Tome of the Undergates

darts.

‘Are those. . men?’

Lenk blinked; they were indeed men. Bereft of hair, bereft of clothing save for what appeared to be black loincloths wrapped about narrow waists, a small company of men swam towards the ship with unnerving speed. In bursts of white froth, they leapt from the sea, arms folded, legs pressed tightly together, in a flash of bone-white and black, before diving below the waves to re-emerge moments later.

‘Oh, no, no, no.’ The captain’s growl had degenerated into a sharp whimper as he pointed out to sea. ‘No, no, not now, not now!’

The Linkmaster had closed with such swiftness as to make it seem like a shadow upon the waves cast by the Riptide, a trailing darkness that quickly shifted, gaining on its prey. Lenk could see faces, tattoos, nicked blades clearly. More than that, he could see their chain, its massive links attached to a great spear ending in a claw, once more loaded in the massive ballista.

‘This is what they were waiting for-’ Lenk muttered.

‘This is all your fault!’

He whirled at the accusation, facing a wide-eyed, clenched-teeth Argaol.

‘My fault?’

‘You and your wretched blasphemies! Your wretched God and your wretched profession! You’ve brought the damned wrath of the Gods on my ship!’

‘Why, you simpering piece of-’

‘BOARDERS! WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!’ The call rang out from the deck.

‘AGAIN!’ someone added.

Argaol’s mask of scorn was quickly replaced with shock. ‘Well?’ he demanded harshly.

‘Well, what?’ Lenk responded, equally vicious.

‘Get down there!’

‘You just called me wretched. Why should I do anything you say?’

‘Because you’re on the Lord Emissary’s coin, the Lord Emissary’s on my ship and my ship is about to be simultaneously boarded by Rashodd’s boys and. .’ his face screwed up as he searched for the words, ‘some manner of fish-men.’

‘They look more like frogs from up here, Captain,’ Sebast offered.

‘That had occurred to me,’ Lenk replied, stroking his hairless chin and hoping that was as effective as caressing a beard. ‘And rest assured, I’ll get right on it. . after you pay.’

Shock, anger and incredulity gave way to a moment of sheer, unexpected consternation on the captain’s face.

‘Pay?’

‘Blasphemers live by coin.’

‘Are you actually trying to extort me while our lives hang in the balance?’

‘I can’t think of a better time for extortion, can you?’

It was a purely bitter demand, Lenk knew, as much motivated by pettiness as pragmatism. Still, he couldn’t deny that it was purely satisfying to watch the captain reach into his pocket and produce a well-worn pouch, hurling it at Lenk as though it was a weapon.

‘Of all the vile creatures you consort with, Mister Lenk,’ he forced through his teeth, ‘you are by far the most disgusting. ’

Lenk weighed the pouch in his hand, hearing the jingle of coins within. Nodding, he tucked it into his own belt.

‘That’s why I’m the leader.’

In a perfect world, Lenk would have faced well-trained ranks of soldier-sailors armed with steel and discipline scrawled on their faces as he arrived on the main deck. In a less-than-perfect but still optimistic scenario, he would have found shaken but stalwart men, armed with whatever they had to hand.

Perfection and optimism, however, were two words he had no use for.

He shoved his way through herds of visibly panicked sailors, shrieking and screaming as they tripped over bodies and fought over the swords their foes had left behind. He didn’t spare a glance for them as he heard the senior members of the crew barking orders, trying to salvage a defence from the mob.

Let them deal with their squealing, milksopping idiots, he advised himself, you’ve got your own psychotic, cowardly idiots to deal with.

The sight of said idiots, for whom hope of perfection or optimism had long ago died a slow and miserable death, was modestly heartening. After all, he reasoned, if they hadn’t already looted the bodies and fled he could likely hope for them to put up a fight long enough to abandon him in the middle of it.

Gariath stood at the centre of the deck, Dreadaeleon little more than a dwarf beside his towering form. Kataria and Denaos were at arms, arrow drawn and dagger at the ready. Quillian stood distanced from them, a crossbow strapped on her back to complement her sword; why she lingered, Lenk could only guess. Perhaps she wished to be present to deliver a smug lecture as they lay dying shortly before being impaled herself.

If Khetashe loved him, he thought, he’d be dead first.

‘Where’s Asper?’ he asked, noting the absence of the priestess.

‘Tending to the wounded below before tending to the soon-to-be dead above,’ Denaos replied. ‘As well as saying whatever prayers she says before engaging in acts of futility.’

‘You’re not showing her the proper respect,’ Dreadaeleon snapped, lifting his chin.

‘Warriors get respect. Humans get their faces caved in,’ Gariath rumbled as he turned a black scowl upon the rogue. ‘You will get a pair of soiled pants the moment someone turns their back so you can run.’

‘If you happen to turn your back on me, monster,’ Denaos forced through clenched teeth as he flipped his dagger about in his hand, ‘it won’t be running I do.’

‘So rarely,’ Lenk interjected with as much ire as he could force into his voice, ‘do I find an opportunity where I’m actually pleased you people are around. Would you mind terribly waiting until this uncomfortable feeling has passed to kill each other?’ He pointed over the railing to the fast-approaching black ship. ‘In a few breaths, we’ll be swarming with pirates and Gods know what else is swimming up to the ship. If you’ve any intention of surviving long enough to maim each other, you’ll listen to me.’

Indignant scowls, resentful stares and frustrated glowers met him. Not quite the attention he was hoping to command, but good enough.

‘They’ll be upon us shortly,’ he continued, ‘they outnumber us, outarm us-’

‘“Outarm” isn’t a word,’ Dreadaeleon interrupted.

‘Shut up,’ Lenk spat before proceeding, ‘and are likely slightly irate at our having killed some of them. It’s not an impossible fight, but we’ll have to bleed them, make them pay for every step.’

At the angry call of a gull from above, his eyes drifted towards the top of the central mast. The Riptide’s flag, with its insignia of a roiling wave encircling a golden coin, flapped with brazen majesty despite the blood spilled beneath it. His eyes settled on the flag for only a moment, however, before he found the tiny crow’s nest perched beneath the banner.

‘Kataria, Squiggy,’ he said, glancing at the crossbow resting on the latter’s back, ‘you’re both archers.’

‘Sniper,’ the Serrant corrected sharply.

‘What’s the difference?’ Kataria quirked a brow.

‘It is purpose and duty, not mere coin and savage lust, that drive my arrows.’ Quillian puffed up proudly. ‘I’ve twice the skill, twice the authority,’ she paused, casting a disparaging glance at the shict’s muscular, naked midriff, ‘and about half a tunic more.’

‘Whatever,’ Lenk interjected before Kataria could do more than scowl and open her mouth. ‘I need you both to climb up there and-’

‘I serve a higher calling than you, heathen,’ the Serrant interrupted with a sneering growl. ‘Do you suppose I am one of your raving lunatics to command like a hound?’

‘I suppose you’d be interested in preserving the life of your employer, as well as that of the priestess below,’ Lenk retorted sharply. ‘Listen to me and you can avoid earning yourself another red