Tome of the Undergates

In the span of a breath, colour and sound exploded.

They came surging over the railings in numbers unfathomable, the twisting wire of their tattoos blending together to create some horrible skeleton of black and blue outside the tide of flesh they arrived on. Their zeal was loud, joyous, the song of impending slaughter joined by the humming of their upraised swords and the clinking harmony of the chains they came clambering across.

‘Now, now!’ Denaos cried, lunging at the rigging and pulling a knife out. ‘We can still make it!’

‘What?’ Asper’s expression drifted from incredulous to furious. ‘You were planning on deserting?’

‘Oh, come on,’ the rogue protested sharply, ‘like you weren’t expecting this!’

‘I knew it,’ Quillian snarled. She shoved herself in front of Asper, blade extended. ‘Stay behind me, Priestess. The danger is not yet great enough that I cannot deal with a deserter first.’

‘I say, look lively, gentlemen!’

In the sound of whistling metal, the Serrant was proven violently wrong. The hatchet came whirling over the sailors’ heads, a bird of iron and wood that struck the woman squarely in her chest. A human gong unhinged, she went collapsing to the deck, Asper quickly diving to catch her.

‘Well, there you are,’ Denaos said. ‘Providence. Now, let’s go!’

‘No!’ Kataria’s bow was already in her hand, arrow kissing the string. ‘Even if we get that thing off, we won’t get far.’

As if to reinforce her point, a flock of hatchets came flying over the railings. The bold and unlucky sailors who had rushed forth to intercept the boarders went down under the sound of crunching bone and splashing liquid. The first of the boarders came sweeping over the railing, yet more of the thirsty weapons in their hands.

‘Dread!’ Kataria snarled, seizing the boy by the arm and shoving him forwards. ‘Do something!’

‘Right. . right. .’ He stepped forwards hesitantly. ‘I can. . do something.’ He cleared his throat, then glanced over his shoulder to see if Asper was watching. ‘Er. . you like fire, don’t you?’

‘NOW!’ Kataria shrieked in unison with the wailing weapons.

The boy’s eyes snapped wide open, hand up instinctively as he whirled about to face the onslaught of metal wings. His lips twisted, bellowing a phrase that hurt to hear, crimson light sparking behind his eyes.

The air rippled before him, hatchets slowing in their twisting flight, before finally stopping and falling to the deck.

‘Well, hell,’ Denaos grunted, ‘we can just have him do that and we’ll be fine!’

‘We can’t leave!’ Asper protested. ‘Quillian is hurt.’

‘So she can stay behind and be a decoy!’ the rogue retorted. ‘Am I the only one who’s thinking here?’

‘We don’t have time for this,’ Kataria growled. Her eyes, along with everyone else’s, turned towards Lenk, who was watching the ensuing fight impassively. ‘What do we do?’

He did not hear them. He did not feel her hand on his shoulder. Everything seemed to die; the wind ceased to blow, the sky ceased to move, the sea ceased to churn. He felt his eyes closing of their own volition, as though something reached out with icy fingers and placed them on his eyelids.

And that something reached out, whispered on a breathless voice into his ear.

When he opened his eyes again, there were no more enemies. There were no Cragsmen, no pirates, no sailors rushing forth to meet them. All he could see before him were fields of wheat, swaying delicately in the wind he could not feel. All he could hear was the whisper of their insignificance.

All he could feel was the blade in his hand and his boots moving under his feet.

‘Lenk! LENK!’ Kataria shrieked after him as he tore away from them, rushing to the railing.

‘Well, fine,’ Denaos said, ‘see? He volunteered to be the decoy. It’s a non-issue.’

The others fell silent; she continued to shout. He still didn’t hear her. The timbers quaked under him as several pairs of feet added their rhythm to his charge. Emboldened by his actions, possibly, or spurred on by the wordless call to battle Argaol sent from the helm.

He didn’t care.

His eyes were for the pirates that just now set their feet upon the timbers. His ears were for the sound of their last hatchets flying past his ears and over his head as he ducked low. His blade was for the man that just now set a hand upon the railing.

The sword lashed out quickly, catching the boarder by surprise as the Cragsman looked to see where his projectile had landed. It bit deeply, plunging below the pirate’s breastbone and sinking into his flesh.

His breath lasted an eternity, even as his mouth filled with his own life. The pirate looked down to see his own horror reflected in the steel, then looked up and Lenk saw his own eyes reflected in his foe’s unblinking gaze as the light guttered out behind them.

Chaff from wheat.

He pulled hard, his blade wedged so deeply in the man that he came tumbling onto the deck. Lenk smashed his boot against the man’s throat and pulled again, jerking his sword free in a spattering arc.

His senses were selective, ignoring the sound of sailors colliding into their foes in favour of the sound of feet coming up behind him. He whirled, lashing out with his blade, not caring who it was that had dared to try to ambush him.

Sparks sputtered in a quick and hasty embrace as his sword caught the pirate’s cutlass. It was enough to drive the man back with a surprised grunt, enough to give Lenk room to manoeuvre. He sprang backwards, felt something collide with his heel.

He looked.

A sailor; he recognised the face, if not the name. Such a task was difficult though, given that a hatchet had lodged itself in said visage, leaving little more than half a gasping mouth and one very surprised eye. At that, Lenk’s own eyes widened and the world returned to him.

Battle.

He could barely remember what had brought him this far: the fields of wheat, the unmoving sky and the silent screaming. What stood before him now was not something to be scythed down carelessly, but a man, towering and swinging his cutlass wildly.

Surprised, but not shocked, Lenk brought his blade up to defend. He felt the blow more solidly this time, shaking down to his bones. Behind his opponent, other tattooed, leering faces erupted over the railings, rushing to meet the defenders. He heard feet shuffling, bodies hitting the deck behind him. He was surrounded.

Imbecile, he thought. At what point did this seem like a good idea? His foe swung again, he darted to the side. Charging headlong? Who does that? He lunged, sought the pirate’s chest and caught his blade instead. Well, Gariath does, but he’s. . well, you know.

An errant kick caught him, sent him staggering backwards. His foe, apparently, had long legs. Long arms, too, Lenk noted; this wouldn’t be a fight he could win if it continued to be this dance.

Run away, he thought, escape through the crowd and you can-

Kill.

No, no! Stop that! You just have to get away long enough to-

Fight.

NO! If. . if you can’t escape, just keep him busy. Keep him distracted long enough for Denaos to stab him in the back or Kataria to shoot him in the neck or-

Alone.

‘What?’ he asked his own thoughts.

He whipped his gaze about the carnage that the deck had become. He could see flesh, faces rising up and down from a sea into which the sailors and Cragsmen had blended seamlessly. But they were only faces filled with fear or covered in tattoos. He could see no sign of a skinny youth, a tall and lanky cockroach, a flashing silver pendant.