Tome of the Undergates - Sam Sykes

The proclamations his sons had made to him.

They were so boastful, he thought, smiling at the pup, they talked so much. . they never stopped talking until. .

‘Grahta,’ he interrupted softly, ‘why aren’t you with your family?’

‘I. . I’m not sure,’ Grahta replied, scratching his head. ‘I think. . I think Grandfather asked me to wait. He asked me to stay awake.’

‘For what?’

‘For you,’ Grahta said, looking up at the older Rhega intently.

‘I’m here now.’

‘And you’re not going anywhere, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Okay, good.’ The pup scratched his head. ‘Grandfather … Grandfather said. . uh, he wanted me to tell you something. ’

‘What?’

‘He told me to tell you. . not to follow me.’

Gariath felt his heart stop, his eyes go wide. ‘Whwhat? ’

‘He said you can’t come where he went, where I’m supposed to go, not yet.’

Something welled inside Gariath’s throat, lodging itself there. ‘But. . why not?’

‘I don’t know,’ Grahta replied, shrugging. ‘But why would you want to go? I’m right here. We can play!’

No, Gariath told himself, we can’t play. You have to go, Grahta. You can go, now. You can fall asleep. I’ve heard the message. You can go.

Gariath looked at the pup, eyes wide, teeth so small in his smile. Tangahr smiled like that. Grahta’s eyes were so bright.

No. . NO! he roared inside his own head. Tell him. Tell him he can go! Tell him he can sleep! He’s been awake for so long!

Grahta fell to all fours, tail upright as he barked a challenge at the older Rhega. Tangahr always barked like that. Grahta didn’t like to fight. . Tangahr teased him. What. . what Rhega doesn’t like to fight?

Tell him. . TELL HIM! YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO HIM!

‘Grahta,’ Gariath whispered, ‘how long have you been awake?’

‘A. . a long time, I guess,’ the pup replied, sitting back down. He yawned, a shrill, whining sound accompanied by exposed rows of stubby white teeth. ‘I’m very tired now, since you said it.’

Good, Gariath told himself, inhaling sharply, he can rest. He deserves to rest. He deserves to. .

Gariath watched the pup walk in a circle, then curl up, folding his tail towards his snout. His eyes went wide.

Tangahr. . Grahta. . used to sleep like that.

‘Grahta,’ he whispered. Upon hearing no reply, he said loudly. ‘Grahta!’

‘What?’ the pup asked, opening one bright eye.

‘Don’t fall asleep yet!’

‘But I’m so. .’ the pup paused to yawn, ‘so tired. I’ve been up for so long.’

‘I know, but stay up a little longer.’ There was no reply from the younger Rhega. ‘Please.’

‘I’ll be back, Gariath. I just want to sleep a little.’

‘No, Grahta, don’t fall asleep. Please don’t fall asleep.’ Gariath was up on his knees now, standing over the pup. ‘Don’t leave me alone, Grahta. I. . I’ve been alone for a long time now. Please, Grahta. . please.’

‘Maybe you should. . should go and see Grandfather,’ Grahta suggested, yawning. ‘He said you should go and see him.’

‘Where? Where did he say he would be, Grahta?’

‘Somewhere. . north? I don’t know what that means.’

‘Then how am I supposed to find him?’

‘You’re. . you’re Wisest, aren’t you?’

‘I’m not very smart, Grahta. I need you to stay up and give me directions. Please, Grahta, stay up a little longer. Stay awake, Grahta.’

‘I. . I’m sorry,’ the pup said, almost snoring. ‘I just. . I’m so tired.’

‘Not yet, Grahta. Talk to me for a little longer. Tell me … tell me about your mother.’

‘Oh, my mother. .’ The pup smiled wistfully, even as his red eyelids drooped. ‘My mother. . her name was Toaghari. . it means. .’ He opened his mouth wide in a yawn. ‘It means. . Greatest. I. . I hope she comes back. .’ He settled down upon the earth, pressing his face against his tail. ‘Soon.’

The sound of the pup snoring carried over the sound of the brook whispering, but it faded with every passing breath. More sounds returned to the world: air from the trees, breezes blowing over the sand, moisture rising from the earth. Grahta’s sound of slumber was a distant part in the world’s great chorus.

As was the sound of Gariath’s own voice.

‘Don’t blink,’ he told himself, gripping the earth in two trembling hands. ‘Don’t blink. He’ll go if you blink.’

He tried to hold the image of the little red bundle, his side rising and falling with each breath, in eyes that were quickly streaming over with tears.

‘Don’t blink.’

He tried to hold the image of wings too small to flex, a tail too small to do anything but wag, eyes that were bright as his once had been.

‘Don’t blink.’

He tried to hold the image of two similar bundles, rolling over each other at his feet, barking and nipping, wagging and whining, their voices fresh in his frills as they boasted, proclaimed, roared, growled, snarled and snored.

‘Don’t-’

When he opened his eyes again, Grahta was gone. The earth was not depressed where he had been, the sunlight continued to pour despite his absence. The sound of his sleeping was lost on the wind.

‘No,’ he whimpered, pawing at the ground. ‘No, no, no, no, NO!’ His roar killed the sounds in the air as he threw back his head. ‘Hit something,’ he told himself, sweeping his gaze about the glade. ‘Hit! Kill! Make it bleed! Make it die! Kill something! KILL!’

The only thing that shared the glade, that could possibly satiate the urge, was the impassive elder stone looming over him. Snarling, he levelled an accusatory finger.

‘YOU!’

He struck the stone, felt his hand crack, and fell to the earth with a cry. There was nothing to hit. Nothing to kill. No anger, no hatred. He was left alone with hope. Quietly, he laid his head against the rock, his body trembling as tears slid down his snout to trickle across the rim of his nostrils and fall to the unmoved earth.

Grahta was gone. The Rhega were gone. Gariath was alone.

With the scent of nothing but salt and wind as the world continued around him.

Thirty-Five

There was very little in the supply crate to suggest that Argaol ever really expected them to return alive, Denaos thought as he rummaged blindly through the various sundries and goods within. The moon was not much help in illuminating his search.

‘Blankets. . fishing line. . but no hooks,’ the rogue muttered, rolling his eyes. ‘Rope. . who needs rope on an island? Waterskins, empty. . bacon. . dried meat. . salted meat. . dried salted meat.’

His hands clenched something long and firm. Eyes widening, he pulled something stout and rounded free. Scrutinising it in the darkness, he frowned.

‘A. . lute.’ He blinked at the stringed instrument. ‘What … did he just throw whatever he could spare into this thing?’ Quietly, he noted the inscription on the wooden neck. ‘Not a bad year, though.’

‘Could you possibly hurry it up?’ someone called from behind. ‘I’m sort of. . you know, trying to keep someone’s leg from becoming gangrenous and falling off.’

‘If the Gods had mercy, such a fate should befall my ears,’ the rogue muttered.

Sighing, he sifted through everything else the captain had deemed worthy for chasing demons. His persistence, however, eventually rewarded him with the knowledge that the old Silfish prayer had yet to be proven false.

‘Gods are fickle, men are cruel,’ he recited as he wrapped his hand around something smooth and cold. He pulled the bottle from the crate and watched his own triumphant smile reflected back to him in its sloshing amber liquor. ‘Trust only in yourself and what lies in your cup.’

That smile persisted as he walked back to the fire, back to his doubtlessly grateful companions. Who else would have had the foresight to smuggle out a bit of liquid love, after all? Granted, he reasoned, it’s stolen love. But what is love if it doesn’t leave someone else unhappy?

He couldn’t honestly say the thought of Argaol’s furious face, screwed up so tight his jaws would fold inwards and begin to devour his own bowels, caused him any great despair. After all, the man gave us a lute.

Besides, he reasoned, whatever price Argaol demanded could be paid out of his earnings. One thousand gold, he told himself, divided amongst six. . one hundred sixty five pieces, roughly. My share, plus Asper’s, equates to three hundred and thirty. This bottle, he paused to survey the golden-stained glass, can’t be more than thirty. Expensive, but still enough to buy many more and a new bowel for Argaol.

The good captain’s sacrifice would not be in vain. Silf demanded sacrifice for His role in their victory, the recovery of the book. Fortunately, the Patron was, if His own scriptures were to be believed, satisfied with whatever revelry that might occur being done in His name.

And what was not to revel about? The book was in their possession, patiently waiting to be exchanged for hard, shiny coin. The demons were fled for a glorious three nights, the longfaces gone, as well. And, as an added answer to an oft-muttered prayer, both Gariath and Dreadaeleon had been strangely absent for the past day and night, leaving Denaos alone with two lovely women who would no doubt be at least tolerable when the bottle was drained.

And Lenk, too, he thought disdainfully, but let’s not dwell on the negative. Tonight is a night of revelry! Silf demands it! He demands empty bottles, drunken dreams and remorseful lamentations in the morning! He demands satisfied women, wrinkled skirts and trousers that can’t be found in the morning! He demands riot, revel and, at the absolute minimum, three violations of scripture by two women with a strong desire to explore their own mystique.

What greeted him when he arrived, however, was not revelry or riot. There was hardly a smile shared around the fire, much less two women committing blasphemies on the sand. Their faces were sombre, their eyes hard and their mouths stretched into frowns so tight they might as well have come off a torturer’s rack.

‘Frankly,’ he said aloud, placing hands on hips, ‘I’m wondering if I might not find a livelier bunch in Irontide.’

‘Amongst the maggots and corpseflies, perhaps,’ Asper muttered, looking up from Lenk’s leg. She eyed the bottle with scrutiny. ‘What’s that?’