Tome of the Undergates

reflection contemplatively. Of course, that’s not likely to happen, given that they’re probably all dead, her included. . if you’re that lucky.

Something caught his eye. Upon the intruder’s offensively white biceps lay a smear of the deepest crimson. Denaos arched a brow; he didn’t remember cutting either of the creatures on their arms.

He knelt to study the puny, pale limb. It was a tattoo, that much he recognised instantly: a pair of skeletal jaws belonging to some horrid fish encircled by a twisted halo of tentacles. And, he noted with a cringe, it had been scrawled none too neatly, as though with a blade instead of a needle.

As morbid curiosity compelled him to look closer, he found that their tattoos were the least unpleasant of their features.

They lacked any sort of body hair, not the slightest wisp to prevent their black leathers from clinging to them like secondary skins. Their eyes, locked wide in death, lacked any discernible pupil or iris, orbs of obsidian set in greying whites. A glimpse of bone caught his eye; against an instinct that begged him not to, he removed a dagger and peeled back the creature’s lip with the tip.

Rows of needle-like, serrated teeth flashed stark white against black gums.

‘Sweet Silf,’ he muttered, recoiling.

A panicked cry echoed through the halls of the hold, drawing his attention up. He rose to his feet and sprang to the door in one fluid movement. As he reached for the lock, he paused, glancing over his shoulder at the dead frogmen behind. His hand faltered as he pondered the possibility of facing one of these creatures and their sharp teeth from the front.

Slowly, he lowered his hand from the door.

Someone shrieked again and his ears pricked up. A woman.

The door flew open.

Perhaps, he speculated, some sassy young thing slinking down the hall had run afoul of one of the creatures and now cowered in a corner as the intruder menaced her. It was an unspoken rule that distressed damsels were obliged to yield a gratuity that frequently involved tongues.

Surely, he reasoned, that’s worth delivering another quick knife to the kidneys. . of course, she’s probably dead, you know. He cursed himself as he rounded a corner. Stop that thinking. If you go ruining your fantasies with reality, what’s the point of-

A shriek ripped through his thoughts. Not a woman, he realised, or at least no woman he would want to slip his tongue into. The scream was a long, dirty howl: a rusty blade being drawn from a sheath, a filthy, festering, vocal wound.

And, he noted, it was emerging through a nearby door.

His feet acted before his mind could, instinctively sliding into soft, cat-like strides as he pressed himself to the cabin wall. The dagger that leapt to his hand spoke of heroism, trying to drown out the voice of reason in his head.

You can see the logic in this, can’t you? he told himself. It’s not like anyone’s really expecting you to come dashing up to save them.

The door creaked open slightly, no hand behind it. He continued forwards.

In fact, I doubt anyone will even have harsh words for you. It’s been about a year you’ve all been together, right? Maybe less … a few months, perhaps; regardless, the point is that no one is really all that surprised when you run away.

He edged closer to the door. The sound of breathing, heavy and laboured, could be heard.

And this won’t solve anything. Nothing changes, even if she isn’t dead. His mind threw doubt at him as a delinquent throws stones. You won’t be any braver for it. You won’t be a hero. You’ll still be the same cowardly thug, the same disgusting wretch who gutted-

Enough. He drew in a breath, weak against the panting emerging from behind the door.

But it was not the kind of panting he had expected, not the laboured, glutted gasps of a creature freshly satiated or a fiend with blood on his hands. It was not soft, but hardly ragged. The breathing turned to heaving, someone fighting back vomit, choked on saliva. There was a short, staggered gasp, followed by a weak and pitiful sound.

Sobbing.

Without pausing to reflect on the irony of being emboldened by such a thing, Denaos took an incautious step into the shadowy cabin. Amidst the crates and barrels was a dark shape, curled up against the cargo like a motherless cub, desperately trying to hide. It shuddered with each breath, shivering down a slender back. Brown hair hung messily about its shoulders.

No pale monstrosities here, he confirmed to himself, none that you don’t know, anyway.

‘Odd that I should find you here,’ he said as he strode into the room, ‘cringing in a corner when you should be protecting the Lord Emissary.’

Hypocrite.

‘I protected the Lord Emissary. .’ Asper said, more to herself than to him. Silver glinted in the shadows; he could see her stroking her phoenix pendant with a fervent need. ‘They came aboard. . things. . frogs. . men, I don’t know.’

‘Where?’ His dagger was instantly raised, his back already finding the wall.

She raised her left arm and pointed towards the edge of the room. The sleeve of her robe was destroyed completely, hanging in tatters around her shoulder, baring a pale limb. Following her finger, he spied it: the invader lay dead against the wall, limbs lazily at its sides, as though it were taking a nap.

‘Lovely work,’ he muttered, noting her staff lying near the corpse. ‘What? Did you bash its head in?’ She did not reply, provoking a cocked eyebrow. ‘Are you crying?’

‘No,’ she said, though the quiver of her voice betrayed her. ‘It. . it was a rough fight. I’m. . you know, I’m coming down.’

‘Coming down?’ He slinked towards her. ‘What are you-’

‘I’m fine!’ She whirled on him angrily, teeth bared like a snarling beast as she pulled herself to her feet. ‘It was a fight. He’s dead now. I didn’t need you to come looking for me.’

Tears quivered in her eyes as glistening liquid pooled beneath her nose. She stood sternly, back erect, head held high, though her legs trembled slightly. Unusual, he thought, given that the priestess hoarded her tears as though they were gold. Even surrounded by death, she rarely mourned or grieved in the view of others, considering her companions too blasphemous to take in that sight.

And yet, here she stood before him, almost as tall as he, though appearing so much smaller, so much meeker.

‘There are. .’ She turned her head away, as if sensing his scrutinising judgement. ‘There are more of those things around.’

‘There were, yes,’ Denaos replied. ‘I took care of them.’

‘Took care of them how?’

‘How do you think?’ he asked, sheathing his dagger. ‘I found the other two and did it quietly.’

‘Two?’ She turned to him with concern in her eyes. ‘There were four others besides this one’

‘You’re mistaken, I only saw two.’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I caught a glimpse of them from the porthole as they swam by. There were five in all.’

‘Five, huh,’ Denaos said, scratching his chin. ‘I suppose I can take care of the other two.’

‘Assuming they aren’t looking,’ she grumbled, retrieving her staff. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Are you certain?’ he asked, his tone slightly insulting as he looked her up and down. ‘It’s not like you should feel a need to fight.’ He glanced at the pale corpse against the wall. ‘After all, you took care of this one well enough.’

He blinked as the thing shifted beneath his eyes. It did not stir, it did not rise. Its movement was so subtle it might have been missed by anyone else. Yet, as he took a step forwards, the body responded to his foot striking the floor. It quivered, sending tiny ripples through the flesh as though it were water.