Tome of the Undergates - Sam Sykes

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-’

‘STOP!’

By the time the word had escaped Lenk’s lips, the sailor’s hand had come down and clapped the boy on the shoulder. In one slow, painful blink of the eye, Dreadaeleon’s stare shot wide open, eyes burning with crimson energy. Lenk barely had time to turn away before his companion instinctively whirled around, bellowed a single, incomprehensible word and extended a palm.

The world erupted into flame, and as the flashing orange faded, screams arose. The sailor’s hands went to his head, trying to bat away the mane of lapping fire that had enveloped his hair. The line of sailors parted as he tore through their ranks, his shrieking following him as he hurtled towards the railing.

‘I TOLD YOU!’ Dreadaeleon barked, suddenly aware of what had happened. ‘NO distractions! I told you NOT to let anything break my concentration or THINGS could happen!’

‘Well, I didn’t know that THINGS involved setting people’s heads on FIRE, you crazy bastard!’ Lenk roared back.

‘What in Talanas’s name is going on?’ Asper appeared on the scene in a flutter of blue robes and a flash of hazel eyes. ‘What happened?’

‘Isn’t it obvious, you shrew?’ Denaos barked at the priestess. ‘We’re under attack!’

‘Get back below!’ Lenk ordered.

‘I should stay,’ she contested. ‘I. . I should fight!’

‘The next time we’re attacked by pirates who are deathly afraid of sermons, I’ll call you,’ he roared. ‘Until then, GET BACK BELOW, USELESS!’