Tome of the Undergates - Sam Sykes

‘Never mind,’ Lenk grunted. ‘Whatever it was, it doesn’t warrant you punching your leader in the face.’

‘Leaders lead, they don’t stand around and wait to die.’ Gariath snorted at that, raising a claw to one black eye. ‘Cry later. Kill now.’

Whatever fear and frustration had been boiling within left him in one great resigned sigh. He glanced over at Gariath; even in the face of such a horror as the black-skinned foe, even against such walking foulness, he was still tensed for the fight, his wounds and cuts threatening to reopen over the bulge of his muscle. His posture, the eager twitch of wings, the flicking of moistened claws, told Lenk that the dragonman had already prepared to throw himself into a gaping, saw-toothed mouth of death. The sole question that lingered between their gazes was who was going to follow him into the afterlife.

Lenk raised his sword unconsciously. He saw his reflection in his companion’s teeth; they both knew the answer.

Thunder burst from Gariath’s mouth and crashed beneath his feet as he threw himself on all fours, charging towards the towering creature, wings unfurled, tail whipping behind him. Lenk struggled to keep up, following closely in the dragonman’s splintered wake.

The creature regarded them with a curious tilt of its head, as though not entirely sure what was charging towards it. Before it could react, Gariath closed the distance in a sudden spring, leaping up to drive his horns against the monstrosity’s ribcage. With an impact that shook the ship in the water, the creature staggered backwards as the dragonman sprang away, landing on all fours as he braced his body.

Lenk was quick to follow, charging up and over Gariath’s back as though he were a winged ramp. With a grunt, he went flying off his companion’s shoulders, his blade flashing in the air. He swung in a wide, murderous arc, intent on bringing his weapon anywhere he could against the thing’s emaciated figure.

Rage turned to confusion in an instant as Lenk felt his blade connect with something, though his feet did not return to the ground. He glanced up with mouth agape at the sight of his blade caught neatly between webbed digits. Slowly, he looked to the creature, who regarded him with the same, unblinking expression as it held him aloft with one long black limb.

‘Well. . uh. .’ Lenk began.

Before he could even think to let go of the weapon, the loose flesh about the creature’s neck quivered as it gurgled unpleasantly. In a blur of silver and black, the thing’s arm rose up and snapped downwards, hammering Lenk against the deck.

The air was robbed from him, sight failed him as he was pulled up from the deck by his sword, his hands wrapped about the hilt in a barely conscious death-grip. His senses failing, he barely felt the sudden lightness of his body as the creature’s arm snapped forwards once more, sending him sailing through the air.

In an instant, sound and sight returned to him. Screams and frightened gasps filled his ears as he saw the deck rising up to catch him in his plummet. Bones trembled in flesh with the impact of his fall.

‘Gods alive,’ his voice was a breathless whisper, ‘what made me think that would work?’

‘And so it becomes clear.’

The voice was a scar on his brain, rubbed with clawed digits, the drowned gurgle painful even to hear. Through blurring vision, Lenk stared up, pulling himself to his feet just in time to see the ebon hand reaching down for him.

‘What God can hear such a voice so far below?’ the creature asked.

‘They are deaf to your fears,’ the chorus muttered.

Lenk fell limp in the creature’s grasp as it raised him up with all the effort it would use to lift a dead fish. He stared into its empty whites, saw the lack of any emotion boiling behind the great black pupils. There was no hatred there, no malice, not even a sinister moment of joy. Nor did the creature’s stare reflect any predatory instinct or mindless sense of duty.

Within the thing’s eyes, there was simply nothing.

‘In the sky where your pitiless Gods dwell, none can hear you.’

A roar tore through the air. Out of the corner of his eye, Lenk spied Gariath rushing forwards, pools of blood quivering on the deck with the force of his four-legged charge. What momentary relief he might have felt was dashed with the sudden snap of a long, black arm.

Gariath was plucked from the deck like a tumbling kitten, a claw wrapping about his throat. It raised him for but an instant, holding him aloft as he thrashed, clawing and kicking at the creature, before bringing him down harshly. Wood splintered beneath the impact, forming a shallow grave of timber and seawater for Gariath to vanish into as the abomination’s foot came pressing down upon him.

‘But down here,’ it gurgled, ‘only Mother will hear you.’

The creature’s mouth went wide, flesh creaking with the effort of its jaws as it bared rows of jagged teeth glistening with saliva.

‘Let your end be a blessing to you.’

‘Fight back.’

It struck Lenk as odd that he should feel guilty for disappointing the voice, odd that he should feel so guilty for clubbing an impotent fist against the creature’s emaciated limb. After all, there were surely worse things than failing a hallucination.

‘Fight!’

Too little strength, too close to the jaws, he realised. He could do nothing but stare, his scream choked in his throat, as the creature’s eyes rolled back into its head, the gaping oblivion of its mouth looming before him.

‘DROP HIM!’

The scream was distant in Lenk’s ears, as were the cries that followed: shrieks of horror, open-mouthed pleas for someone not to be heroic.

Someone, a man whose name Lenk had never known, burst from the press of flesh like a two-legged horse, a long fishing pike clenched in his skinny hands. His roar was more for his own sake than the monstrosity’s, trying to convince himself of his own bravery through sheer volume.

‘With me, boys,’ he howled, ‘we need no heathen adventurers to save us!’

Lenk fell from the monster’s grip, suddenly seized by hands about his shoulders as soon as he hit the ground. He glanced up, noting the glint of green eyes and gold hair through his still-swimming vision. A smile tried futilely to worm itself onto his face.

‘Kataria,’ he groaned.

‘Shut up,’ she snarled back as she pulled him into the relative safety of the crowd.

His throat aching, he had little choice but to obey. He looked back towards the creature and saw the sailor standing before it, unflinching, unmoving, as he drove the pike through the wisp of flesh that served as the creature’s belly. There was the sound of flesh tearing, sinew splitting as the metal head came bursting through the creature’s back.

Gariath seized the momentary distraction, reaching up to grab the creature’s ankle. With a snarl, he threw the massive webbed foot up and leapt from his half-finished coffin. Splinters jutted from his flesh, weeping gouts pooling at his feet. If he was in agony, he did not show it.

The creature did not fall, but swayed. It did not shriek, but hummed contemplatively. It did not look at the man with scorn, but with nothingness, a strange sort of curiosity that was something between annoyance and sheer befuddlement.

‘A mistake.’ it uttered. ‘Your rage at your uncaring Gods drives you to strike at your saviour. Do you repent?’

The man staggered backwards, lips mouthing a wordless prayer.

‘Then let salvation be done,’ the creature said.

What composure it had lost was regained in an instant as it rose tall and erect to glance at the pike’s shaft jutting from its belly. With no sound but that of its own flesh being mangled, the creature wrapped a claw about the handle and tore it free, sending meaty black blobs plopping to the deck.

‘And thus is my part written. I am here to make wide your error, your false hope.’

There was a sucking sound, as of a foot being pulled from mud, and the creature’s gaping wound began to quiver. Slowly, the flesh groaned, reaching out with frayed edges to seal itself in a grotesque slurp of sinew.

‘What the. .’ The sailor was breathless, taking another step backwards. ‘What. . what in the name of Zamanthras are you?’

Like a black, rubbery tentacle, the creature’s arm shot out to seize the sailor about his head, claws sinking into his cranium as it held the sailor aloft. The man shrieked, kicking about madly, clawing at the creature’s webbed hand, writhing in its unquivering grip.

‘I am,’ it gurgled ominously, ‘mercy.’

The sailor’s screams died as the beast’s claws twitched. With agonising slowness, cloudy, viscous ooze dripped from trembling fingers. The crowd took up their fellow’s screams as the slime continued to pour from the creature’s hand, coating his head and face to his shoulders. Like a rabbit caught in a trap, the kicking of the sailor’s legs slowly died, his thrashing silencing.

In moments, a hunk of breathless meat dangled from the creature’s grip, like a condemned prisoner from the gallows, wearing a mask of viscous sludge. The echo of his corpse hitting the deck carried for an eternity.

‘A better place, a better dream, free of your uncaring Gods. This is Ulbecetonth’s gift to you.’ Its voice was a whisper, could almost have sounded tender if not for the boiling bile in its throat. ‘Sleep now. . and dream of blue.’

Even the murmur of the waves had fallen silent, the sea losing its frothy voice as it bore witness to the horrors occurring upon its surface. All present on the ship shared its sentiment, every man breathless, every woman speechless, not so much as a gull to break the choking quiescence. None present dared even a frightened sob, none heard a single sound.

None save Lenk. His eyes were locked on the man’s corpse, this sailor he had never met, whose name he had never known, whose death would never be explained to his widow’s satisfaction. His eyes were fixed, his ears were full.

‘Needless. Wasteful. Would still be alive if you had killed.’

‘He’s dead,’ Lenk uttered.

‘Because of you.’

‘Shut up, Lenk,’ Kataria urged, squeezing his shoulder. ‘It’s going to hear-’

Her voice died as two empty eyes rose up. It had heard.

‘Curious,’ the creature gurgled, as if suddenly aware of the presence of the crew and adventurers, ‘what strange vermin swim upon the seas.’

The answer it was offered was subtle, barely more than a whisper. In the wake of sound, however, it began to carry, it began to swell like the waves that had fallen impotent. For the first time in the horrific eternity that began when the creature had risen, eyes managed to blink as they tore themselves away to spy out the source of the new sound that filled their ears.

They parted before Miron like human waves, allowing the priest to stride between them with noiseless steps. The wind rose in his wake, causing his robes to whip about him, as if to silence his quickly growing voice. He spoke louder in response, his chant a series of prayers wrought from words too pure for any present to understand. He raised his hand to the monstrosity, his faith challenging nature and shadow with the gesture.