man’s hands, Lenk noted.



‘Dread,’ he grunted, elbowing the boy.



‘As I said,’ he hissed in reply, ‘no distractions.’



Dreadaeleon’s fingers knitted, his mouth muttered as he looked over the Linkmaster, seeking a flammable target.



Lenk turned to check the Riptide’s preparations. Heartened by their seniors’ orders, the sailors had formed themselves into a working defensive line. Their wooden weapons were as shoddy as ever, but they had done the job before. The only difference between this and the previous attack was that this time the men were prepared to face the Linkmaster’s crew.



That, Lenk thought, and the fact that there are about three times as many pirates as there were before . . . all a degree more psychotic than the last lot.



His own company was as organised as it was going to be. He hefted his sword, raising it as the ranks of grinning, tattooed faces grew larger with the pirates’ approach. Any hope of outrunning the fight was dashed; now, Lenk knew, it was down to skin and teeth.



‘The captain sends his best to you, lads,’ came a gruff, guttural voice from behind. Lenk recognised the sailor by his bandaged, burned arm if not by name as he came clambering up. ‘We’ll do our part. The boys are ready to ravage. I hope yours can say the same.’ Exchanging a grim nod with Lenk, he swept a glance over the other adventurers. He grinned as he spied Dreadaeleon. ‘Look at this brave lad, here. Can’t be more than me own boy’s age. Good on ’im, even if he did set me on fire before.’ He raised a hand over the wizard’s shoulder, and Lenk’s eyes went wide. ‘No hard feelings, eh—’