Tome of the Undergates

Even as he continued to advance, his sword held high, still she did not seem to recognise his intent. She cocked her head, regarding him curiously. Good; better that she focus on him than look behind her. Better she lock eyes with him than be tempted to follow his gaze over her shoulder.

If she did, she might have seen Denaos looming up behind her, a long knife clenched in one hand.

The rogue’s scowl was as cold as his hand was quick. He slipped a gloved hand around and clasped it over her mouth, bringing his dagger up beneath her chin as she tried momentarily to struggle against his long fingers.

‘Shh,’ he whispered as he might to an infant, ‘no sounds, no singing.’ The tip of his blade scraped the bottom of her chin. ‘Don’t you scream.’

‘STOP!’

Had the command come from anyone else, Denaos would have cut out her jugular and autographed it before anyone could object. However, the shrill, excited voice forced his blade to a trembling halt a hair’s width from turning the female into a cut of choice meat.

He glowered over the woman’s head at the boy standing on trembling legs before him. His face was grave, breath ragged; hardly the sort of visage that should expect to have its commands obeyed, Denaos thought resentfully.

‘She needs our help,’ Dreadaeleon gasped, even speaking an ordeal.

The rogue glanced from Gariath, unconscious, to Kataria, squirming like a worm on the ground, back to Dreadaeleon.

‘What, seriously?’

‘Let her speak,’ the wizard said, nodding furiously, ‘and she’ll explain.’

‘Don’t do it, Denaos,’ Lenk ordered, ‘she just struck Gariath dead.’

‘The lizard’s still breathing,’ Denaos noted. ‘I’d be hard pressed not to release her had she actually killed him.’ He tugged her closer, bringing his knife a little further up. ‘As it stands-’

‘STOP!’ Dreadaeleon shrieked again. ‘She hasn’t hurt them. Kataria and Gariath will both be fine!’

‘Here’s a funny fact,’ the rogue spat. ‘Even if you say something a heap of times, it doesn’t actually make it come true.’ He levelled a murderous scowl upon his captive. ‘We should kill her before she has a chance to do to us what she did to them.’

‘She won’t!’ the wizard protested.

‘Well, of course she won’t if I stick her now.’

‘I mean she won’t at all,’ the boy added hotly, ‘not if you let her go. Otherwise, she might-’

‘Not if I jam a six-finger piece of steel in her face,’ the rogue interrupted. ‘Sweet Silf, man, try to keep up.’

Dreadaeleon made a motion to protest further, but instead turned two big, brown, puppy-like eyes to Lenk, pleading.

‘Lenk, she means us no harm. You’ve got to believe me.’

‘Oh, that’s fair,’ Denaos sneered, ‘go to Lenk for aid.’ He turned to the young man. ‘The boy might have been bewitched by her. Who says his words are his own?’

‘I say that you might be an imbecile but it’s far more likely that you’re a bloodthirsty moron! She was only defending herself!’

‘She attacked us first!’

‘Gariath attacked her first!’ The boy gritted his teeth. ‘Gariath always attacks first!’ He looked to Lenk once more, eyes going so wide they might roll out of his head. ‘Lenk, please. .’

The young man remained unmoving, silent for a long moment. He glanced from the unconscious dragonman to the curled-up shict, to the creature with green hair who looked remarkably calm for a woman-fish-thing that had a knife to her throat. He only spoke when the stand-off was joined by a red-faced Asper rushing up to meet them.

‘Asper,’ he gestured with his chin, ‘have a look at Kat and Gariath. See if they’re well.’

‘What?’ she asked, breathless. ‘Who’s well? What’s happening? ’ She glanced over at the strange captive. ‘Who’s she?’

‘We’re a little busy here, Asper.’

The priestess seemed to want to argue, but had no breath for it. With a muttered curse and a wave of her hand, she stalked towards her prone companions.

‘Release her, Denaos,’ Lenk commanded. ‘Keep your knife ready, though. Gut her if she moves funny.’

‘She’s going to move funny eventually,’ the rogue grunted. ‘It’d be easier to gut her now.’

‘Just do as I say.’

With a grudging snarl, Denaos took a cautious step away, releasing the woman. Both he and Lenk kept their weapons at the ready as the young man approached the creature with a grim look in his eyes.

‘If you’ve injured anyone here,’ he uttered, ‘I’ll take your head before he has a chance to gut you.’ He flashed a threatening gaze at Dreadaeleon. ‘And if you try to stop me, Denaos will take yours.’

He let that threat hang in the air as all parties exchanged wary glances. All save the female, who merely smiled as she opened her mouth and spoke in a lyrical, reverberating tune.

‘If all death threats have been finished, I should like to solicit your aid.’

Nineteen

LOUD AND NEEDY

While all men can lie through their mouths, and a select few have a talent for lying through their eyes, no man can disguise intent evident in his buttocks.

Lenk’s grandfather had said that, or so the young man thought, and while it seemed almost insulting that he would ever find cause to recall such a morsel of wisdom, there was no denying that it was applicable.

Buttocks were firmly entrenched, steeped in tiny sand pits carved of hatred and suspicion. Only Lenk’s glare, perpetually flitting between his companions, kept them seated.

It had taken no small effort to get them there in the first place. After discerning that Kataria and Gariath were well enough, it took the strength of all mortal creatures and the possibility of an impending execution to bring their buttocks to the earth in a circle.

Ensconced between them, like a wiry silver battle line, Lenk kept his sword naked in his lap, eyes darting between his companions and the pale creature across from him.

She was a sight that demanded attention. Her features were human enough, in principle: a face filled with discernible angles, five fingers and toes, though webbed, and a long river of hair, though bright green. Her feathery gills, vaguely blue skin and the crest that occasionally rose upon the crown of her head, however, left the young man’s buttocks clenched with caution.

Yet whenever she spoke, they became uncomfortably loose.

‘I am once again asking for forgiveness.’ Her voice was audible liquid, slithering on ripples into his head and reverberating throughout. ‘Had I known you meant no harm, I would not have used my voice.’

Lenk frowned at that; before now, he hadn’t thought of a voice as a weapon. Before now, he wouldn’t have believed it could be used as one.

‘WHAT’D SHE SAY?’

He cringed at the sound of Kataria as she leaned over and yelled at him.

‘SHE APOLOGISED,’ he shouted back.

‘YEAH, SHE BETTER!’ the shict roared.

‘Apologies, again,’ the female said meekly, ‘the deafness should subside before too long.’

‘WHAT’D SHE SAY?’