Tome of the Undergates

Flesh, he knew, did not do that.

‘Leave the dead where they lie.’ Whatever authority Asper hoped to carry slipped through the sudden crack in her voice. She drew in a sharp breath, quickly composing herself. ‘The thing’s almost naked; it doesn’t have anything you can take.’

His attentions were fixed solely on the thing lying at his feet. The rogue leaned forwards intently, studying it. Its own body had begun to pool beneath it. He let out a breath as he leaned closer and the tiny gust of air sent the thing’s skin rippling once more.

‘Leave it,’ Asper said.

Curiosity, however morbid, drove his finger even as common sense begged him to stay his hand. He prodded the thing’s hairless, round head and found no resistance. His finger sank into the skin as though it were a thick pudding and when he pulled it back, a perfect oval fingerprint was left in its skull.

No bones.

‘Sweet Silf.’ His breath came short as he turned to regard Asper. ‘What did you do to him?’

She opened her mouth to reply, eyes wide, lips quivering. A scream emerged, though not her own, and echoed off the timbers. Immediately, whatever fear had been smeared across her face was replaced with stern resolution as she glowered at him.

‘Leave the dead,’ she hissed one last time before seizing her staff in both hands and tearing out of the room into the corridor.

Ordinarily, he might have pressed further questions, despite her uncharacteristically harsh tone. Ordinarily, he might have left whatever had screamed to her, given that she could clearly handle it. It was simple greedy caution that urged him to his feet and at her back, the instinct inherent in all adventurers to protect their source of pay.

The scream had, after all, come from the direction of Miron’s room.

He doesn’t know, Asper told herself as they hurried down the corridor, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know. He won’t ask questions. He’s not smart enough. He won’t tell. He doesn’t know.

His long legs easily overtook her. She sensed his eyes upon her, angled her head down.

The litany of reassurances she forced upon herself proved futile. Her mind remained clenched with possibility. What if he didn’t need to ask questions? He had seen the corpse, seen what it was. He saw her sobbing. He was a coward, a brigand, but not a moron. He could be replaying it in his mind, as she did now, seeing the creature leaping from the dark, seeing her hand rise up instinctively, hearing the frog-thing scream. .

He heard the scream.

Stop it, stop it, STOP IT! He doesn’t know. . don’t. . don’t think about it now. Think about the Lord Emissary. Think about the other scream. Think about-

Her thoughts and her fervent rush came to a sudden halt as she collided with Denaos’s broad back. Immediately, fear was replaced by anger as she shoved her way past him, ready to unleash a verbal hellstorm upon him. But his eyes were not for her. He stared out into the corridor, mouth open, eyes unblinking.

She followed his gaze, looking down the hall, and found herself sharing his expression, eyes going wide with horror.

‘L–Lord Emissary,’ she gasped breathlessly.

A pale corpse lay at Evenhands’ feet, motionless in a pool of rapidly leaking blood. Miron’s sunken shoulders rose and fell with staggered breaths, his hands trembled at his sides. The blues and whites of his robes were tainted black with his attacker’s blood. The elderly gentleness of his face was gone, replaced by wrinkles twisted with undiluted fury.

‘Evenhands,’ Denaos said, moving forwards tentatively. ‘Are you all right?’

The priest’s head jerked up with such sudden anger as to force the rogue back a step. His eyes were narrowed to black slits, his lips curled in a toothy snarl. Then, with unnatural swiftness, his face untwisted to reveal a bright-eyed gaze punctuated by a broad, gentle smile.

‘I am well. Thank you for your concern,’ he replied in a trembling breath. ‘Forgive the scene. One of these. .’ he looked down at the pale man disdainfully, ‘brutes attacked me as I went to see what was happening on deck.’

‘We’re still under attack, Lord Emissary,’ Asper said, stepping forwards. ‘It would be safer if you remained in your quarters.’

‘Yes, of course,’ he replied with a shaking nod. ‘But. . be careful out there, my friends. These are no mere pirates.’

‘What do you mean, Lord Emissary?’ Asper asked, tilting her head at the priest.

As Miron opened his mouth to reply, he was cut off by a sudden response from Denaos.

‘It’s the tattoos,’ the rogue said, eyeing the priest, ‘isn’t it?’

‘Indeed.’ Miron’s reply was grim. ‘They are adornments of an order who serve a power far crueller than any pirate. Their appearance here is. . unexpected.’

‘A power?’ Asper asked, frowning. ‘They’re. . priests?’

‘Of a sort.’

‘Then why do they side with the pirates, Lord Emissary?’

‘There is no time to explain,’ Miron replied urgently. ‘Your friends require your aid above.’ He raised his hands in a sign of benediction. ‘Go forth, and Talanas be with you in your-’

A door slammed further down the corridor. Miron whirled about, Denaos and Asper looking over his shoulders to spy the fifth intruder darting away from the direction of the priest’s quarters. He paused to regard the trio warily for a moment, clutching a square silk pouch tightly to his chest.

‘Drop that, you filth!’ Miron roared with a fury not befitting his fragile frame.

The creature’s reply was a mouth opened to reveal twin rows of pointed, serrated teeth in a feral hiss. Without another moment’s hesitation, he stuffed his prize into a burlap sack and tore down the hallway.

‘Stop him!’ Miron bellowed, charging after the fleeing infiltrator. ‘STOP HIM! He must not have that book!’

‘What’s so important about it?’ Denaos called after him.

The priest did not respond, rushing headlong into the shadows of the hold. Denaos opened his mouth to repeat the question, but the breath was knocked from him as Asper shoved her way past, hurrying after the priest. With a sigh, Denaos shook his head and sprinted after them both.

Pirates, boneless beasts, books worth dying for, he thought grimly, all in one day. Whatever distressed young ladies are rescued from this mess had better be disgustingly grateful.

Five

COUNTING KOU’RU

Screaming from above, an arrow caught a tardy pirate crawling across the chain. It struck deep into his neck, forcing a blood-choked gurgle from the man as he lost his grip on the bridge of links and went tumbling headfirst into the churning waters below.

‘Eight,’ Kataria remarked, nocking another arrow.

Her bowstring sang a melancholy dirge for the next pirate struck, the shict grinning as he fell to join his companion in the liquid tomb.

‘Nine,’ she added, drawing another missile.

‘Stop it,’ Quillian growled in response, levelling her crossbow towards the deck. ‘You’re shattering my concentration. ’

‘You have to concentrate to lose?’ Kataria asked coolly as she loosed her arrow. ‘How sad. Ten.’