Tome of the Undergates

‘Love has nothing to do with feelings, you twit. Or at least, lovemaking doesn’t. It’s an art, created to establish prowess and technique.’

‘I’m. . I’m really not sure I want to do that, then.’

‘Fine.’ The rogue sighed dramatically. ‘I was trying to spare you some embarrassment, since I severely doubt your capabilities of conveying anything remotely eloquent to her. Then again, she is a barbarian, so perhaps just grunting and snorting will do.’

‘I was planning on something like that,’ Lenk said, grinning. ‘But, out of curiosity, if Khetashe does smile upon me … what manoeuvre do I use?’

‘Something simple,’ Denaos said, shrugging. ‘Like the Sleeping Toad.’

‘The Sleeping Toad?’

‘A beginner’s technique, but no less efficient. You simply request that your lady wait until you’re asleep, then have her do her business with such delicate sensual eroticism that you barely even stir.’

‘Huh. . have you ever tried it?’

‘Once,’ the rogue said, nodding.

‘Did it work?’

Denaos looked out over the sea thoughtfully, took a long sip from the waterskin. ‘You know, I really have no Gods-damned idea.’

The coconut was a hairy thing, a small sphere of bristly brown hair. Kataria scrutinised it, looked it over with an appraising stare as she took out her hunting knife. With delicate precision, she jabbed two small holes into two of the nut’s deeper indentations. Quietly, she scooped a chunk of moist sand out of the forest floor and smeared it atop the coconut.

It looked at least vaguely silver in the shimmer of the sunlight, she thought, but there was still something missing. After a thoughtful hum, she brought her knife up and gouged a pair of scowling lines over the nut’s makeshift eyes, finishing the product with a long, jagged frown underneath.

‘There,’ she whispered, smiling as the hairy face scowled at her, ‘looks just like him.’

She traipsed over to a nearby stump sitting solemnly before a larger tree and set the face down upon it. Then, backing away as though she feared it might flee if she turned around, she reached for her quiver and bow. In a breath, the arrow was in her hand and drawn to her cheek, the bowstring quivering tautly.

The coconut continued to frown, not an ounce of fear on its grim, hairy visage. Just like him, she thought, perfect.

The bow hummed, the arrow shrieked for less than a breath before it was silenced by the sound of wood splitting and viscous liquid leaking onto the sand. The face hung by its right eye, the arrow having penetrated it perfectly and pinned the nut to the tree trunk behind it. Its expression did not change as thick milk dripped out of the back of its head and its muddy hair dribbled onto the earth.

The shict herself wore a broad, unpleasant smile as she stalked back to her impaled victim and leaned forwards, surveying her work. She observed the even split in the nut’s eye and nodded to herself, pleased.

‘I could still kill him,’ she assured herself. ‘I could do it.’

He was the tricky part, she knew, the only one she would have trouble killing. The rest were just obstacles: shifty hares in a thicket. He was the wolf, the dangerous prey. But that was hardly a matter. She could kill him now, she knew, and the rest would be dead soon after.

With that, Kataria jerked the arrow out of the face’s eye and watched it fall to the earth. Wiping the head off on her breeches, she slid the missile back into her quiver and turned to walk away. She had gone less than three paces when she felt a shiver run up her back.

The nut was still staring at her, she knew, still frowning. It demanded an explanation.

‘All right, look.’ She sighed as she turned around. ‘It’s nothing personal. I mean, I don’t hate you or anything.’

The coconut frowned, unconvinced.

‘You had to know this was going to happen, didn’t you?’ She scratched the back of her head, casting eyes down to the ground. ‘How else could it end, Lenk? I mean, we’re. . I’m a shict. You’re a human.’ She growled, turning a scowl up. ‘No, you’re a strain. You’re part of the human disease! It’s up to us to kill you before you become unsatisfied with the parts of the world you’ve already contaminated and infect the whole thing!’

The coconut did not appear to share the same sentiments. As she fell to her rear, Kataria realised she didn’t either.

‘We had fun, didn’t we?’ she asked the nut. ‘I mean, I had fun at least. After a year around you, I’m not infected.’ She sighed, rubbing her eyes. ‘That’s not true. I am infected. That’s why I had to do what I did. . sorry, why I have to do what I’m going to do.’

She didn’t bother explaining the rest to the coconut. How could he understand? she asked herself. Humans didn’t understand the Howling, couldn’t hear it, couldn’t comprehend what it was like to hear it again after a year of silence.

But Kataria did.

She had heard it, in fleeting echoes, during her battle with Xhai. And in those few moments, she had felt it, everything that it meant to be a shict. She could hear all the voices of her people, her ancestors, her tribesmen.

‘My father,’ she whispered.

Quietly, she reached up and ran her finger down the notches in her long earlobes, counting them off. One, two, three, she switched her hand to the other ear, four, five, six. The sixth tribe. Sil’is Ish. The Wolves. The Tribe that Hears.

And what good was it to be a part of the sixth tribe if she was deaf to the Howling? What would her people say if they knew such a thing? To know that she only used her ears to be a glorified hunting hound for a pack of inept, reeking, diseased monkeys?

What would her father say?

A brown shape caught her eye and she spied another coconut, this one apparently having landed on a rock when descending from its leafy home. Its face looked sunken, frowning, disapproving.

Much like him.

‘Naturally, I’m disappointed,’ she imagined the coconut saying, ‘you are a shict, after all.’

‘What does that even mean, though?’ she asked.

‘If you’ve forgotten already, then the answer as to what you should do is quite clear.’

‘But I don’t want to do it,’ she replied.

‘If we could all do what we wanted to, what would that make us?’

‘Human.’ She sighed, rubbing her eyes.

‘Or?’

‘Tulwar,’ she recited with rehearsed precision, ‘or Vulgore, or Couthi, or any number of monkeys that claim to be a people.’ She looked to the coconut with a pleading expression. ‘But it’s not like we have to kill them all.’

‘Just the ones that make us forget what it is to be a shict.’

‘It’s not like that-’

‘Was it not you who just said such a thing?’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘It is not.’

‘He’s complicated.’

‘He’s human.’

‘I have no reason to kill him. I don’t hate him.’

‘It’s not a matter of hate.’ She could hear the deep, resonant tone of a voice used to speaking to a people, for a people. ‘Any monkey can hate, no matter what race he claims to be. Shicts are as beyond hate as the human disease is beyond redemption. We do not hate the disease, we cure it. We do not kill, we purify. This is simply what must be done and no other race has the conviction to do it. After all. . we