Tome of the Undergates

the fire. So stunned was he that he didn’t even try to resist as she took the bottle from his hands and pulled a long swig from its neck.

‘Well,’ he said softly, eyeing the eager pulse of her throat. ‘Dare I ask what drives you to such extremes?’

‘You dare not,’ she replied coldly.

‘Dare I hope where this might lead?’

‘You dare not.’

‘Well, then what’s the bloody point?’ he muttered, snatching the bottle back from her.

‘I need you,’ she said, simply and without anything behind it.

‘I’ve heard that from a few women in my time,’ he said bitterly, taking a swig. ‘In my experience, it never quite works out in a way that’s beneficial for me.’

‘Well, I don’t need you, specifically.’ She wrapped her arm around his, clutching it with a tightness he found uncomfortable. ‘I need a rock.’

‘A rock.’

‘I need something real. I need something that talks back to me.’

He smiled at that. It was only with the night time, the starlight that made her skin glow, the scent of smoke that contrasted with her own delicate aroma, that he noticed her. It was only now, as he felt her body rise and fall with each breath, pressing against his, that he noticed how her body curved in a way that could not be hidden by robes.

She reminded him of. .

He blinked. The images flashed before his eyes. Blood. A dead stare locked upon the ceiling. Laughter.

Someone else.

Asper was not someone else, though. It was only at that moment that she was no longer a priestess, he no longer a rogue. She no longer pious, he no longer vile. Between the darkness and the bottle, they were but woman and rock.

That thought brought a smile to his face as he upended the bottle into his mouth.

‘Rocks don’t drink,’ she pointed out.

‘Rocks also don’t finger your asshole while you sleep.’ He exhaled, then took another swig. ‘Looks like you’re in for several disappointments tonight.’

‘That’s funny,’ Asper said. ‘I’m not laughing. . but it’s funny.’ She eyed the bottle thoughtfully. ‘We should make a toast, shouldn’t we?’

‘We should. The Gods would demand it.’ He raised the bottle, observed the amber sloshing inside. ‘To the Gods, then?’

‘Not the Gods,’ she said coldly, snatching the bottle back.

Denaos felt her breath catch in her body, linger uncertainly there for a moment. He could feel her press more firmly against him, her grip tighten on his arm. He could feel her fingers slide up his arm, searching for something.

Smiling, he reached out, letting her hand find his, letting hers grip his tight.

‘To rocks, then,’ he whispered.

‘To rocks.’ She threw back her head and the bottle at once.

Lenk did not remember when the sun had shone so brightly. The golden orb cast a warm, loving caress upon the fields below, setting the golden wheat to a shimmering blaze against the blue sky. Below the ridge, Steadbrook continued its quiet existence as if it had always existed.

He could see the people as distant, vague shapes. They dropped sheaves of wheat, wiped their brows. They rolled up their sleeves and tended to swollen udders. They watched dogs rut, drank stale beer and muttered about taxes in the village’s dusty lanes.

It was a quiet life, the most notable occasion being a farm changing hands or an infant from the womb of woman or cow being born. It had never seen plague, famine or weather in enough ferocity to warrant worry over such things. It was a quiet life, far from the grimy despair of cities and away from the greedy hands of priests and lords.

It was a good life.

‘Had been, anyway.’

He suddenly became aware of the figure sitting cross-legged at the ridge’s edge beside him. He stared at the man, observing his silver hair, dull even in the sunlight, his wiry body tensed and flexed despite his casual position. The sword lay naked in his lap, its long blade dull and sheenless, catching the light upon its face and refusing to let it go.

‘I can’t really be blamed for being nostalgic,’ Lenk replied, looking back down over Steadbrook. ‘There are times when I wish it still stood.’

‘That would imply there are times when you prefer things as they are.’

‘For certain reasons.’

‘Such as?’

‘None that you would approve of.’

‘Doubtless.’

‘If things hadn’t happened as they had,’ Lenk muttered, resting his chin in his hand, ‘I wouldn’t have met any of my companions.’

The man beside him drew in a deep breath. No sigh came, nor any indication that the man would ever exhale. Lenk raised a brow at him.

‘What?’

‘You believe all the good that came of what happened to this village was that you met a few other people?’

‘Well. . one of them, at least.’

‘Ah, yes. Her.’

Lenk frowned. ‘You don’t like her.’

‘We don’t need her,’ the man replied. ‘But I digress. You owe much to this village, you know.’

‘Obviously, I was born here, raised here.’

‘Apologies, that was not my intended meaning. It would have been more proper to say that we owe much to this village’s destruction.’

‘You’re treading on dangerous ground,’ Lenk growled, scowling at the man.

‘Am I?’

The man’s sword rose with him, so effortless and easy in his grasp. He turned to face Lenk and the young man blanched. The man’s face was cold and stony, a mountain-side carved by eternal sleet. His eyes were a bright and glowing blue, glistening with a malevolence unmarred by pupils.

‘Look at me,’ the man demanded.

‘I am.’

‘You’re not. You look through me. You look around me. You don’t hear me when I try to speak to you and you refuse to do what must be done.’

Lenk rose to his feet. Despite standing the same height as his counterpart, he couldn’t help but feel as though he was being looked down upon.

‘You don’t say anything I don’t already know,’ he retorted.

‘You know nothing.’

‘I know how to kill.’

‘And I have taught you.’

‘I taught myself.’

‘You’re not listening to me.’

‘I am.’

‘Are you aware of what we are?’ the man asked. ‘Are you aware of what we do? What we have done? What we were created to do?’ The man’s eyes narrowed to angry