Tome of the Undergates

THE COLOUR OF PAIN

Irontide was a thing oblivious to the sun.

As dark and foreboding in the bright afternoon as at dusk, it turned a stony and shadowed face to the shore, frowning with its many catapult-carved gashes, grinning with its corpse-laden spikes when the waters receded. A dispassionate monarch of the waves, Irontide was unmoved by the concerned stare that had bored into it since early morning, choosing to show the fate of those who defied it whenever disapproving eyes lingered too long.

The metaphor, Asper decided, was fitting. Irontide was a tyrant, complete with its own crown of parasites.

The Omens shimmered in the afternoon sun, ruffling feathers, heads twisting on stiff necks as they swept their bulbous eyes about the sea. The priestess was not afraid to stand openly upon the beach as she did; the little creatures showed no signs of moving. Rather, she found herself staring at them expectantly, holding her breath every time they chattered their teeth in a chorus, wondering if they would begin mimicking the sounds of her dying companions as they were torn into pieces by whatever lurked within the fortress.

The demons, to their credit, seemed to possess enough tact to spare her such a thing.

And yet, she thought resentfully, even a horrific echo from their withered maws would give her at least some notion of what was going on inside. The Omens gave no indication that they had any more idea than she, and stood as they had for ages: organised in neat, white rows upon the battlements, wide eyes unblinking even as the light of an angry afternoon sun poured mercilessly into them.

A sun, Asper noted, that hung ominously high.

‘Four hours.’ She sighed.

While she hadn’t expected any great outpouring of emotion from her companion, she felt compelled to scowl at Gariath as he stared off towards the jungle, snout upturned and nostrils flickering.

‘Four hours since they went in,’ she reiterated.

Gariath, apparently realising she wasn’t going to be content with showing off her ability to tell time, flared his ear-frills aggressively and glared.

‘And?’

‘Shouldn’t they be back by now?’ she asked.

‘Had I gone with them, they should,’ he snorted. ‘Since I’m here, however, their corpses might wash up in a day or two.’

‘Are you being scornful,’ Asper glared at him, ‘or just insensitive?’

‘I wasn’t aware I had to choose between the two,’ he replied, and turned his attention back to the jungle.

She would have suggested that they go in after their, supposedly, mutual companions, but wisdom held her tongue. Whyever Lenk had decided to go in with only Kataria and Denaos, perhaps two of the less reliable companions, to watch his back, she was certain he had reason.

It seemed to make sense to her, at any rate, since the remaining two members seemed to be less interested than she was. Dreadaeleon sat some distance down the beach, babbling excitedly with Greenhair, who had yet to show even an ounce of concern, despite seeming the most knowledgeable regarding what might happen within the tower. Her apathy seemed to have infected the boy; he hadn’t moved since luring the Omens away with his glamer long enough to allow Lenk and the others to slip in.

As for Gariath, she had to admit she was a tad surprised to see him so calm about being left behind. The dragonman, however, seemed even less concerned than the others. That was only surprising due to his eagerness to kill. Yet even that appeared restrained as he stared towards the jungle, inhaling deeply.

She had been content to allow him whatever eccentricities a two-legged reptile might be entitled to for the first three hours, but after so long without even a bat of his leathery eyelid, she took a step forwards.

‘What are you doing, anyway?’

‘I was ignoring you,’ he replied calmly, ‘but I suppose the spirits don’t love me today, do they?’

‘And these spirits allow you to remain so calm while our friends are possibly being eviscerated in there?’ She gestured fervently to the tower. ‘I must admit, I’m a bit intrigued.’

‘First of all, they’re not all friends to me,’ he grunted. ‘Secondly, the spirits have no use for weak and ugly creatures. ’ He rolled his shoulders. ‘The spirits protect the strong. Lenk is strong. He will survive.’

‘And the others?’

‘Dead,’ he replied. ‘The pointy-eared one might die quicker than the rat, if the spirits are merciful.’

‘I. . see. So, uh. .’ She found herself eager to begin a new topic, if only to take her mind off which chunks of her friends might or might not be in the process of being torn out at that moment. ‘Is it. . the spirits you’re smelling?’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said, inhaling. ‘I’m smelling a memory.’

‘Oh. . well, I guess that makes sense.’ She scratched her head. ‘What are the spirits, anyway?’

‘You wouldn’t understand.’

‘Oh, of course I wouldn’t.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Perhaps the only person of worldly faith amongst this whole Godless band of heathens, and I, of course, wouldn’t understand the religion of a walking, bloodthirsty lizard.’

‘No, you wouldn’t.’ The dragonman’s tone was decidedly calm for the accusation. Or at least distracted, Asper thought; either way, she resisted the urge to take off running. He simply drew in a deep breath. ‘It’s not a religion.’

‘Then what is it?’

‘Live well, protect the family,’ Gariath grunted. ‘And the spirits are honoured enough to give you the strength to do it.’

‘So. . it is a religion.’ She chanced a step forwards. ‘I mean, it’s not so different amongst us. . er, amongst humans.’

‘So I’ve noticed,’ he replied without looking at her. ‘Humans are rather fond of having so many different weak Gods from whom they claim to draw strength. And with that strength, they try to kill everyone who doesn’t kneel before the right weak God.’ He chuckled blackly. ‘And somehow, no weak God gives their followers enough strength to truly bless the world and wipe each other out. There are always more humans.’

‘Well, that’s not quite how it works. I mean, Talanas is the Healer, He-’

‘Gives you the strength to clean up after the other weak Gods’ messes,’ Gariath interrupted. ‘I suppose I have you to thank for knowing all this about humans and their useless faiths, since you never shut up about them.’

Asper self-consciously rubbed her left arm.

‘It’s. . not always about power.’

‘Then what’s the point?’

Asper found herself disarmed by the question. She had been mentally preparing her arsenal of responses, all sharply honed from years of debate with other scholars of faith. Other human scholars, she corrected herself; amongst her own people, her weaponry had always been enough. Her responses were accepted, her reasoning commonplace, her retorts cutting deeply against the shield of human rhetoric.

And yet, she stood still, too stunned even to be galled at the fact that she had been rendered speechless by a simple question. And yet, all the more galling, she had enough wits left about her to realise why it left her so paralysed.

She was, she realised, a custodian. She was a matron who had, thus far, kissed scratches and massaged bruises, whose limitations had been proven the day before. Kataria, breathless and still upon the sands, was still vivid and fresh in her mind. Now she saw the visions again, visions of things yet to pass: her companions bleeding out on the stones of Irontide, drowning in the clutches of demons, eviscerated on whatever infernal altars they had constructed in the tower’s unhallowed depths.

And here she was. . left behind.

Now she knew why Lenk had chosen not to take her.

‘Do the spirits make you a better fighter?’