Tome of the Undergates

Interlogue

The Departure

The Sea of Buradan

Summer, late

I don’t remember much about my father, save for the fact that he was a humble man. He made an honest living which, by his definition, was one that involved hacking dirt and killing nothing bigger than a pig as a wedding gift. He lived well, I think, and I try to think of him whenever I have the time, in the moments when I remember the scent of dirt and feel a deep-seated hunger for pork.

I don’t recall what he sounded like.

In the dawning hours, however, before the sun has risen, I think of my grandfather. In truth, I think of him quite often: whenever I’m about to be killed, whenever I’m about to make a mistake, whenever I’m ready to do something stupid. I hear his voice, even if it is distant. It’s his voice I hear as I clutch his sword, my sword.

Today, I can’t hear him. I can’t hear anyone. No one’s talking.

There’s been precious little sleep aboard the Riptide. The crew remains fearful, preferring to go without sleep as they patrol, ever-vigilant for the return of anything that might crawl out of the water. Miron has been locked up with Argaol, discussing whatever it is men discuss when they’re about to send people off to die. I should note that they’ve been avoiding Argaol’s cabin, preferring to do their discussing in the ship’s hold. I don’t know the reason, but I’m finding it difficult to trust the decision behind anything Miron does.

More than that, I’m finding it difficult to trust myself.

The Aeons’ Gate, the relic we’ve been hired to seek out, is named for demons. Not just demons, but arch-demons, demons supreme. Demons with actual titles: ‘Kraken Queens’ and ‘Mother Deeps’. Demon aristocracy, though I’m certain there’s a fouler term for their social class. These are the things I’ve been hired to chase down, these are the things I’ve been told will be the salvation of mankind, the bridge between heaven and earth.

Despite all the lies. . well, hold it, there’s only been one lie, really, but it was rather prominent. At any rate, despite that, I’ve still agreed to go off in search of the thing in exchange for one thousand pieces of gold.

It’s a respectable sum, to be certain, but there remains a tart taste around the knowledge that one’s soul, dignity and livelihood come at a price. For a while, I actually began to believe Asper when she told me that the human soul was beyond the weight of metal. I suppose I showed her.

There’s time to turn back, to reject Miron’s offer, to stay on board the ship and jump off at Toha and find the next priest, pirate or person who requires a sword arm and a lack of questions. For the life of me, however, I simply can’t go down there and tell him I quit. I suspect it’s because, as I’ve turned the possibilities over in my head, I continually fail to come up with a reason to turn back.

Dismemberment, death, decapitation, decay and drowning, on dry land or otherwise, are certainly deterrents. On the other hand. . one thousand coins, split evenly amongst five people, still exceed the number most people will ever see in their lifetime. Certainly sufficient to find more respectable work, perhaps opening a smithy or an apothecary, or investing in slaves in the cities where the fleshtrade is permitted. This is presuming that everyone comes back alive, a staggeringly unlikely estimate by even generous accounts; if someone dies, the shares increase.

I suspect this line of reasoning should strike me as considerably more horrifying than it does.

And yet, it’s not just about money, even though I know it ought to be. I suggest that whoever is reading this should season the next few lines with a bit of salt.

I want to find the demon. I want to find it and kill it. I want to find it and kill it and I don’t know why.

It’s far more likely that the thing will find and kill me first, I know, but all the same, there’s something inside me that makes me want to track down the beast and put my sword through it. I never got the chance to strike it directly, as something roiling around in my head reminds me often, and I have to know what will happen when I do. Between blinks, I know this is ridiculous logic: the thing took a spear through its belly and survived, likely my sword won’t do anything more than tickle it. And yet. . when I close my eyes, it all makes sense.

When I close my eyes, I hear a voice that is not my grandfather’s.

I suspect if I were to hear an actual voice, one of reason or even one threatening a stiff blow to the side of my head, I might be able to get these ideas out into the open and, upon hearing my own madness, be able to reject them. My companions haven’t been forthcoming, however, indicating that they’re either fine with the idea of chasing after demons or simply don’t want to talk to me.

It’s difficult to tell which.

Denaos slipped away shortly after our little meeting had concluded, citing the need for last indulgences while slinking off towards the cabin of one of the female passengers. Dreadaeleon, rife with ‘magic headaches’ or some manner of wizardly affliction decent people were never meant to know of, found some dark corner to sip tea in and pore over his book.

Asper, as far as I know, has been in various states of penance, meditation and prayer, tended to by Quillian. The Serrant clings to our priestess like a bloated tick; I suppose this isn’t unusual, given the symbiotic or parasitic relationship between their respective callings. All the same, I’m more than a little inclined, at times, to believe the rumours whispered about the Serrant, to give more than just a passing chuckle to the jokes Denaos makes about her.

Gariath, surprisingly, did deign to talk to me beyond grunted derisions of my race. He proved less than helpful in convincing me of the folly of chasing after demons, apparently sharing the sentiments of what may or may not be a symptom of insanity in my head. ‘If you’re scared, go sleep on a bed of urine,’ he suggested. ‘Very warm, I hear.’

In truth, I had hoped to speak to Kataria. She was. . not forthcoming.

I don’t suppose I can blame her, really. Only an hour or two after the Abysmyth was driven off, I managed to not only convince her that I was utterly mad, but savagely attack her and then persuade her to follow me on a chase after the damned thing. If this were any other situation, I’m sure I’d marvel at my ability to turn such a circumstance to advantage.

More than that, I needed to talk to her. I needed to tell her I wasn’t mad, so that she would confirm that. If I tell myself I’m not mad, it’s not reliable, since it could be the madness talking. But if she tells me I’m not mad, then it’s clear that I’m not because she’s just a savage shict, not mad, even if the race itself is more than a bit mad.

And beyond even that, I needed to tell her something. I don’t know what it was, though. Whenever I close my eyes to think of it, I keep hearing the logic, the voice, the need to go after the demon and kill it. All I can think of to say to her is something about how sweaty she is.

In fact, I did try to tell her. Her response was a shrug, a roll onto her side and a profoundly decisive breaking of wind in my general direction. As one might imagine, negotiations were promptly concluded afterwards.

The sun is beginning to rise now. It strikes me that I should attempt to get at least an hour’s sleep. It strikes me as odd that I’m yearning for conversation. My grandfather used to tell me that the moments before an honest killing were tense, silent, no one able to talk, eat or sleep. Maybe I want to alleviate that tension by talking to someone, anyone. Maybe I want them to tell me I’m doing the right thing by going off to chase demons. Maybe I just want to hear something other than the waves.

Maybe I want to stop hearing voices when I close my eyes.

The crew is emerging on deck. Time is short. I’ll write later, presuming survival.

Hope is not advised.