Tome of the Undergates

Not a proper ending.

The wind shifted, leaves rustled and she felt a sudden warmth on her back. Whirling about, she couldn’t help a twinge of pity at the sight of the sun shining through an opening in the foliage. The last man hadn’t been ten paces away from reaching open ground.

Then again, she realised, whatever finally got them likely wouldn’t be put off by sunshine and white sand.

It occurred to her that she ought to return to Lenk and have him listen to the story, as well. He was likely still in the same spot she had left him in, she thought with no small amount of resentment. In fact, if he hadn’t moved, whatever unnamed character had ended the three men would likely stumble upon him sooner or later.

Then again. . Her ears twitched thoughtfully. Is there any need to, really? If these deaths were recent, you would have heard them, wouldn’t you? A man who pisses himself doesn’t go silently. Whatever killed them is likely far and away, right?

Right.

She took a step forwards.

And what if it does come across him? He’s a big human. . fully grown, or so he says. He can take care of himself. And if he doesn’t, what’s it matter? He’s just one more human, soon to be one less human. For the better, right?

Right. Let’s go, then.

Her foot hesitated, having not apparently heard the mental debate. She looked down at the ground and sighed.

Damn it.

Of course she had to go back for him. He had been helpless, curled up on the ground like a mewling infant. An infant with a giant sword, she thought, but regardless. Her pride could not be his end; pride was a human flaw. While he might be human, he was one of her humans.

She rolled her shoulders, adjusting her bow, and began to trudge back across the trail. She had taken only half a step before an epilogue revealed itself.

A sudden aroma, growing stronger with the change in the wind, filled her nose. She glanced over her shoulder, peering towards the beach, and saw the smoke. Like ghosts, wisps of grey casually rolled across the breeze, drifting further down the shore.

In another twitch of her nostrils, the smoke became heavy with stench, thick with the aroma of overcooked meat. Choked screams carried on its long, grey tendrils. Her ears quivered, nostrils flared as she reached for her bow.

She forgot Lenk, helpless and mewling, and turned towards the beach. He would wait, she knew, and be there when she returned.

For the moment, Kataria had to see how the story ended.

Fourteen

THE PREACHER

‘Where is it going?’

‘The slave returns to its master, the parasite to its host.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘You cannot sense it?’

‘I can hear.’

‘Then follow.’

There was no choice in the matter. Lenk’s feet moved regardless of his approval, legs swinging up and down methodically, heedless of roots and undergrowth. He was aware of the numbness, but did nothing to fight it. He was aware of the fact that he was talking to a voice in his head, but did not cease to speak.

It had spoken with much less ferocity, much less coldness in its words. It no longer felt like a verbal vice, crushing his skull in icy fingers. Now, it felt like instinct, like common sense.

Now, it felt right.

‘Help me,’ another voice called, ‘please, Zamanthras, help me!’

That particular shrieking still grated on him.

He glanced up; the Omen seemed in no great hurry, pulling its plump body from branch to branch on spindly legs. It occasionally stopped to glance down at him, as if making certain he still followed. When he stumbled over a root, it paused and waited for him to catch up.

‘It wants us to follow it,’ Lenk muttered. ‘It’s leading us to a trap.’

‘It leads us to an inevitability,’ the voice replied. ‘Its master knows of us now, it wants us to find it.’

‘So it can kill us.’

‘So it can find out if it can kill us.’

‘Can it?’

No answer.

The Omen took another hop forwards and vanished into the jungle’s gloom, the sound of feathers in its wake. Lenk followed, pressing through a thicket of branches. The leaves clung to him, as though struggling to hold him back. He paid them no mind, brushing them away and emerging from the greenery.

The sun felt strange upon his skin, hostile and unwelcoming. He could spare only a moment’s thought for it before glancing down at the wide mouth and bulbous eyes that stared up at him.

‘Sea Mother,’ it echoed from its gaping mouth, ‘benevolent matron and blessed watcher, forgive me my sins and wash me clean.’

A Zamanthran prayer, he recognised, desperate and brimming with fear. The idea of saving whoever the Omen mimicked was nothing more than an afterthought now and Lenk was no longer moved by it. The parasite sensed this, chattering its teeth at him and ruffling its feathers.

‘No more,’ he said, ‘show me.’

The Omen bobbed its miniature head, twisted it about so that it stared at Lenk upside down, then hopped a few steps and took flight. Lenk followed its low, lazy hover across the beach. The forest had not completely abandoned the sand, it seemed, and trees, however sparse, still stretched out their green grasp.

Lush, he thought, but not lush enough to detract from the bodies.

They were Cragsmen, or had been before the Omens had begun their feast. Now the plump demons cloaked them like feathery funeral shrouds, prodding with their long noses, tearing digits off and shredding tattooed flesh in yellow, needle-like teeth. In ravenous flocks, they devoured, slurping skin into their inner-lips and crunching bones in their wide jaws, leaving nothing behind.

Nothing but the faces.

The two men looked to be in repose. Their eyes were closed, mouths shut with only the faintest of smiles tugging at their lips. Perfectly untouched, their faces were pristine and almost pleasant against the mutilated murals of red and pink their bodies had become.

In fact, were it not for the faint glisten of mucus draped upon their visages, they looked as though they were simply napping in the afternoon sun, ready to awaken at any moment, shrieking at what had ravaged their bodies. Lenk could see the shimmer of the ooze, see where it had plugged up their noses, their ears, sealed their lips. These men would never wake again.

The Omens glanced up as he took a step forwards, regarded him for a moment through their unblinking eyes, then rose as one from the corpses. On silent wings, they glided down to the beach to the sole remaining tree, settling within its boughs to stare at him, a dozen eyes bulging through the leaves like great white fruits.

It was only when Lenk drew closer that he noticed the trunk of the tree. It was not slender and smooth, as the others were, but rough and misshapen on one side, as though it suffered some festering tumour.

As he approached it, he felt the noise die in one thunderous hush. There were no more birds singing, no