Tome of the Undergates

darkest black.

‘Nethra,’ she tried to sputter through the choking grasp.

No more time wasted, she resolved. No more humouring the little pink weakling. One quick swing and it would be over. She kept that thought as she raised her iron spike to the sky.

‘No,’ the human whispered.

There was a sudden red flash. The longface became a trembling symphony, her shriek accompanied by the sudden snapping of bone, the snapping of bone accompanied by her sword falling to the stones. She looked to her arm, the folded, bunching mass that used to be her appendage as it twisted of its own sudden, violent accord, cracking and bending backwards like a wet branch.

She had felt bones broken before, blood spilled, iron in her flesh. This pain that raked through her was nothing like that, no cause, no physical presence. It was simply a blink of the eye, a twitch of muscle, a snap, and then her arm folded over itself violently again, her elbow touching her shoulder.

‘What. .’ she screamed through the sound, ‘what is this? WHAT IS THIS?’

‘I’m sorry,’ someone sobbed.

She turned to the human female, saw the tears in her eyes, flooding down her cheeks with unrestrained swiftness. She saw the sleeve of the pink creature’s robe rip and burst apart into blue ribbons, exposing an expanse of glowing red beneath. The light that engulfed the woman’s arm pulsed, and with every heartbeat, blackened bones, joints and knuckles flashed through the crimson.

‘I’m so sorry,’ the woman whispered again.

‘Then stop! Stop it! STOP-’

Another snap. The netherling collapsed to her right knee, her left leg a knotted mass of folded bone and sinew, her heel touching her knee, her iron-clad toes brushing against her rear. The woman collapsed with her, her entire body shaking, save for the arm that dug its skeletal claws deeper into the purple throat.

‘I can’t,’ the human whimpered, ‘I can’t. . I can’t stop.’

The sensation of tears was alien to the netherling. She had never cried before. Netherlings were hard. Netherlings were strong. Netherlings did not cry. Netherlings did not beg.

‘Please,’ she shrieked, ‘please! It hurts! It hurts so-’

Snap.

She felt her teeth touch the back of her tongue, her jaw folding once, twice over itself. Salty tears pooled in her mouth, leaking out over her shattered jaw. She felt her spine bend, groaning like an old and feeble tree before breaking.

Snap; her other arm.

‘It’s not my fault,’ the human whispered.

Snap; her other leg.

‘What could I do?’ the human whimpered.

Snap; her neck.

‘Forgive me,’ the human pleaded.

Asper would have thanked Talanas for her tears, thanked the Healer that she could not see the abomination she had created through the liquid veil. She would have praised Him for the fact that she could not hear the screams emanating from what used to be a mouth over the shrieking inside her mind. But she could not bring herself to utter any thanks, to remember that she had lips with which to praise.

The pain, the searing red and black that engulfed her, would not allow it. The arm could not let her stop.

Her body was limp behind it, so much useless flesh leaking tears that hung from the rigid, glowing appendage. She could not pull her arm from the longface’s throat, could not form a prayer for salvation. She could do nothing but close her eyes.

She tried to ignore the loud cracking sound that followed. She tried to ignore the feeling of her palm closing in on itself. She tried to ignore the bright flash of red behind her eyelids.

She tried, failed, and whispered, ‘Forgive me. .’

She had prayed before that she would never see what she did when she opened her eyes again.

There was nothing left of the longface. There was no iron, no black hair or even a trace of purple flesh. Nothing to even suggest that anyone had ever stood there, knelt there, died there.

Nothing, except Asper, upon the floor, and the black, sooty stains that surrounded her. Her arm was a testament, a whole, pink thing that now lay in her lap, satiated. It was whole again, free of burning, free of glowing. It felt normal, good.

Why, she asked her thoughts, does it feel good?

Whoever heard her had no answer.

Three times now, she thought next. Once for the frogman in the Riptide’s cargo hold. Twice for the longface. Three times-

That was an accident, she interrupted herself, no. . that was. .

‘Interesting. .’

She didn’t bother to look up at the sound of the masculine voice. It was far away now, the shadow cast by his slight form nothing but a wisp of blackness to join the smears upon the floor.

‘What do you call that?’ he asked.

‘A curse,’ she whispered in reply, ‘that the Gods won’t take away.’

‘There are no such things as Gods.’

She had no answer.

‘Power, however, is absolute. And you, little creature, have such a thing.’

Asper craned her neck up, feeling its stiffness, to regard the man. The male longface, clad in robes that looked untainted despite the water, blood and ash that seeped through the great hall, looked almost friendly compared to the woman. His face, narrow as it was, had a smile that was not unpleasant and his eyes flashed with an intrigue, rather than malice.

Or perhaps she was just too numb to see it.

‘I. . I killed her,’ was all Asper could choke out through her tears.

‘She is. . was just a female. There are more.’

‘I. . but. . I didn’t just kill her. I. . made her go away.’ She stared down at her arm again. ‘There’s nothing left of her.’

‘Truly impressive.’ His bony hands applauded. ‘Imagine my shock. I had no idea females could even use nethra, much less to such. . ends.’

‘It’s a curse,’ she repeated, more to herself than to him.

‘Whatever you choose to call it, it’s worthy of the attention of Sheraptus.’ She felt his eyes wander over her, felt his grin grow broader. ‘Other appreciable qualities considered. ’ He thrust his hand towards her like a weapon. ‘So, if you would please rise — our business here is concluded and we must be off.’

He was right, she thought as she looked up. The hall was largely abandoned now, the battle concluded in the moments when she had held her eyes tight and asked questions no one would answer.

Who had emerged victorious, she could not say.

The defeated lay dead in the dozens, stacked in heaps, strewn across the floor, floating listlessly in the pools of salt water. Flakes of ash drifted lazily on the breeze as the pulsating, fleshy sacs still burned like grotesque pyres. There were grunts called out in harsh tongues, iron scraping on stone as the longfaces hurried back to their vessel, leaving the bodies of their comrades where they lay.

Of her own companions, there was no sign.

Not such a bad thing, she reasoned; they wouldn’t have seen what she had just done. They wouldn’t have known she had the power. . the curse to unmake people, to reduce them to nothing. Dreadaeleon’s magic still left ash behind, Gariath left bodies in his wake. Of her foe, there was nothing left: no skin, no bone.

No soul.

She had not the strength to explain it any more, to justify it to them, to whoever Sheraptus was, or to herself. She could not bear to look upon the arm masquerading behind its pink softness, concealing the crimson and gloom. Three times had it emerged, two times it had left nothing, a thousand times had she looked up to the sky