Tome of the Undergates - Sam Sykes

He recalled Greenhair’s song, her power to send men, even dragonmen, into slumber. The thought of snoring blissfully at some sea-witch’s tune while an Abysmyth quietly munched his head down to the neck held no great appeal.

Even if they did survive long enough to lay a finger upon the tome, what then? How would they escape? Even if they survived and were paid in full, how long would it be before he was placed in another situation where head-eating was a very likely outcome?

The sensible thing, he told himself, would be to turn back now, find a merchantman and hitch a ride back to decent folk.

‘Sensible,’ he reaffirmed to himself, ‘indeed.’

He knew that the tome lay with something that he did not seek to find. But he knew much more certainly that the things he didn’t want to find were in the shadows that turned sensible men to cowards.

And, he reminded himself as he sighed and began to wade after them, he was a sensible man.

‘I do not remember ever being loved by Gods.’

The frogman finished its sentence with a slam of its staff, driving it against the stones, letting the various bones attached to its head rattle against its ivory shaft. Dozens of pale faces looked up at the creature reverently, black eyes reflecting the torches that burnt with a pure emerald fire.

Dozens of faces, the frogman thought, free of scars, free of birthmarks, free of overbites, underbites, deformities, hair colours. Dozens of faces, all the same beaming paleness, all the same mouths twisted shut in reverence, all the same black eyes looking up at it, silently begging for the sermon to continue.

And the frogman indulged them.

‘I do not remember a day without suffering,’ it said, letting its voice echo off the vast chamber walls. ‘And I do not remember a day when my suffering served any purpose but for the amusement of what I once thought of as beings perfect and pure.’

The faces tensed in reply. The frogman snarled, baring teeth.

‘And I do not want to remember.’

At this, they bobbed their heads in unison, muttering quietly through their own jagged teeth.

‘What I remember,’ it hissed, ‘is praying daily at the shores for a false mother to deliver food. What I remember is starvation. What I remember is those that I once called my family being swallowed up and the waves mocking me. I remember.’ It levelled its staff at the congregation. ‘And so do you.’

‘Memory is our curse,’ they replied in unison, bowing their heads. ‘May Mother Deep forever free us.’

‘I thought the sea to be harsh and cruel, then,’ it continued, ‘but that is when I heard Her song.’ It tilted its head back, closing its eyes in memory. ‘I remember Her calling to me, singing to me. I remember Her assuring me that my life was precious, valuable, but my body was weak. I remember Her leading me here, granting me Her gifts, to breathe the water, to dance beneath the waves,’ its face stiffened, ‘to forget. .

‘I do not remember Gods talking to me.’ It craned to face the congregation once more. ‘I do remember them asking me for my wealth and to deny others their wealth.’ Its smile was broad and full of teeth. ‘And so did Mother Deep bid me to shatter their pretences by asking these ones to come, penniless and alone, fearful and betrayed, full of aching memory. She bade these ones to return and forget the lies they had been told. She gave these ones gifts and asked for but one thing in return.’

The faces brightened in response, reflecting the frogman’s smile.

‘She asks,’ they chanted, ‘only that these ones aid the Shepherds as the Shepherds aid these ones.’

They spoke, and their voices reverberated through the water that had claimed the stones and the few stones the water had spared drowning. They spoke, and their voices caused the green flames to leap to life at their words as they burned in their sconces. They spoke, and a dozen as yet unheard voices, sealed behind sacs of flesh and skins of mucus, pulsated in response.

It would have thought them disgusting, it reflected, and chastised itself for the blasphemy. Something that it once was would have thought them disgusting, these glorious creations of Mother Deep that clung to the walls and pillars. Now, the frogman, the creature that it had become, knew them to be Her blessings made manifest.

They pulsated, beat like miniature hearts, bulbous and glistening, misshapen and glowing. Inside these great and vile creations of flesh and fluid, something stirred. Trapped within these skins, something sought to glow with the light of life. Beyond the glistening moisture that clung to them, something reflected only blackness.

‘Disgusting,’ Lenk muttered, sneering at the pulsating sacs. ‘What are they?’

Neither rogue nor shict had a response for him beyond a reflection of his own repulsion. The vast and sprawling chamber, as though it had not yet been desecrated enough by the black water that drowned it and the green and red graffiti that caked its walls, was absolutely infected with the things. They clung to every corner, bobbed in the water, hung from every pillar. The largest of them was suspended directly above the circle of frogmen, twitching with a thunderous pulse, threatening to drop at any moment.

‘I’m rather more concerned with what they’re doing,’ Denaos muttered with a grimace as the frogmen began to rhythmically sway. ‘Any ceremony accompanied by ritualistic chanting tends to end with eviscerations, in my experience.’

‘I am slightly tempted to enquire, but all the same.’ Lenk nudged Kataria’s shoulder. ‘Any sign of Abysmyths?’

‘Not that I can see.’ Her eyes were narrowed, sweeping the chamber. ‘Take that as you will, though. They’re large, black things in a large, black room.’

‘Well, we can hardly wait here for them to come and eat us,’ the young man murmured. ‘We’ll have to move soon.’

‘To where, exactly?’

Lenk glanced about the hall. Options, it seemed, were limited. The chamber had undoubtedly once been grand, though its vast ceiling had begun to sink, its marching pillars had crumbled and its floor was completely lost to the water, save for the sprawling stone island that the frogmen congregated upon.

He didn’t even bother to note the torches crackling an unnatural green and the hanging sacs; there would be time enough to soil himself over those details later.

Though nearly unnoticeable through the gloom, he spied a crumbling archway at the chamber’s furthest corner. Half-drowned, half-cloaked in shadow, what lay beyond it was veiled in forbidding void.

‘There,’ he pointed, ‘that’s the way.’

‘How do you figure?’ Kataria grunted.

‘Because we seem to have a habit of going into places that would result in our deaths and I’d hate to ruin our rhythm.’

‘Sound reasoning as any. However,’ Denaos gestured to the prostrate frogmen, ‘how do you intend to get past them?’

‘Luck? Prayer?’ The young man shrugged.

‘Neither of which ever seem to work for me,’ the rogue countered. ‘Hence, before we decide to rush off all at once and possibly die together, let’s do a bit of scouting.’ He gestured to Kataria. ‘Send the shict out first.’

The suggestion struck Lenk like an open-handed slap and he felt himself tense at it, fixing a scowl upon the rogue. In the back of his mind, he knew such an anger shouldn’t have been stirred within him; after all, his companions had nothing in common save complete disregard for each other’s well-being.

All the same, he couldn’t help but tighten his grip on his sword irately.

‘Yeah, that works.’

If Denaos had slapped him, Kataria’s response all but knocked him into the water. He whirled on her suddenly with eyes wide.

‘What?’ he sputtered. ‘Wait, why?’

‘It makes sense, doesn’t it? I’m the best stalker. I should go ahead and see if this even has a chance of working.’

She unstrung her bow and pulled a small leather pouch from her belt. Quietly coiling the string, she secured it tightly within the pouch before popping it into her mouth and swallowing it. Her unpleasant smile at the men’s revulsion was accompanied by a wink.

‘Wet bows don’t shoot.’

‘That’s not what I’m worried about. You might get killed.’

She blinked at him.

‘And?’ Not waiting for an answer, she turned, crouching low into the water. ‘Assuming you can see me when I reach the door, follow.’

‘But. . Fine.’

Lenk found the words coming out of his mouth with more exasperation than they should have. He watched her slide into the water, her black-painted flesh melding seamlessly into the gloom. Only the tips of her ears, protruding from the surface like the dorsal fins of two fish, gave any indication of her presence.

It was only after she was almost totally out of sight that he whispered to her fading form.

‘Be careful.’

‘She’ll be fine,’ Denaos muttered.

‘Of course, no great loss if she dies.’ Lenk cast a cold, narrow scowl over his shoulder. ‘Right?’

‘Given the circumstances, I would think the opposite. I’d rather have a working bow than a corpse.’

‘Don’t act coy.’

‘It’s no act, I assure you.’

‘Well, in case you hadn’t noticed,’ Lenk spat, ‘I still hold a grudge over what you said on the beach.’

‘You’ll have to be more specific.’

‘I mean-’ The young man paused, scowling at his taller companion. ‘You really are scum, you know that?’

‘It has been suggested before.’ The rogue shrugged. ‘And yes, of course I know what you’re talking about.’

‘And?’

‘And,’ Denaos bit his lip contemplatively, ‘I’m a tad hard pressed to care.’

Lenk had no retort for that, merely staring at the tall man with a blend of incredulousness and anger that vaguely resembled an uncomfortable bowel movement. Before he could even begin to think of something to say, however, Denaos held up a hand.

‘And before you decide to see just how far up you can shove that sword, let me explain something to you.’ He sighed a sort of sigh that a father reserves for uncomfortable discussions with a son aspiring to be a seamstress. ‘Listen, you’re still young, rather naive to the ways of the world, but I consider you enough of a friend to tell you that you’re wasting your time.’

The rogue’s words were lost on Lenk, so many unheard echoes in the void of his ears, fading quickly with every breath. And with every breath, another voice spoke more loudly in his head.

‘He is weak.’

‘You’re a human,’ Denaos continued, ‘she’s a shict. Don’t get me wrong, I’m delighted you found a pointy-eared shrew to lavish undue affection upon, if only for the sake of loosening you up, but don’t think for a breath that the feeling is shared.’

‘She is weak, as well.’

‘Whatever you may think of her, of everyone in the little social circle we’ve created, it’s all completely pointless.’

‘They will both die here.’