Tome of the Undergates

Now it was the dragonman’s turn to stand speechless. He cast her a glance that suggested he was unsure whether to ignore her or spill her innards upon the sand. She was more than a tad surprised when he rolled his shoulders and answered.

‘A spirit is only as strong as the body that honours it.’ He raised an eyeridge. ‘Why?’

‘Can you teach me to fight?’

She held her breath as he looked her up and down, not with derision or scorn, but genuine appraisal. When he finally spoke, she was slightly less surprised that it was with swiftness and decisiveness.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘You’re too weak, too stupid, too cowardly, too human,’ he replied crassly.

‘Humans have won many wars, you know.’ She attempted to mime his tone. ‘I mean, if you haven’t noticed, we are the dominant race.’

‘Humans only win wars against other humans,’ he growled. ‘You breed like cockroaches, fight like rats, die like mosquitoes and expect to receive any respect from a Rhega?’ He waved a hand dismissively. ‘Satisfy yourself with staying behind and cleaning up after real warriors.’

‘You once told me that all dragonmen fight.’ She furrowed her brow angrily. ‘Doesn’t that include the healers? ’

‘Rhega don’t need healers. Our skin is strong and our bones mend as quick as yours don’t.’ He turned his back to her and flexed for emphasis, every crimson cord pronounced. ‘I’ve got things to do now.’

‘Things to smell, you mean?’

When he did not respond to her, she took a challenging step forwards, unaware of how softly her feet fell in comparison to his tremendous red soles. Perhaps it was the fact that he had turned his back on her that made her so bold, or perhaps she wished to prove to herself that she was made of sterner stuff than he suggested.

‘If humans only win human wars,’ she cried after him, ‘why aren’t there more Rhega around?’

What her motive might have been, even she did not know. As he turned and stalked towards her, with an air of calmness that suggested she wouldn’t be able to run far if she tried, she steeled herself. She had issued the challenge, she told herself, and it was her time to stand by it.

‘Hit me.’ He spoke disturbingly softly.

‘What?’ She half-cringed, looking baffled.

‘Here is where you learn to,’ he replied calmly. ‘Hit me as hard as you can.’

An unfamiliar sense of dread befell Asper, a stubborn battle between fear and pride raging inside her. It was never a good idea, in principle, to hit a creature bristling with horns and claws, even if he requested it. No, she scolded herself, stand by the challenge.

She simply had not realised when she had issued it how small she stood against his red mass. Nevertheless, with a clench of her teeth, she balled one hand into a fist and launched a swing against the dragonman’s chest.

It struck with a hollow sound, which she, at that moment, swore reverberated like metal. She pulled back not a fist, but a throbbing, swollen red mass of skin and scraped knuckles.

It didn’t even occur to her to moan in pain, nor even to wince, for the moment she glanced up, she spied a tremendous red claw hurtling towards her. The back of his hand connected fiercely with the side of her face and sent her sprawling to the ground, any sound she might have made gone silent against the crack of flesh against bone.

Pressing red hand to red cheek, she sat up slowly and looked at the dragonman, her shock barely visible behind the massive bruise forming upon it.

‘What. .’ It hurt to speak, so she had to exchange the indignant fury broiling inside her mouth for something more achievable. ‘Why?’

‘You hit me.’

‘You told me to!’

‘And what did you learn today?’

Every sound he made diminished her further. His footsteps echoed in her aching jaw, his tail lashing upon the ground made her hand throb all the worse. It was his back, however, turned callously towards her, that caused tears to well in her eyes, that caused her to rise.

Though her right hand had been the one to sting, it was her left arm that tensed so tightly it sent waves of pain rolling into her. That pain consumed all others, giving her the ability to trudge after the dragonman, her arm hanging low like a cudgel. And like a cudgel, spiked and merciless, she could see herself wielding it against him.

His neck looked so tempting then, blending in with her eyes as her vision reddened further with each breath. She could see herself through the crimson, reaching out to grab him, his neck a pulsing red vein that she need merely pinch shut and. .

‘No!’ She clasped her agonised hand to her left arm, the pain blossoming again like a garden. ‘No. . no. Stop thinking that. It’s not right. Stop it.’ She struck her temple with her red hand. ‘Stop it!’

‘Is that really intelligent?’

She resisted the urge to whirl about before she could wipe the tears from her eyes. Dreadaeleon appeared concerned as he saw her purpling cheek and reddening hand, though not quite as horrified as she thought he should.

‘What happened to you?’

‘Fight,’ she grumbled, ‘nothing much. Learned something. . I don’t know. Gariath hit me.’

‘Oh.’

In civilised countries, there would be a call to arms over a man striking a woman. In the quaint culture of adventurers, bludgeoning tended to be more on the unavoidable side of things.

‘It. . hurts?’ Greenhair was not far behind the boy, tilting her head curiously at the priestess, whose eyelid twitched momentarily.

‘Oh, not at all,’ Asper replied. ‘Having my hand smashed and my jaw cracked seems to have evened out into a nice state of being in searing pain. Of course it hurts, you imbecile!’ Wincing at her own snap, she held up a hand, wiggling red fingers. ‘It doesn’t seem to be broken. . I should be fine.’

‘I could assist, if you so desired, Darkeyes.’

Asper had to force herself not to recoil at the suggestion.

She had felt the siren’s song before, when the creature had offered her aid in treating the companions’ injuries. The priestess thanked Talanas that hers were the least serious. The lyrics were more invasive than a scalpel, going far beyond her ears and sinking into her bones. Though she felt bruises soothed and cuts cease their sting, she was forced to fight the urge to tear herself open in a desperate bid to force the song out.

Bandages and salves were slower and sloppier, but they were natural and Talanas’s gifts to His servants. They’re at least a sight more trustworthy than whatever some fish-woman-thing can spew out, she thought resentfully. Instead of saying that, however, she merely forced a smile.

‘I’ll take care of it,’ she replied with a sigh. ‘It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do while the real warriors are off. . warrioring.’

‘Warring,’ Dreadaeleon corrected.

‘I knew that, you little. .’ She trailed off into incoherent mumbling as she began to trudge away. ‘It just needs a splint, a bit of binding. It’ll fix itself in a bit.’

‘You didn’t break it, did you?’

‘First of all, I already said it wasn’t broken.’ She whirled on him with a snarl. ‘And if anyone did break it, it would be Gariath.’

‘He hit your hand?’ The boy raised an eyebrow. ‘That seems a tad indirect.’

‘He broke it when I hit him in the mass of metal he calls a chest.’

‘Well, no wonder he hit you.’

‘He told me to hit him!’ she roared. ‘And what kind of logic is that, anyway? His fist