Sam Sykes - Tome of the Undergates
‘I can’t really be blamed for being nostalgic,’ Lenk replied, looking back down over Steadbrook. ‘There are times when I wish it still stood.’
‘That would imply there are times when you prefer things as they are.’
‘For certain reasons.’
‘Such as?’
‘None that you would approve of.’
‘Doubtless.’
‘If things hadn’t happened as they had,’ Lenk muttered, resting his chin in his hand, ‘I wouldn’t have met any of my companions.’
The man beside him drew in a deep breath. No sigh came, nor any indication that the man would ever exhale. Lenk raised a brow at him.
‘What?’
‘You believe all the good that came of what happened to this village was that you met a few other people?’
‘Well. . one of them, at least.’
‘Ah, yes. Her.’
Lenk frowned. ‘You don’t like her.’
‘We don’t need her,’ the man replied. ‘But I digress. You owe much to this village, you know.’
‘Obviously, I was born here, raised here.’
‘Apologies, that was not my intended meaning. It would have been more proper to say that we owe much to this village’s destruction.’
‘You’re treading on dangerous ground,’ Lenk growled, scowling at the man.
‘Am I?’
The man’s sword rose with him, so effortless and easy in his grasp. He turned to face Lenk and the young man blanched. The man’s face was cold and stony, a mountain-side carved by eternal sleet. His eyes were a bright and glowing blue, glistening with a malevolence unmarred by pupils.
‘Look at me,’ the man demanded.
‘I am.’
‘You’re not. You look through me. You look around me. You don’t hear me when I try to speak to you and you refuse to do what must be done.’
Lenk rose to his feet. Despite standing the same height as his counterpart, he couldn’t help but feel as though he was being looked down upon.
‘You don’t say anything I don’t already know,’ he retorted.
‘You know nothing.’
‘I know how to kill.’
‘And I have taught you.’
‘I taught myself.’
‘You’re not listening to me.’
‘I am.’
‘Are you aware of what we are?’ the man asked. ‘Are you aware of what we do? What we have done? What we were created to do?’ The man’s eyes narrowed to angry sapphires. ‘Do you see our opponents tremble? Do you hear them scream and beg? Do you remember what we did to the demon?’
‘Only vaguely,’ Lenk replied.
‘Understandable,’ the man said, ‘it was mostly my doing.’
‘I drove the blade into the Abysmyth,’ Lenk replied. ‘I killed it. That’s not supposed to be possible.’
‘Then why will you not say such to your companions? Why will you not answer her?’
‘I don’t want her to worry.’
‘You don’t want to look at her, either. You don’t want to listen to her. If you did, you would know she means to kill us.’
Lenk did not start at the accusation, not raising so much as an eyebrow at the man. Instead, he drew in a sharp breath and looked back over the ridge. Steadbrook continued under the sun, unmoved and unmotivated by the presence of demons or the whisper of swords. He, too, was once so unmoved.
‘Maybe,’ he whispered, ‘that’s not such a bad thing.’
‘What?’
‘Demons can’t be killed by mortal hands.’
‘We are more than mortal.’
‘Exactly my point,’ Lenk replied, looking up sharply. ‘That’s not supposed to happen. She can never know.’
‘Why should she not?’
‘Why should she?’
‘They all should know,’ the man said coldly. ‘They already know we are superior to them.’
‘No, we’re not. I’m just a man.’
‘You? You are weak. We are far more than a man. Why did they follow us? Why do they continue to follow us? Why do we suppress their greed, their hate, their violence and make them do as we say? Even the lowliest of beasts recognise their master.’
‘I don’t want to be anyone’s master,’ Lenk snarled suddenly. He stabbed a finger at the man, accusing. ‘I. . I want you to go.’
‘Go?’
‘I want you to get out of my head. I want to stop hearing voices. I want to stop feeling cold all the time. I. . I. .’ He clutched at his head, wincing. ‘I want to be me, not us.’
The man’s face did not move at the outpour of emotion, did not flinch in sympathy nor blink in scorn. He merely stared, observed his counterpart through cold, blue eyes, his hair unmoved by wind and heedless of sun, just as Steadbrook was heedless of them upon the ridge.
‘Look.’
Lenk blinked and felt cold.
The sun sputtered out like a dying torch, consumed behind a black veil of darkness. The golden fields below were bronzed by the fires engulfing Steadbrook, moving in waves of bristling, crackling sheen. The livestock lowed, their cries desperate to be heard over the roar of fire, their owners and tenders motionless in the red-stained dirt. Shadows moved amongst them and where their black hands caressed, people fell.
Lenk felt his heart go cold, despite the fires licking the ridge. He had seen this happen before, had watched them die before, his mother, his father, his grandfather. He could not recall their names, but he could remember their faces as they fell, nearly peaceful, herded to the darkness upon the whispers of shadows.
‘This. .’ he gasped, ‘this is-’
‘How we were created,’ the man finished for him. ‘What we were created to stop.’
He caught sight of figures in the distance, out of place against the common folk lying in the streets. These figures fought, resisted the shadows. One by one, they looked up, and he saw the faces of his companions turn pleading gazes to him.
‘Look,’ the man commanded, and it was so. ‘They are lesser than us.’
Gariath howled, swinging his arms wildly before the shadows fell upon him, consumed in swathes of blackness. Lenk winced, eyes unable to shut themselves against the stinging smoke.
‘I don’t want to. .’ he whimpered.
‘You do not have a choice,’ the man uttered. ‘We have our duty.’
Asper shrieked, fervently babbling indecipherable prayers as the shadows dragged her into the gloom. Lenk felt tears brimming upon his lids.
‘Please-’
‘And our duty,’ the man continued, unheeding, ‘is to cleanse. As we cleansed the Deepshriek, as we cleansed the Abysmyth, so we shall continue. We shall do as we must, for no one else can.’
Dreadaeleon collapsed, the fire in his eyes sputtering out to be replaced by blackness.
‘No, it can’t-’
‘It will. You cannot recall what suffering was necessary to create us. If more suffering is needed to remind you of our duty. .’
Denaos twitched, convulsed, tore apart as the shadowy tendrils raked and whispered at his body.
‘I want-’
‘Your wants are meaningless. Our duty is all. They are hindrances. ’
Kataria’s body was pale against the gloom as they lifted her up to the black sky, as if in offering. The fingers shivered and trembled against her skin, flowing over her stomach, wrapping about her neck, snaking over her legs as she was cocooned in the gloom. Her head rolled, limp, to expose her eyes, bright and green, locked on to his. She stared at him as she vanished into the darkness.
And smiled.
‘NO!’ Lenk roared, collapsing to his knees. ‘No, no, no. .’
When he opened his eyes again, he was in a vast field of darkness, no flames, no death. All that remained were him, and the two great blue eyes focused upon him, pitiless and cold.
‘The gift shall not be wasted,’ the voice whispered. ‘The duty is all encompassing. Do what must be done.’
Lenk opened his mouth to scream, his voice silenced as the darkness flooded past his lips and filled him completely.
He awoke not with a start, but with a snap of eyes. Not with fear, but with a cold certainty. Not with thunder in his heart, but a single drop of sweat that slid down his brow and murmured as it dripped past his ear.
Do what must be done, it uttered, voice mingling with the murmur of the surf, if more suffering is needed. .
And his hand was slow and steady, balling up into a determined fist as he understood what the voice told him.
But he did not rise, suddenly aware of the weight upon his chest. He didn’t even see her until she peered down at him through a pair of hard, green eyes, glittering in the darkness. Her knees were on his chest, hands on his shoulders, the knife dark and grey against the moonlight.
‘Hey,’ Kataria muttered.
‘Hey,’ Lenk replied, blinking at her. ‘What are you doing?’
‘What I have to.’
She means to kill us, he heard within his own mind, but paid the warning no heed. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing. He eyed the blade in her hand, its edge a line of silver in the darkness. No, he told himself, no, you can’t ask her to do that.
‘Can it wait?’ he asked.
The shict’s face twisted violently, her eyes softening as her mouth fell open, as if she hadn’t expected that one answer of all of them. ‘Wha-what?’
‘I need to do something,’ he said, placing a hand on her naked midriff. Her body shuddered under his touch, like a nervous beast. ‘Get off, please.’
She complied, falling off him as though she was pushed. On shaking legs, his arms barely strong enough to draw him, he got to his feet. He suddenly felt very weak, his body pleading with him to lie back down, to return to sleep and think upon this in the light of day. He could not afford to listen to it, could not afford to listen to his instincts or his mind.
They, too, were tainted, speaking with a voice not their own.
No, he told himself while he could still hear his own voice inside him, before it was drowned out completely, this is what it has to be. He staggered forwards, nearly pitching to the earth. He maintained his footing, his shaking hand rising and reaching for the sword lying upon the sand. This is how it has to end. There’s no other way to get rid of it. .
