Sam Sykes - Tome of the Undergates

• Название: Tome of the Undergates
• Автор: Sam Sykes
• Жанр: Фэнтези

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‘Well, for starters,’ the young man pointed behind them, ‘how about that?’

The corpse of the second Abysmyth, face-down in a pool of its own black humours, was not exactly difficult to miss. If it were even possible, the thing seemed far fouler in death than it had in life, with its emaciated limbs twisted about its hacked and hewn body, arrow shafts jutting from its black skin, one stump of an arm reaching for the shore as though it still sought to crawl to the safety of the sea.

It was not what was leaking out of the demon that caused Kataria’s breath to go short, but rather what was jammed into it.

Jutting from the creature’s back, the cross of its hilt shining triumphantly in the sunlight, Lenk’s sword glittered with a menace it had never showed her. Whereas before it was merely one weapon amongst many, now the blade seemed alive, smiling morbidly in its steel, remembering well what it had done to the beast.

When the others started stalking towards it, she found herself hard pressed to follow.

‘So,’ Lenk began, placing his hands on his hips and staring at the corpse, ‘what have you found out?’

The dragonman merely rolled his shoulders. ‘It’s dead.’

‘Well, hell.’ Denaos sighed dramatically. ‘Are the rest of us even needed here? It sounds like the lizard’s become so good at this necropsy business as to render Asper obsolete.’ He sneered. ‘Though, frankly, it’s tricky to decide which one’s nicer to look at.’

‘Keep squeaking, rat,’ Gariath snarled in reply, ‘and we’ll have two corpses to admire.’

From seemingly nowhere, he produced something long and black and waved it menacingly at the rogue. It was only after a moment and a sudden wave of nausea that the other companions recognised the Abysmyth’s severed arm.

‘And one of them will have this,’ he paused to pluck a stray Omen corpse up from the ground, ‘and this crammed into it.’ He smiled unpleasantly. ‘Your choice as to what gets stuffed into which end.’

‘It’s far too late in the day for this.’ Lenk sighed. ‘You can kill each other once I don’t have need of either of you.’

‘Kill,’ the dragonman snorted contemptuously, ‘each other?’

‘Fine.’ The young man rolled his eyes. ‘You can kill Denaos once I don’t need him any more.’

‘I rather take offence at that,’ the rogue snapped.

‘That was likely why I said it.’ Lenk waved the tall man’s concerns away and returned to the corpse. ‘Now, we know it’s dead. We just need to know what killed it.’

‘Oh, come on,’ Kataria said hotly, ‘isn’t it obvious?’

Myriad glances cast her way as though she were a mad-woman indicated that it was not. With a snarl, she swept up to the corpse and all but seized Lenk’s sword and throttled it, so fervently did she gesture.

‘The damn thing has a sword in its back! That’s quite typically fatal, you know.’

‘True,’ Denaos replied, ‘but if you can point out anything typical about a giant fish-man-demon-thing, I’d love to hear it.’

‘They can’t be harmed by mortal weapons.’ Asper nodded. ‘We’ve seen it. Whatever killed the Abysmyth, it wasn’t Lenk.’

‘But I saw-’ Kataria’s protest was slain in her mouth at the sight of Lenk’s stare, hard and flashing, levelled at her like a weapon itself. Instead, she looked away and muttered, ‘I saw it die.’

‘You didn’t see Lenk kill it, though.’ Denaos pushed his way past her and knelt beside the body. As he extended a hand, stopping just short of its leathery hide, he glanced over his shoulder concernedly. ‘We’re sure this thing is dead, right?’

‘Sure.’ Gariath scratched at his chin with the demon’s dismembered claws. ‘If it isn’t, though, the worst that can happen is we lose you.’

‘Acceptable losses,’ Asper agreed.

‘Oh, you two are just a pair of merry little jesters,’ he hissed. Without sparing another moment for them, he began to trace his fingers down the creature’s hide, no small amount of disgust visible on his face. ‘As I was saying, Lenk didn’t kill it. Poison did.’

‘That can’t be right,’ Lenk muttered, coming up beside the rogue. ‘I didn’t see any poison on it.’

‘What the hell did you think this stuff was?’

The rogue ran a finger down the edge of one of the creature’s wounds, pinching off a few flakes of green ichor, now dried and dusty. He rubbed it between his fingers, brought it to his nose and blanched.

‘Granted, it’s long past its bottle life, but this is potent stuff.’ He brushed his hands off. ‘Someone was carving our dear friend up with an envenomed weapon long before you ever hacked at it.’ He flicked one of the more prominent tears in the creature’s flesh. ‘Have a glimpse. These wounds are fresh, even though the venom is old. You remember what happened when Mossud harpooned the thing, right?’

‘It healed instantly.’ Lenk nodded as he rubbed his shoulder in memory of the thrashing the creature had given him. ‘The damn thing didn’t even flinch.’

‘From your attacks, maybe,’ Gariath snorted.

‘So why haven’t these lacerations healed?’ Denaos winked knowingly. ‘The wounds were trying to close, but the poison kept them from doing so. Rather potent stuff, actually. I haven’t seen anything this vigorous before.’

‘These wounds, though, are tremendous.’ In emphasis, Lenk reached out and flicked an arrow shaft that Kataria had sent into the thing’s heart through a tear the size of two fists side by side. ‘I’ve seen some big swords in my time, but nothing so big as to make such a mess.’

‘The wounds didn’t start that way.’ Asper elbowed herself into the huddle, pointing to some of the larger rips. ‘See, the edges of the skin are frayed. The poison ate at the flesh, probably continued to do so up until the thing was dead.’ She raised her eyebrows in appreciation. ‘Not unlike a parasite.’

‘I remember.’ Lenk nodded. ‘The green stuff was pulsating. ’ He looked over his shoulder to Kataria. ‘You saw, didn’t you?’

‘Yeah.’ She nodded weakly. ‘Like it was breathing.’

‘So,’ Denaos bit his lower lip, ‘these longfaces are in possession of a. . living poison?’

‘And you wanted to kiss their rumps,’ Asper shot at him smugly. ‘Dip your lips in iron, you smelly little sycophant. ’

‘Well, if you’re such a genius,’ he snapped, ‘maybe you can tell us what did,’ he paused to gesture over the scorched beach, ‘this?’

‘Isn’t it clear?’ She paused, held up a hand in apology. ‘Pardon me. Isn’t it clear to everyone who isn’t a colossal moron?’ She nearly decapitated him with the sharpness of her smirk. ‘Think. What else do you know that can turn sand black and make ice that doesn’t melt in the sun?’

‘Magic,’ the rogue replied, ‘but-’

‘Precisely,’ she interrupted, ‘and who do we know who knows something about magic?’

‘Dreadaeleon,’ he answered, ‘however-’

‘See? Even you can solve these tricky little issues with the miracle of thinking.’ She rose, dusting her hands off with an air of self-satisfaction so thick as to choke even the smoke. She set hands on hips and glanced about the beach. ‘Now, if Dread would just come up and tell us a little bit about. . uh. .’

It occurred to her, at that moment, that they had mentioned the subject of magic and had been able to go three breaths without a familiarly shrill voice chiming in with some incessant trivia. She was not alone in her realisation, as Lenk nearly collapsed under the weight of his sigh.

‘Right, then,’ he muttered, ‘who lost the wizard?’

‘He was with the lizard last I saw,’ Denaos replied. ‘Maybe he stopped to sniff a tree or something.’

‘Where is he, then?’ Asper immediately turned a scowl upon the dragonman. ‘What’d you do with him?’

‘What makes you think I did something to him?’ Gariath replied, raising an eyeridge. ‘Isn’t it possible that he got lost on his own?’

‘Well. .’ Her face screwed up momentarily. ‘I suppose that’s possible. I’m sorry.’ She sighed and offered him an apologetic smile. ‘So, where was he when you last saw him?’

‘Writhing on the ground and not breathing.’

‘Oh.’ She blinked. ‘Wait, what?’

‘I resent you assuming that I beat the stupid out of him until he was lying in a pool of it.’ He folded his arms over his chest. ‘But, as it stands, I did.’

Asper’s jaw dropped. Whether it was from the shock of the dragonman’s actions or the sheer casualness with which he reported them, all she could do was turn to Lenk with a look that demanded he do something.

The young man, however, merely blinked; he suspected he ought to do something about it, if he had been at all surprised that such a thing had happened. Instead, he sighed, rubbed the bridge of his nose and cast a glance around his companions.

‘Well, you know the routine,’ he said. ‘Fan out, find him or his body and so forth and so on.’

‘Searching for someone we’re supposed to care about who was possibly murdered by someone else we’re supposed to care about is not supposed to be routine,’ Asper shrieked, stomping her foot.

‘And yet. .’ Lenk let that thought dangle as he reached out to retrieve his sword. ‘Anyway, split up.’ He cast a fleeting glance over his shoulder. ‘Kat, you’re with me.’

‘What?’ She did not mean for her voice to sound as shocked as it did. ‘Why?’

‘What do you mean, “why”?’ Lenk shot her a confused look. ‘That’s how we always do it.’

‘Selfish,’ Denaos muttered under his breath.

‘Well, yeah, but. .’ Her eyes darted about the beach like a cornered beast’s. ‘It’s just that-’

‘If you don’t want to go with me, fine,’ Lenk snapped back, possibly more harshly than he intended. ‘Go with Gariath or whoever else you feel you’d prefer to claw, stab or insult you in the back.’ He seized the handle of his sword and gave a sharp jerk. ‘All I’m doing is trying to keep people from getting killed.’

No sooner had the steel left the Abysmyth’s corpse than the sky split apart with the force of a scream.

Lenk staggered backwards, falling to his rear and scrambling like a drunken crab as the beast, as though possessed, spasmed back into waking life.

Eyes as vacant as they had been in life were turned to the sky as the fish-like head threw itself backwards, jaws agape and streaming rivers of black bile from the corners of its mouth. Heralded by a spray of glistening ebon, it loosed a howl unlike any sound it had made while alive. The noise stretched for an eternity, forcing the companions to choose between gripping weapons and shielding their ears as the shriek echoed off every charred leaf and ashen grain.

Bile streaming from its mouth turned to black blood streaming from every gaping wound in the creature’s flesh. Liquid poured with such intensity as to make the creature’s entire body seem like a great half-melted candle. As the thing continued to scream, it became clear that it was not just bile that wept from its body.

There was a grunt of surprise from Gariath and all eyes turned to see the severed arm begin to jerk and spasm with a life of its own. The dragonman growled once, then hurled the appendage at the corpse, as though such an act would stop it.

Instead, both member and dismembered began to react as one. Black flesh turned to wax, wax turned to ooze, ooze turned to blood. The creature’s flesh began to peel from it, exposing greying bones and settling in a puddle around the thing’s knees. The scream intensified with every inch of skin sloughing off and the flesh only crept more quickly with every moment the Abysmyth shrieked.

Only when the last traces of the creature’s face dripped off, leaving a fish-like skull gaping at the sun, did the creature finally fall silent.

Leaving no time to curse or pray to various Gods, the pool of black sludge that had been the Abysmyth began to move. It twitched once, rippled like tainted water, then began to creep across the shore like an ink stain, moving slowly towards the sea. A gust of wind kissed the beach; the grey skeleton fell forwards and clattered into a pile of bones.

The tension lasted for as long as it took for the screaming echoes to silence themselves. It was only when everything was silent, save for the waves taking the molten flesh back into the water, that Lenk spoke.

‘Spread out,’ he whispered, ‘find Dread. Kat, you’re with me.’

Eighteen

TO KILL AGAIN

Gariath searched the air with his nose, greeted by the same scents he had encountered before: salt and trees. The stink of paper and ink that followed the human boy wherever he went were lost on the wind and in the dirt, and while he did detect traces of dried animal excrement, they weren’t the odours of the particular excrement the wizard was fond of drinking.

For a time uncountable, Gariath had to pause and wonder why he was even searching.

It was but one more wonder to add to a running, endless list he had been keeping ever since deciding to follow the humans. Chief amongst them, now, was why they insisted on fanning out to search for the little runt. Surely they must have known that he, a Rhega, would find the boy first.

Why even bother attempting to find him without Gariath? Even searching solitarily as he was, there was no chance they would so much as catch a whiff of the boy’s farts before he did. They were too slow, too stupid, their noses too small and underdeveloped.

‘Stupid little. .’ His curses degenerated into wordless mumbles.

Of all the creatures that walked on two legs, he offered grudging, unspoken admiration only to Lenk. Despite the shame of having no family and the humiliation of being shorter than most humans, the young man was bold, disciplined and the only one worthy of something just a shade lower than genuine praise amongst the otherwise useless race.

It was unfortunate that Lenk had chosen to go with the long-eared human. Strong and swift, with a healthy contempt for her round-eared fellows, she might have deserved something a shade lower than what he attributed Lenk, had she not the brain of a squirrel.

The two tall humans were naturally inept at all things: fighting fairly, fighting intelligently and, of course, finding anything. The brown-haired woman was too proud in her false Gods to smell the earth. The rat would run away, leaving a yellow trail, at the first whiff of danger.

And, of course, the human boy had found danger. He was born with a dark cloud over his head, a curse of spirit and body, born of a shamed family and supported by a far more shameful life. The scrawny human was estranged from his father and mother, a wicked omen of itself, and far too feeble to overcome such hardship through the proper channel of bloodshed.