Tome of the Undergates - Sam Sykes

No. . still don’t believe it.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a bowstring drawn. He couldn’t say that the sight of her eyes, narrowed to venomous slits over a glistening arrowhead, was particularly unexpected.

‘No clansman is left behind,’ she snarled, ‘ever.’

Steady now, he told himself, holding his hands up for peace. She’s clearly lost what little mind she had.

‘Must we do this now?’ he half-whined.

Brilliant.

‘It should have been done long ago,’ she hissed, pulling the fletching to her cheek. ‘I’ve been lingering amongst your diseased race for too long. I wanted to believe the stories my father told me weren’t true.’ He caught the briefest sliver of a tear murmuring at the corner of her eye. ‘I wanted to believe that.’

Sweet Silf, she’s completely mad. Mad, he realised, and perceptive. His hands twitched, fingers eyeing the dagger at his belt. She responded, string drawing taut, teeth clenched.

‘But every time I try, every legend proves true, every story about your cowardice and sickness. .’ Her eyes went wide, like a crazed beast’s. ‘All of it was true.’

Grief-ridden, perhaps, he suspected. Gods know Lenk was a decent man, but this seems a bit extreme. He noted the trail of blood that had dried upon her temple. Maybe that last blow did it. . His attentions were drawn back to the arrow. Either way. .

‘If I can’t do anything for Lenk. .’ She growled, her fingers twitched anxiously. ‘I have to do something.’

‘He’s not a shict.’

Her fingers twitched, bowstring eased just a scant hair. Good enough, he thought as his hand slid a little closer to his belt.

‘W-what?’ Her expression seemed to suggest she hadn’t contemplated that fact in some time.

‘He’s human, you know,’ the rogue continued, pressing a thumb to his chest. ‘Like me, not you.’ He raised one hand in appeal, all the better to draw attention from the other. ‘You call him “clansman”, like that means anything to him … to us. But it only bears any weight on long, notched ears.’

There might still be a way out of this, he told himself, you don’t have to kill her. Yet, as his fingers brushed the weapon’s hilt, it seemed to add: But just in case. .

‘Lenk’s. . not like you,’ she muttered without much conviction.

‘Fair enough. What would he suggest you do, then?’ The rogue shrugged. ‘Sit here? Wait for whatever’s happening out there to find its way in here?’ He shook his head. ‘No, Lenk might not be like me. He’s reasonable. He’s cautious.’ He levelled an even stare at her. ‘He would run. . but he would want you with him.’

I can’t really afford to make that kind of choice right now, he added mentally. I’m sorry, Kat. The dagger slipped into his palm. This isn’t my fault.

He didn’t believe it then, either.

Something heavy slammed against the stone, water erupted behind him.

He whirled about, springing backwards at the sight of the great, white-eyed shadow barrelling out of the darkness. The Abysmyth clawed its way into the corridor, dripping water and black ichor from a number of festering emerald wounds that criss-crossed its body.

Denaos held the dagger high, ready to throw as the beast stretched out a claw. Yet, as vacant as the creature’s stare was, there was no mistaking its direction. The Abysmyth looked past Denaos, past Kataria, to the great, stone slab. Its mouth dropped open.

‘Prophet. .’ it gurgled, ‘why. . won’t you help-’

Its question ended in a violent sputter and a blossom of iron. Faster than Denaos could even gasp, a great wedge of metal burst out from between the thing’s jaws. It spasmed as green-tinged froth spilled out of its maw to splatter on the floor, twitched as something pulled on the metal and ripped the weapon free from the back of the demon’s skull. It toppled forwards and Denaos immediately forgot how close he had been to killing his companion.

The appearance of the newcomer demanded far more attention.

The woman, or what appeared to be a woman, swung her massive weapon over her shoulder, heedless of the black liquid dribbling down its length. With equally callous casualness, she stepped atop the creature, iron boots crunching upon spine and ribs.

Kataria met her gaze. It occurred to her that the stare, milky white, was not unlike the slain Abysmyth’s. Where the demon’s was vacant and unfeeling, however, this. . woman’s stare leaked hunger and scorn as though they were tears.

Her purple flesh was as lean and hard as her black armour. Even her face was long and thin like a spear. The fact that her metal was still slick with the Abysmyth’s essence did not encourage the shict to lower her weapon. She had cut down a demon with such cruel callousness and now regarded the rogue and shict with an angry ivory scowl. Any idiot could tell she was no ally.

And, as if on cue, Denaos rushed up to meet her.

‘Well done!’ He slid about the female, seeming to place her between himself and Kataria. ‘Quite a fine blow there.’

You can’t be serious, Kataria thought. Was the woman’s malice not apparent to him? Did she strike him as another lusty tramp eager for his seduction? She would have put an arrow through the woman in that breath, but white eyes held her in check, daring her and warning her at the same time.

‘Any lady that is a foe to any Abysmyth is a friend of ours,’ he said, smiling broadly to compensate for the cold scowl she shot him.

‘Abys. . myth?’ Her voice was a knife, raspy and cold. ‘Is that what they are called? Master Sheraptus refers to them as “underscum”.’

‘A fine term.’ Denaos’s laugh was a bit strained. ‘What does he call us humans?’

‘Overscum.’

‘Clever. And what do we call you?’

The woman regarded him cautiously for a moment, then turned her gaze back to Kataria. Her eyes narrowed, she forced the word into a sharpened blade aimed at the shict’s head.

‘Xhai.’ She swept that scornful gaze about the corridor. ‘Semnein Xhai.’ She waved a hand. ‘Unimportant. Where is the leader of this weak gathering? Where is the Deepshriek?’

‘We’re not entirely certain,’ Denaos replied. ‘Our friend slipped into that room there, see, and-’

‘Useless.’

His jaw became a gong of bone and blood, her gauntlet the hammer that sent it ringing through the hall. His whimper was somewhat less impressive as he crumpled to the floor in a whisper. She spared a derisive glob of saliva for his body before turning to the shict.

There was no time for Kataria to wonder whether her companion still drew breath. Her bow was up and levelled. All that stayed her arrow was the odious malice that oozed from every inch of the female’s skin.

‘Your males,’ the purple woman muttered, ‘have a great love of hearing themselves speak.’

‘Stay back, longface,’ Kataria hissed in reply.

‘Longface?’ The female arched a white brow. ‘We’ve been called that before.’

‘It’s slightly less of a mouthful than “white-haired, narrow-jawed, purple-skinned man-woman”.’

‘We are netherling, overscum,’ the woman snarled. ‘You would do well to shove the proper respect in your mouth when addressing the First of Arkklan Kaharn’s Carnassials.’

‘Whatever you like to be called, you’re not needed here.’

‘We go where we please.’ The netherling tapped her sword against her shoulder. ‘I have come for. .’ Her long face twisted in thought. ‘A book, is it called?’

‘The. . tome?’

‘Ah. That does sound more impressive.’

‘That isn’t yours to take.’

‘Ours is the right to take.’ Xhai levelled a metal finger at the shict. ‘Your fortune is to stay out of our way when we choose to allow you to. Now. . embrace your luck and get out of my way. I have much killing to do.’

‘So have I.’ Kataria drew back the arrow to her lips. ‘And I was here first. Get out.’

‘Or?’

Her bow sang a melancholy tune and, as Kataria witnessed wide-eyed the woman stagger back only half a step as the arrow sank into her ribcage, she couldn’t help but wonder if her weapon sang her own dirge. The Carnassial glanced down at the shaft quivering in her flesh and grinned broadly.

‘Weak.’

Stone groaned, metal shrieked, the netherling was rushing. Her long blade dragged behind her, spewing emerald-tinted sparks. Kataria fired again, hastily, clumsily, and the arrow lodged itself in the netherling’s biceps. Her grin broadened as she hefted the blade in both hands.

Stop, Kataria told herself. Breathe. The arrow slid into her fingers eagerly. Focus. She drew back the missile. Steady. She narrowed her eyes as the netherling raised the weapon above her head and shrieked.

Shoot.

The arrow howled, found its mark in a splitting squeal and bit deeply into a purple armpit. Iron clattered, the Carnassial shrieked and pressed a hand against the red blossoming under her arm.

Kataria smiled. All humans, purple or pink, never saw that one coming. The victory was as brief as the Xhai’s pause, and Kataria’s smile died and withered into a terrified gape.

She’s not stopping.

Another arrow flew, ricocheted off an armoured shoulder that collided with her chest. The shict felt something shift inside her violently. Her bow was torn from her grasp as she was torn from the floor, sent skidding across the salt and stone.

She could barely clamber to her knees, barely muster the energy to cough and send a thick liquid spattering onto the floor. Not good, she realised, not good, not good. Sounds were distant, sights varying shades of grey.

‘That’s it, is it?’

The netherling’s voice echoed against her skull. She looked up just in time to see a pair of milky orbs, a broad, jagged smile to match the shimmering sword held high above her head.

Move.

It was more of a lurch than a roll, but the sudden movement served well enough to place Kataria out of the way of the crashing blade. It devoured the stone in a shower of fragments, embedding itself hungrily in the floor. Xhai snarled, tugging violently at the weapon’s handle. She didn’t even bother to look up at the sound of boots crashing on the stone.

‘Surprise!’ Kataria roared.

She leapt, took the woman about the waist and sent them both tumbling to the ground. Xhai tossed her off as though she were an overenthused puppy, leaping atop her opponent.

But Kataria’s instincts were swift as her legs. Boots were up and planted into the Carnassial’s belly with a ferocity the shict was not even aware of. Even less aware of the roar tearing itself from her lips, she drove her feet against her foe’s stomach again. The netherling was hoisted up and over her to sprawl upon the floor in a crash of iron.