Tome of the Undergates

‘I can’t do this,’ she gasped, ‘I can’t do this, can’t do this, can’t …’

Reassuring denial was lost in an errant roar from the distant hall.

The battle, as Denaos might say in his cruder moments, had long since spent its best affections and now slid into sluggish, sleepy, blood-glutted cuddling.

The precise strikes from the longfaces’ iron spikes had become vicious, slovenly chops as their purple kindred lay beside their feet. The endless stream of frogmen had choked to narrow trickles, the pale creatures glancing around with dark eyes to seek out their emaciated Shepherds. The demons themselves had either fled or lay in smoking husks that still sighed white plumes of steam as they sank into the salt.

And even the water seemed disgusted, sliding out of the great wound in Irontide’s hide in an effort to escape the battle. Water shunned the place, she thought, and begged her to go with it. Neither of them belonged here.

They were healers. She was a healer. She served the Healer. What place did she have in this slaughter?

She did not desire an answer, but received one, anyway, at the end of her left arm. It twitched now, throbbing angrily. It did not doubt, it snarled. It did not beg, it demanded. And with each moment, it grew harder to ignore.

‘Not now,’ she whispered to her appendage. ‘Not now. I can fight this. I can resist this.’ Only remotely aware of how much of a squealing whisper her voice was, she felt the tears slide down her cheek to land upon her sleeve. ‘Not. . now.’

‘Then when?’

Asper’s head snapped towards the longface standing over her. For a woman bludgeoned and cut, she looked remarkably calm, regarding the priestess from behind a circular iron shield. The unpleasant grin that split her face, however, left no motive unclear.

‘You look lost, pinky,’ the longface said. She raised her iron spike, slammed it against her shield. ‘Need some help?’

‘S-stay back.’ Asper retreated a step, raising her left hand, then forcing it down against her side and holding up the blade. ‘I’ve got a weapon.’

‘One of our own gnawblades.’ The longface tilted her head to note the gore dripping down its handle. ‘But you don’t look like you could have done that with it.’

‘I. . I did.’

‘I haven’t seen you in the fight. Hiding is reserved for males.’ The longface smiled, took a step forwards. ‘Females fight.’

‘Stay away from me!’

‘Do your breed proud and stand,’ the woman hissed. ‘If I have to stick you in the back, I’m going to be unhappy.’

Asper took a step backwards and the longface’s grin grew broader. Unhappy, indeed. Calling the woman a liar would seem a bit futile, though. Instead, she tensed, ready to turn, ready to flee.

‘QAI ZHOTH!’ A grating roar split the air. ‘DIE, OVERSCUM! AKH ZEKH LA-’

The war cry was cut short with the sound of paper splitting. Both longface and Asper looked up, seeing a great red fist thrust into the mouth from which it had poured. Gariath offered no war cry in retort, no insult or unpleasant cackle. His blow was vicious, but his fist hung in the air long after his victim collapsed. When he finally lowered it, he gasped with such exhaustion that the rest of him threatened to follow his hand to the floor.

Still, it was enough to send three other longfaces leaping backwards, shields raised. And in the parting of purple flesh, Asper could see the red pools at his feet, the tears dripping from his flesh, the waning hatred in his eyes. His knuckles were purple, wings flaccid on his back, but his smile was large and unpleasant.

‘Lucky, lucky.’

Her attention was brought back to the longface before her, who snorted, spat and hefted her shield.

‘Looks like the darker you pinkies get, the more trouble you are.’ She flashed a grin at the priestess. ‘I don’t need you any more. I don’t want you any more.’

‘What?’ Asper could not help but look incredulous as the longface stalked away. ‘That’s it?’

‘I’ll be back later.’

‘But. . you were going to. . I mean, I’ve. . I’ve got a gnawblade!’

‘There are always more weapons.’

‘You can’t just-’

Stop that. Her thoughts echoed in the sound of iron soles. This is your chance. Run. You don’t belong here. Her eyes narrowed upon Gariath, swinging wide against an encroaching longface. He doesn’t want you here. He wants to die. She swept the rest of the battle. No sign of Dreadaeleon, either. He’s dead. . you can’t bring people back from the dead. No one can.

There’s nothing you can do here.

The longface swung her iron spike, testing its weight. Her left arm twitched.

You shouldn’t even be with these people.

Gariath buckled to one knee under a sudden blow from behind. Her left arm throbbed.

What, she asked herself, could you even do?

She clenched her jaw, tightened her grip upon the weapon. And, in the faint flash of crimson that ran down her arm in time with the beating of her heart and the burning of her skin, she knew her answer.

The longface’s ears twitched at the sound of whistling iron. She whirled, just in time to see the blade go spinning past the side of her head. The blow was slight, a faint tug on her shoulder that she might have ignored if not for the trail of red that followed the tumbling weapon.

Lips drawn tightly, the woman regarded the empty, trembling pink hand extended at her.

‘Fine, then.’ The longface rolled her shoulder, even as her wound wept. ‘There’s plenty of time left in the day.’

‘Stay away from my friends,’ the human female warned.

The longface smirked at the sudden hardness in the human’s voice. ‘Stay away from you, stay away from your friends.’ She hoisted her weapon and advanced in slow, clanging strides. ‘Make up your mind.’

One quick swing, the longface thought, and it would be over. Pink flesh was soft, weak and tore like paper saturated in fat. If the female turned and ran, it would take only a little longer. Even though the longface’s own gnawblade was quivering in a motionless body somewhere, the chase would be a pleasant distraction before returning to the business of slaughtering underscum and whatever the winged red thing was.

The human did not turn and run, however. Her advance came in bold, decisive steps. ‘Bold’, the longface had learned, was the overscum word for ‘stupid, but admirable’. That made sense, the purple woman decided, since this one approached her without fear. Without weapon, without armour, but without fear, the human extended her left arm like a fleshy, flimsy shield.

‘Master Sheraptus would like you,’ she said.

The woman showed no reaction, no wide-eyed honour that such a proclamation should entail. The longface narrowed her eyes. This one’s death suddenly became more necessary.

They closed without haste, the longface swung without urgency. One quick swing, she thought in one moment and cursed in the next. The woman side-stepped the blow; clumsy, the purple creature scolded herself, but nothing urgent. The next one would do it.

The woman’s left arm shot out, clamped around her throat, and the longface couldn’t help but smile at the weak and sweat-laden grip.

‘This is it?’ she chuckled. ‘You won’t be a great loss to any-’

In a twitch of muscle, the pink arm became something else, something stronger. The fingers tensed, skin tightening around the bony joints as they dug into hard, purple flesh. The longface’s voice was strangled as she felt her own blood mingle with the cold sweat. Impressive, she thought, but netherlings were hard, netherlings were strong.

That thought abandoned her, a sudden panic seizing her as the human female’s hand began to glow. Her eyes went wide, alternately blinded and captivated by the pulsating light that drifted between bright crimson and