Sam Sykes - Tome of the Undergates
‘Hey,’ he heard a voice call from behind him.
Do what must be done.
‘Hey!’
This is how it must be.
‘HEY!’
‘WHAT?’ he roared, turning upon her. She stood before him, ears bristling, teeth bared. ‘What do you want?’
‘I could have killed you there!’ she snapped, pointing to the knife. ‘I. . I could have-’
‘You didn’t,’ he said simply. ‘You had every chance in the world, but you didn’t.’
So I have to, he finished mentally, turning back to the sword.
‘No,’ she whispered, eyeing the weapon. ‘You can’t do that.’ I have to, she finished mentally, reaching out.
This is how it has to be, he told himself.
How else could it end? she asked herself.
One blow. He reached out for the weapon.
Clean and quick. She reached out for him.
Her hand fell upon his shoulder.
This is what has to be done.
They both froze, each one suddenly aware of the other as they connected, hearing each other’s breath upon the night wind, feeling each other’s heart beat through each other’s skin. They felt so weak, all of a sudden, his legs barely able to keep him up as he turned to regard her, her arm barely able to hold up the knife above her head.
Her eyes glittered in the darkness, so soft suddenly, quivering like emeralds melting. His shimmered in the gloom, so warm, ice under sunlight. Her arm shook, the knife trembling in her hand as he stared at her, not with challenge, not with threat, but with a pleading he wasn’t even aware of. Her teeth clenched behind her lips, body shaking.
The blade fell to the earth, crunching into the sand, as his body fell into hers. She caught him in her arms, wrapped them about his waist and drew him in closer, tighter. Against each other, they found a strength too weak to keep them up, enough to keep their arms about each other, but not enough to keep them from falling to their knees, the earth’s pull suddenly so strong.
‘I could have killed you,’ she whispered, running a hand down his hair.
‘Yeah,’ he said, feeling her heartbeat through his hands. ‘You could have.’
‘I didn’t,’ she said.
‘Thanks,’ he whispered.
The surf yawned against their legs, as if disappointed that it ended in such a way. The moon waned with a staggering breath of relief and the stars allowed themselves to blink. They rested there, upon their knees, barely aware of the world moving again beneath them.
Thirty-Six
The Aeons’ Gate
The Island of Ktamgi
Summer, late. . date unknown. . who cares?
No one picks up a sword because they want to.
It’s a matter of need. People are called to wrap their hands about the hilt, even if they can’t hear what calls them. The noblest of us do it out of what they call duty, the desire to serve their country, their lord if they have one, or their God. The pragmatic amongst us do it out of a need for work, for coin, for respect.
And the lowest, meanest of trades picks up a sword because that’s all we know how to do. Violence is all we know, all we will ever know, everything else having long been burned away and fled to the shadows. The irony of it is that the mercenary, the soldier, the knight must all carve their own way through life, but there’s always enough violence and hatred in the world that it will make room for the adventurer.
I remember now, if only in fleeting glimpses, when the rest of it was burned away for me.
Not shadows, but men, who swept into Steadbrook with candles, not torches, and set the dry hay ablaze. They killed while the flames still whispered, vanished when the fire started to roar. That was enough time for them. Mother, Father, Grandfather … all dead … me, still alive. I don’t know why.
Maybe that’s how adventurers are made, maybe an act of suffering and violence is necessary as the forge that shapes the metal or the knife that shapes the wood. To that end, I don’t suppose anyone can blame us for doing what we do, even if they don’t like it. I don’t suppose I can blame anyone for thinking what they think of us, even if I don’t like it.
At the moment, I have larger problems than other people’s opinions.
The tome is ours, but so many questions are unanswered. Will we even be able to get to Teji? If we do, will Argaol have kept up his end of the deal? Does Miron have that sort of sway over him? Does Miron even care?
And what of the demons? Do so many of them just let their precious book escape without a fight? If not their book, will one of them come back for their head? I’m not stupid. I know they haven’t just rolled their shoulders, given up and gone back to hell for tea and toast. But will they at least stay in the shadows until we can reach dry land?
On a deeper level, should I even give this tome to Miron? Does any one man have the right to carry such a thing?
I don’t have the answers. Really, I don’t care. Someone else can worry about them on their time. My time is worth exactly one thousand pieces of gold. Past that, I don’t really mind what the demons, longfaces or beasts of the world do. The world will continue without the actions of adventurers, long after the profession has died out.
My companions are solemn as we set out for Teji, untalkative, not even mustering the will to fight with each other, for once. At the moment, our humble little vessel resembles something of a flower with half its petals missing. Each of us stares over the edge into the water, watching ourselves, not even aware of the people next to us.
I should be pleased, I know. After so long spent in prayer, the Gods have answered me and finally taken their tongues. But now. . I want them to talk. I want to hear a distraction, another noise, if only to divert me from the other ones.
The voice. . is not gone. I know because it murmurs to me, still, in the time between my breaths. But it is quieted, put down slightly. I don’t know why and, again, I don’t care, so long as it’s quiet again.
Another few days until we reach Teji. A haven, supposedly, friendly to us, our kind. Is that true? I’m not too sure, really. Argaol doesn’t really seem the type to make himself useful to us, in any way possible. But I can deal with that when I come to it.
Kataria just looked up at me. She seems to be doing that a lot tonight. I try to smile at her. . no, I want to smile at her, but she doesn’t make it easy. But it’s not because of all those questions, oh no. The demons, longfaces, Argaols, Mirons, Deepshrieks, Xhais and tomes of the world can all go burn.
I’ve got bigger problems.
Epilogue
The silhouettes moved viciously against the cavern wall. There was no grace in them, nor gentleness as they twisted against each other. Between the snarls and cries emerging from the back of the cavern, the shadows found individual shapes. A man, tall and lean with long flowing hair. A woman, her curves indistinct as they quivered against the man’s movement.
Greenhair could not see the smile on the man’s face, nor the tears on the woman’s cheeks. But she heard his teeth grinding, her liquid pooling upon the floor in quiet splashes. It was the only noise she allowed herself.
And the siren cringed, the only one to hear them.
‘Cahulus is dead,’ one of them said at the fore of the cavern. ‘Over twelve of the warriors were lost in the battle. That’s nearly half of the force we sent.’
‘Nearly is not all. Nearly is not even half,’ a second, snider voice retorted. ‘We still emerged victorious, with the underscum cleared out.’ A thin body settled into a large chair. ‘Besides, Cahulus was an idiot.’
There was a terse silence before the other voice spoke. ‘He was your brother.’
Greenhair looked to the pair of longfaces seated before her. Clad in flowing robes of violet and red, respectively, they narrowed white eyes at each other from their black wooden thrones. A great, ebon mass separated them, obscured by shadows cast from torchlight.
This was once a sacred place, Greenhair remembered, a place of devotion to the Sea Mother. The holy writ upon the walls had been seared away by fire. The relics and offerings lay shattered upon the floor. The worshippers. .
A scream burst from the cavern’s mouth, cut short by the crack of a whip and a snarling command. She was the only one to hear it echo on the stone.
‘Our brother,’ the longface on the right continued, heedless. This one was short and thin, his head swivelling back and forth with a rehearsed sense of ease, like a wispy plant. He smoothed the crimson robes over his purple body as he spoke. ‘And that does not change the fact that he was weak. The youngest is always the least talented.’
‘Talent or no, he shouldn’t have been able to die at all.’ The longface on the left, harder and broader than his brother, stroked a white goatee. ‘Our tools should have ensured that this did not happen. What good are the red stones if they fail?’
‘Netherlings can still die, if not stones, Yldus,’ the other pointed out. ‘Cahulus was cursed with weakness and stupidity. He was overconfident.’ He waved a hand and sighed. ‘But was it not the duty of Semnein Xhai to protect him?’
‘True enough, Vashnear.’ The one called Yldus looked up and over Greenhair’s head. ‘And, I ask again, Semnein Xhai, what is your explanation?’
Greenhair looked over her shoulder and saw that no explanation was forthcoming. The female longface did not so much as adjust her gaze to even acknowledge the two males. She stared instead at the shadows, grinding and jerking upon the wall. Her ears were pricked up, sensing every sound that emerged from the lit space behind the thrones.
And with every sound of ecstasy or agony, her white gaze grew more hateful.
‘She will not answer you.’ Vashnear sighed. ‘And why should we ask? It is clear by her wounds that she was as unprepared as Cahulus.’
The reference to the bandages wrapped about the female’s ribcage, hip and neck got her attention. Xhai’s stare jerked to the longface, her lip curling upwards in a snarl.
‘Cahulus was weak,’ she growled, ‘and he died sobbing. If it hadn’t happened this time, it would have happened in the next raid. Nothing I could have done would have cured his weakness.’ She folded her arms over her chest, drummed three fingers upon her biceps. ‘Be thankful he didn’t piss himself before he died.’
