Tome of the Undergates

his body. He lifted his sword above him, smiling at the thick steel as he would an old friend.

And in his reflection, his old friend smiled back.

It wasn’t until he rose that he felt the weight in his other hand, the leather strap wrapped around his fingers. A satchel, he realised, water dripping off its black, slick leather. Its mouth hung loosely open, exposing a glimpse of its contents. Yellowed parchment, he recognised with widening eyes, bound between planks of dark leather that reflected no light.

As he stared down at it, the book stared back up at him with papery eyes and smiled.

‘It can’t be-’

‘VILE LANDBORNE FILTH!’

He looked up, simultaneously tossing the satchel behind him as he took up his sword in both hands. Three heads snaked before him, ominous golden scowls narrowed upon him as they spoke in a unified trio of spite.

‘What disease of your feeble grey brain afflicts you so to persist in this stupidity?’ they snarled. ‘You know nothing, less than a fraction of what lingers within those pages, and you come, suffer our wrath, even as your fellow mortal pests are butchered beyond this chamber.’

‘What?’

Lenk knew he shouldn’t have said it, shouldn’t have let the fear show even for a moment on his face. He should have ignored the demon, drowned its words, but they echoed in his ears.

‘This. . shocks you?’ The three heads bared fangs in unpleasant smiles. ‘We see all that occurs in this tomb of rock and froth. We see mortals dying, blood being spilled, agony, fear, panic-’

‘It lies,’ the voice came rushing back into his brain. ‘Kill it now.’

‘They are broken, mortal.’ Their mouths twisted, caught between joyous grins and hateful grimaces. ‘They have suffered much. They begged for salvation from uncaring Gods.’

‘Ignore it.’

Lenk could not hide the despair flashing on his face, despite the voice’s command. Did it truly lie? The demon had powers, powers he could not contemplate. Could it know? Could it speak the truth?

‘And when none came,’ the heads spoke, ‘they begged for death.’

‘Kill it now!’

Lenk’s sword drooped in his hands and he stared out into nothingness. He didn’t notice the golden-haired head rising above its swaying kin on a neck gone rigid.

‘Fret not, poor creature,’ the red- and raven-coloured heads purred. ‘Your fates are tied. Their mercy was cruel, but swift.’

‘LOOK, FOOL!’

Lenk spied the bulge rising up the centre stalk. The golden-haired head’s mouth stretched impossibly wide.

‘YOURS,’ the other two heads shrieked, ‘WILL BE MUCH MESSIER! ’

The air shattered, the stones trembled. Lenk’s vision rippled as the shrieking thunder split the world before him. He flung himself to the side, narrowly avoiding the vocal onslaught as it bit into the stone slab, digging a crater in a spray of granite shards.

Snarling, he pulled himself away from the edge. His ears rang, but he heard nothing, not the lapping of water or stones sinking into the gloom or the curses of the Deepshriek.

He heard but one cold, angry voice that swiftly became his own as he tightened his grip on the sword.

‘DIE!’

Three great bulges rose up the stalks, three mouths gaped wide.

Silent, ignoring the voices of reason and instinct, he charged. Silent, ignoring the quake of his heart and the scream of his leg, he leapt. Silent, heeding only the voice in his head and in his hand, he struck.

He landed, straddling the shark’s slippery back. He teetered, narrowly avoiding toppling back to eager jaws by reaching out to grasp the central stalk. The golden-haired head let out choked protest, jerked down as he struggled to keep atop the beast.

The air split with the other heads’ shrieks, their fury launched at nothing. His grip tightened as he pulled himself to his feet. The other heads snaked about, snapped at him, nicking multiple cuts on his arms. He ignored them, focusing only on the central head’s bulging eyes and the sickly shade of blue it turned as the bulge of air was choked beneath his grasp.

His sword came up and down in a silver blur, sundering the thick flesh of the stalk. His grip slipped as golden locks tumbled into the air and disappeared beneath the water with a satisfying plop.

Time stopped suddenly. The shark came to a halt, the four remaining eyes went wide, and even the blood from his wounds seemed to stop seeping.

Then, chaos.

Their screams filled the chamber, their heads flailed with such fury as to seem ready to rip off from their stalks. The air within the now-headless central stalk came bursting out, heralded by a torrent of black, sticky blood. Lenk released it, seizing the shark’s fin as the stalk went wild, spewing black ichor.

The remaining heads shrieked in unison, barely audible through their agony. ‘What have you done, mortal? What wicked blade do you possess?’

Odd, he thought as he reached for the red-haired head, until that moment, he had never wondered if demons felt fear. Nor did he care as he raised the sword, ready to add another head to his tally.

His arm was jarred as the entire chamber shook. The shark rammed its snout into the rocky wall, causing Lenk’s swing to go wide. He snarled, swept his blade up to carve a gaping gash into the beast’s hide. It groaned, thrashed suddenly and sent him flying to crash against the wall.

He peeled himself from the stone, winded, but still with his wits about him as he hit the water. His sword was up, its silver bright in the water’s gloom as he prepared to finish the demon off.

Through the water, though, Lenk spied the Deepshriek, thrashing madly, its heads screeching. He watched it, squirming about like a wounded animal before it turned to the bottom. He watched it as it passed through the floor, staring in curiosity as its tail vanished into a gaping, black hole, its screaming echoing off the water as it disappeared.

He stared at the hole, waiting for it to return. When moments had passed, he surfaced. His breath was heavy as he hoisted himself onto the outcropping once again. Heavy, but clean.

He stared at the waters for ages, sword clenched tightly as he waited for the demon to return. The surface would yield no signs from its blackness, though, and, with a great sigh, he allowed his sword to fall and himself to collapse onto his back.

His head felt like lead, but through his hair he could feel something resting under his skull. He remembered then: leather, unadorned and black, in the satchel. What he had come all this way for. .

‘The tome,’ he whispered, smiling.

And under his head, it smiled back.

Twenty-Nine

BURN

A blade was a peculiar thing to feel, Asper thought.

She had never held one before, only stared at them with envy as they danced to a tune played by more capable hands. Now that she did feel one, it was heavy in her grip, like an iron burden wrought with jagged teeth.

Dripping with blood, she added mentally, Gariath’s blood. The thought of holding such a thing had occasionally crossed her mind, in her darkest anger against the dragonman.

But now that she held it. .