Tome of the Undergates

Settling for an icy stare at Denaos’s nonchalant expression, he raised the waterskin to her lips, pulling his hand back as she swatted at it.

‘I’m not an invalid, round-ear,’ she growled, shaking his arm off from around her. After a few frenzied gulps, she wiped her mouth. ‘What happened, anyway?’

‘We were hoping you might tell us,’ Asper piped up. ‘Denaos and I came at the sound of screaming.’

‘Late,’ Lenk muttered.

‘Cautiously late,’ Denaos shot back.

‘At any rate,’ Asper continued, ‘we found you unconscious and the whole beach scorched halfway to heaven.’

‘Hell,’ Denaos corrected.

‘What about Lenk?’ Kataria asked.

‘What about Lenk?’

‘He was here. He saw what happened.’

‘I don’t recall.’ The young man offered a helpless shrug. ‘We were hit pretty hard.’

Kataria’s breath caught; she levelled a hard gaze at him.

‘We. .’

‘Yeah,’ he nodded, ‘you and me.’

‘The demon bashed him good,’ Asper added. ‘He was just coming out of it when we arrived.’

He wasn’t out, Kataria thought.

The visions bloomed in her mind: the onyx sheen of the Abysmyth’s black blood, the surgical silver of Lenk’s sword. They flooded through her with grotesque vividness, matched only by the horrifying sounds that replayed in her mind.

‘MOMMY! MOMMY! IT HURTS!’ She recalled the demon’s wailing voice. ‘MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP!’

Lenk had said nothing.

Someone else had.

‘Stay,’ it had uttered through his mouth, ‘we kill.’

Whoever had spoken had leaned over her, stood with flesh grey as stone and eyes blue as winter.

Someone not Lenk. .

‘Whichever of you did whatever,’ Denaos added with a grimace, ‘someone seems to have hit the demon back. . rather hard.’

‘The demon.’ Kataria’s head snapped up. ‘What happened to it?’

The Omen hopped across the sand, sweeping bulbous eyes over the chaos. Despite the smoke seeping into the two gourd-like organs, the thing did not so much as blink. It recalled, vaguely, in what served as its mind, that there had been more of it just a moment ago.

Then there was noise, noise that hurt its ears. It didn’t care for that noise, so it stayed away. Now, there were none of it left. It turned about, faced the sea and tilted its head. There was one of it there moments ago, it believed. It chattered its teeth, calling to the other.

All that answered it was the sound of wind and a great, black shadow quickly falling over it.

‘Disgusting,’ Gariath muttered, wiping thick, black fluid off the sole of his foot.

It wasn’t so much the texture of the thing’s blood, reminiscent of a large beetle’s, that irritated him as it was the smell. He cast a dark scowl over the beach: sand still pumping acrid smoke into the air, fighting the stinging salty reek for dominance, as the stinking panoply of electricity, blood and fear congealed into a fine, vile perfume.

With a growl, he gave the Omen’s corpse a kick, sending it spiralling through the air like a feathery, blood- dripping ball to plop at the top of a heap of similar misshapen amalgamations. Gathering them in one spot did nothing for the odour.

With a sigh, Gariath thrust his snout into the air once more, testing it. Nothing but the stink of carnage and fire reached his nostrils. He found his fists tightening of their own volition, his skin threatening to burst under his claws. Every whiff of the air only brought him more of the same stinks, denying him any other scents.

So close, he snarled internally, I was so close. I was right on top of it. . then THIS!

The beach’s odour had struck him like a wave, drowning all other aromas. It was only because of its sheer overwhelming stench that he had come to it and found two worthless humans agonising over two other worthless humans.

At that moment, he had excused himself to hunt down the remaining Omens that had been hopping aimlessly around the sands. He needed something to vent his rage upon and crushing the tiny parasites seemed only slightly more appropriate than crushing his companions; besides, one of them was already dead.

The Omens, of course, had provided no sport whatsoever. They merely stood there, idle, waiting to die. They didn’t even make a sound when he stepped on them, save for one final chatter of teeth.

‘Barely worth killing,’ he muttered.

‘Well, thanks for doing it, anyway,’ someone spoke up.

He found his mood further soured with the appearance of his companions trudging up the beach, the pointy- eared one barely standing. He snorted contemptuously at her.

‘Don’t look so weary,’ he growled, ‘it’s not as though being killed is some vast ordeal.’ He spat on the ground. ‘If it was so hard, not everyone would do it.’

‘Well, thanks for that,’ she replied, blinking at the large pile of lifeless Omens. ‘So. . been busy?’

‘Hardly,’ he grunted. ‘Whatever was here before you did all the work.’

‘Before?’ Asper cocked a brow. ‘I didn’t see anyone else.’

‘Well, you didn’t think those two imbeciles could have done all this, did you?’ He swept a hand out over the beach, levelling a finger at the frogmen, still frozen even as the sun scattered the last of the smoke. ‘There were others here. You could smell them, if you were me.’ He snorted. ‘But you’re not.’

‘A shame I live with every waking moment,’ Denaos muttered. ‘Who else was here, then?’

‘Longfaces,’ Lenk replied curtly. ‘The Abysmyth said as much before it died.’

‘It did,’ Kataria agreed. ‘I found tracks to support it, too.’

‘You can tell how long someone’s face is by their tracks?’

‘I can tell how many people were fighting, idiot,’ she snarled back. ‘Not that I needed tracks to tell me there was a fight around here.’

‘Regardless,’ Lenk continued, ‘whoever these people were and however long their faces are, they didn’t leave anything behind to let us know what they’re up to.’

‘What they’re up to?’ Asper sounded incredulous as she gestured to a nearby tree, split apart by whatever magic had rent it. ‘How could anyone that does this be up to anything we want to be a part of?’

‘Leave it to a zealot to leap to conclusions,’ Denaos countered snidely. ‘What our dear floor-kisser is missing is the fact that these longfaces not only did this, but they also did that.’

He didn’t even have to gesture to draw everyone’s attention to the hanging Abysmyth.

A particularly fierce gust of wind kicked up, causing the creature’s lanky legs to rattle against each other, flecks of charred skin peeling off. The icicle spike that kept it impaled in the air showed no signs of thawing in the sun, shining ominously as its scorched captive continued to stare up at the sky through empty eye sockets.

‘How is this even a matter for debate?’ Denaos held his hands out helplessly. ‘We want Abysmyths dead. Longfaces kill Abysmyths. We should, obviously, find them and kiss whichever part of their anatomy will make them die instead of us.’

‘Afraid of a little death, are we?’ Gariath mused grimly.

‘Yes, I am afraid of death,’ the rogue responded curtly, ‘that’s a brilliant observation.’ He turned to Lenk. ‘Listen, you, of all people, must see the wisdom in this. These aren’t pirates we’re fighting. Whatever help we can get, we need.’

‘I didn’t think you would want to share the reward,’ the young man replied.

‘I’m wagering our yet-unseen friends don’t do this for mere gold.’