Tome of the Undergates

heaven.’

‘It is not too late.’ The leader turned his attention back to Kataria and a sudden light filled his eyes. A desperation, Denaos saw, that he had seen in every man who hungered for the same thing. ‘Forsake your false Gods, as they have forsaken you. Abandon the sins of memory and sky. Feed the Mouth of Mother Deep.’

His lower lip trembled in time with his hand as it and his eyes, now wide and unblinking, lowered themselves to Kataria’s taut, pale form.

‘And he shall speak well in your name.’

The shict’s answer was less eloquent.

Heralded by the sound of ripping flesh and an all-too-mortal squeal, her head shot down like an asp’s to seize the frogman’s hand in her teeth. After a quick, canine jerk, he pulled back a bloody hand and the pain that lit up his eyes seemed even more foreign in the wake of his inhuman congregation. He stared at her, shocked, as she flashed a smile that was morbid and red, chewing on the pink for a moment.

‘Not the mouth you were expecting to be fed,’ she said before spitting it at him, ‘was it?’

The frogmen congregation recoiled in collective horror. They turned to their leader with a terror reserved for those who had seen idols desecrated and loosed a chorus of disharmonious agitation at the pain that flashed across his features and the blood that dripped to the floor. For his part, the Mouth seemed far less confused.

‘Swear unto Her,’ he seethed through clenched teeth. He twisted the head from his bone-carved staff to reveal a jagged blade. ‘Feed Her flock.’ He lunged forwards, seizing her by the throat as he raised the blade, quivering and whetted with his own blood. ‘It matters little to Her.’

Kataria met the threat with teeth bared and a snarl choked in her throat, defiant even as the jagged edge of the blade grinned green against the unnatural torchlight. Denaos, though he was certain some God somewhere hated him even for the effort, had to fight his own grin back down into his throat.

Silf help him, though, it was hard not to be pleased when opportunity bloomed into so sweet a flower.

Quietly, his eye slid up towards the bulbous ivory sphere that stared out blankly over the impending bloodshed. The Abysmyth’s expression hadn’t changed since first laying eyes and webbed hands upon his throat. If not for the shallow breaths that shuddered through its emaciated abdomen, it would be hard to declare the creature alive at all.

It was impassive. It was inattentive. It was uncaring. Enough, he reasoned, that it wouldn’t notice the dagger until Denaos had jammed it deep into that vast, unblinking stare. Immune to mortal weapons or no, the rogue imagined that two fingers of steel rammed into gooey flesh would at least give the demon an itch.

An itch it would have to scratch.

That, of course, left the frogmen to deal with. The congregation stood, enraptured by their leader’s quivering, bleeding hand. They were intent on the human, blank, sheep-like eyes upon their shepherd. So intent, he reasoned, that they had been sent into utter confusion at the little nip Kataria had given him.

A well-placed slice to the jugular, he imagined, would shock them enough that they’d hardly miss him.

So, one knife in the eye, he told himself, feeling the familiar weight of the weapon tucked neatly in his belt, one in the neck, feeling his heart beat against the cold steel strapped to the inside of his vest, and a spare for whoever else isn’t shocked, clenching his buttocks tightly.

All that was needed was an opportunity. An opportunity, he noted with some dismay, that was particularly slow in coming.

Of course, the loss of Kataria would be lamentable. She wasn’t entirely unpleasant company, as women went, nor entirely unpleasant to look at. However, she was still just a shict. He knew it, and his companions would understand. Dreadaeleon would have a few forced words of grief, Gariath some callous commentary and Asper all manner of harsh words for him not being able to save her.

Lenk, of course, would likely have reacted far worse, if he was still alive. Failing that, however, Denaos thought the young man would have been pleased if he and the shict had both died in the same place, separated only by a mere stone block.

Kataria’s death was regrettable, but necessary, he reasoned with a restrained nod.

Or it will be, if it ever happens. .

The quiver with which the frogman held the dagger was familiar to him; he had seen it in hungry men who had been consumed with desires that the company of other men, or demons, could not satisfy. The broad eyes, angry and hungry at once, suggested that the frogman was caught between the desire to spill blood in retribution and the very grim knowledge that this was likely to be the last female he, all too human, would see in quite some time.

Of course, the rogue might have been more sympathetic to the Mouth’s quandary if not for the webbed fingers wrapped about his throat.

As it was, he made a quick note to feel guilty twice when he made his escape. Once for having to bite back his sigh of finality when the frogman at last overcame his indecision and drew the blade back, and twice for forcing himself to resist the urge to shout in exasperation when the creature staggered backwards suddenly.

Such a temptation passed quickly, overcome by a far more pressing urge to cover his ears. A cacophony of whispers filled the room, a high-pitched whine seeping through the stones, a guttural murmur rising between the ripples in the waters. And yet, it wasn’t within his ears that the rogue was assaulted. The sound permeated every part of him, vocal talons clawing past every pore to sink into his body and reverberate inside his sinew.

His were not the only sensibilities to be so flagrantly violated. Kataria writhed about in her captor’s grasp, snarling with such ferocity as suggested she was straining to block out the noise with one of her own. The Mouth, too, reacted in such a way, drawing concerned looks from his congregation and impassive stares from the Abysmyths.

‘Yes, yes,’ he whispered to no one, ‘I hear you.’ With a sudden growl, he clapped hands over his ears. ‘I SAID, I HEAR YOU!’

The dagger dropped from his fingers, forgotten along with his imminent sacrifice as he trudged past Kataria with a sudden weariness, ignoring her spitting and snarling. Denaos tolerated the noise long enough to note the intensity with which the Mouth gazed upon the stone slab at the end of the hall behind which Lenk had disappeared.

‘What is it?’ the Mouth muttered, then shrieked. ‘WHAT IS IT? I can’t. . it’s hard to. .’ He bit his lower lip, narrowed his eyes upon the stone. ‘Fine. I just. . what? They’re coming? How close?’

Denaos felt the creature behind him shift and dared to look up enough to see the Abysmyth’s gaze also locked upon the rock. The impassiveness in the demon’s eyes had also shifted, as much as an expressionless fish face would allow. It stared without the hysteric intensity of the Mouth, but rather with the attentive silence of an eager pupil.

What lessons it sought to learn in the agonising noise, Denaos did not dare guess.

‘They can wait,’ the Mouth replied, his voice suddenly a whine. ‘I’ve business to. . what? No, it’s not as though-’ He paused, hissing angrily at the stone as he gestured wildly at Kataria over his shoulder. ‘She insulted me! She insulted you! Now you wish to-’

The sound intensified. Denaos could no longer resist, forcing his hands to his ears as the murmurs became thunderous bellows, the whining a chorus of angry shrieks. The congregation cowered at the unseen speaker and even the Abysmyths shifted uncomfortably.

It was Kataria who drew Denaos’s attention, however. The shict’s writhing became a frenzy, kicking, frothing, emitting howls that went silent beneath the onslaught of sound. Her arms firmly locked behind her, her ears twitched and bent wildly, trying to fold over themselves and block out the sound.

The rogue grimaced. Despite his earlier plot, it was difficult not to share his companion’s pain. Besides, he reasoned with as little resentment as he could muster, if she decided to simply collapse without blood or fanfare, there’d be no escape for him. That thought fled him the moment she looked up to meet his gaze, however.

Her eyes were wide and terrified, like a beast’s. No, he thought, not an animal. . she looks like. . just like. . He blinked. When he opened his eyes again, she was someone else, another woman, another life ending with blood seeping out of her throat. She mouthed something, his ears were deaf to it, but his mind was not.

‘Help me, tall man.’

He shut his eyes again. When he opened them, the shict hung limp in the Abysmyth’s grasp, her breathing