Tome of the Undergates

Thirty

Lenk held his hand before his face, turning it over.

‘That’s odd,’ he muttered.

‘Hm?’ someone within replied.

‘My skin. . I don’t remember it being grey.’

‘An issue worthy of concern.’

‘And my head. . it feels heavy.’

‘Moderately distressing.’

‘Only moderately?’

‘In comparison to the fact that we’re still alive, I should have added. Apologies.’

‘It’s fine.’ He blinked, lowered his hand to feel the cold rock beneath him. ‘I am still alive, aren’t I?’

‘We are, yes.’

‘Apologies. I forgot you were there.’

‘Think nothing of it.’

‘I thank you. .’ Lenk furrowed his brow. ‘You know, I don’t ever recall you being quite so chatty. Usually, it’s all “kill, kill” with you.’

‘You haven’t really cared to hear what I have to say,’ the voice replied. ‘When one speaks to closed ears, one places a priority on available words.’

‘Point taken.’ He let the silence hang inside his head for a moment. ‘Who are you?’

‘Pardon?’

‘We’ve never been properly introduced.’

‘Is that really necessary at this point?’

‘I suppose not. . but I feel I should know who you are if you’re going to do what you did back in the water.’

‘Excuse that intervention. Things were looking quite grim.’

‘I suppose they were. But there are no worries now.’ He smiled at the familiarity of the satchel beneath his head, the tome safe and supportive within. ‘We have the book. The Deepshriek is gone. It’s over.’

‘It is not.’

The voice was painfully clear and crisp now, as though it was hissing in his ear. He could almost feel its icy breath upon his water-slick skin. And yet, he did not so much as shiver. The chill felt almost natural, as did the presence that settled all around him, within him. It felt familiar, comforting.

And cold.

‘I. . beg to differ,’ he replied. ‘We’re alive. We’ve got a tome and a sword. What else do you need?’

‘Duty. Purpose. Death.’

‘There you go with the “death” thing again-’

‘You think it wise to leave the Deepshriek alive?’

‘No, but I-’

‘You chopped off a head. It has three.’

‘That usually suffices with most people.’

‘That thing is not people.’

‘Point taken.’

‘What of the others? They are weak. . purposeless. Let us lie here if you wish them all to die.’

‘The Deepshriek said-’

‘Three mouths to lie with. . apologies, two now. We should have killed it when we had the chance.’

‘It ran.’

‘We could have pursued.’

‘Through water?’

‘Through anything. It fears us. It fears our blade.’

‘Our blade?’

‘The hand that wields it is nothing without the duty to guide it.’

‘I’m. . not quite up for philosophy at this point. How do we get to the others?’

‘Others?’

‘Kataria. . the others-’

‘Ah. That remains a problem.’

Lenk looked upwards. The stone slab loomed, impassable as ever despite the deep gash that had been rent in its face. A tiny fragment of grey broke off, tumbling down the depression to bounce off the ledge and strike Lenk’s forehead.

‘It’s mocking me,’ he growled.

‘It’s stone.’

‘Have you any idea how to get out?’

‘I do.’

Lenk waited a moment.

‘Well?’

The voice made no reply.

Water lapped against water, against stone. Fire that had shifted from unnatural emerald to vibrant, hissing orange sputtered and growled in the wall sconces. The waves made lonely mutters against the stone wall. Something heavy bumped against the outcropping.

Wait. .

He rolled over and stared into the water, into the golden eyes staring back up at him. He froze momentarily before realising the eyes did not blink, the mouth lay pursed, the golden hair wafted in the waters as the head bobbed up and down with the rhythm of the churning gloom.

Lenk grimaced. He was a moment from turning his gaze away when a hint of movement caught his eye. He leaned over, staring intently at the severed head. The eyes twitched, he felt his heart stop.

Is. . he thought to himself, is that thing. . still alive?

Fingers trembling, he reached down and poked it. It bobbed beneath the waves, then rose again, still staring. Swallowing his fear and his vomit, he seized it by its hair and pulled it out of the water. The eyes twitched, glanced every which way, as if seeking the shark it had been attached to. Its lips quivered, mouthing wordless threats to empty air.

‘Disgusting,’ he said, blanching. He caught an errant glance of himself in the void-like waters, then raised a brow. ‘That’s. . unusual. I don’t really ever recall having-’

‘Time is limited,’ the voice interrupted. ‘We must focus on this newfound gift the Deepshriek left us.’

‘I beg to differ.’

He was prepared to throw it back into the gloom, regardless of the answer, when he heard it. A faint, barely audible sound, as though someone whistled from miles away. Against all wisdom, he drew it closer to his ear.

Wordlessly, an almost-silent breath hissed between its teeth. He turned it over, glancing where its stalk-like neck had been attached. A blackened, bloodied hole stretched from hair to jaw beneath. Air murmured through it, emerging from the creature’s fanged mouth.

‘Sweet Khetashe,’ he fought bile to speak, ‘it is alive.’

‘It has a new duty now,’ the voice replied.

Lenk turned to the stone slab, watching another shard crumble and slide down like a drop of stone sweat. He smiled, rose to his feet, sheathed his sword and slung the tome’s satchel about his shoulder.

‘We have but to give it that duty,’ the voice said, and — how, he had not the faintest idea — Lenk knew what it meant.

He walked before the slab, dangled the decapitated head by its golden tresses and whispered a word.

‘Scream.’

Even over the explosion, the stone shattering and the hail of rock chips, Kataria could hear the shrieking. In fragments of sound, it had been painful, uncomfortable, but tolerable. Bared to its full vocal fury, it was agonising. And in response, she became a creature of folds: folding her ears over themselves, folding her hands over her ears and folding her body over itself.

Shards of grey bit at her bare back, the earth settled ominously under her feet, dust poured into her nostrils. None of that mattered, none of that pain needed to be felt. All she thought of was the hideous wail that defiled the air, and keeping it from turning her ears into flayed pieces of glistening bacon hanging from her head.

How long it lasted, Kataria did not know, and she did not care. When it finally ceased, it still echoed in the hall, reverberating off stones and ripples and breaths she took. After an eternity of darting eyes and nervous twitching, she took her hands away from her ears, breathed a word of thanks mingled with a curse, and turned around.

And then, the screaming suddenly didn’t seem so bad.

Two thin pinpricks of light, cold and blue, stared at her from behind a cloud of dust that, mercifully, showed no signs of dissipating. She swallowed hard, clenched her teeth.

‘Lenk,’ she said, rather than asked. There was no mistaking him or his stare.

The two tiny spheres flickered, a shadow moved behind the dust cloud. It shifted against the curtains of pulverised grey, as though agitated or confused.

‘I think. .’ a voice, faint and freezing, spoke, ‘she’s talking to you.’

The voice was familiar to her. She remembered it as well as she remembered Lenk’s own. And now they spoke in unison, each one with a crisp clarity that settled upon her skin like rime.

She could feel her heart sink. Whatever dwelt on the other side of the dust cloud was not completely Lenk. Perhaps, she thought, maybe not even Lenk at all.

‘What?’ When he spoke next, it was with his own voice, but it was frightened, shrill, like a small child’s. ‘No, I didn’t mean. . stop. Don’t yell at me!’

This was it, she knew, the sign she had been waiting for. He was a disease within a disease now, completely lost to whatever plagued him. These were the moments she should be running instead of staring at his shadow through the veil of dust. These were the moments she should turn, leave this human — all humans — behind her and thank Riffid for giving her the clarity to be free of her shame.

‘Stop it. .’ he whimpered, his voice rising into a roar. ‘I said stop!’

He would never hear her footsteps as she walked away. She kept that in mind as she turned to the water, reassuring herself. He would think it all a dream in his fevered mind, he would think she was dead. He would never suspect that she had left him behind.

And still, she cursed herself. She should be braver, she should be able to stand before the human disease, the great sickness that plagued the world, and spit on him through a shictish curse. Her father would have wanted that. Her people would have wanted that.

For her part, Kataria merely wanted to fight back the urge to turn around.

‘Kat …’

Damn it, she muttered in her mind as she halted, damn it, damn it, damn it.

She turned, only to be greeted by another sign. The curtains of smoke parted, layer by layer, exposing the shadow behind in greater detail. Her blood froze at the sight, the distorted shape of the young man, the jaggedness of his outline and the bright, ominous blue with which his eyes shone.

He extended a hand to her, trembling, far too big to be his own and whispered.

‘Please. .’

This was the final sign, Riffid’s last mercy to her. She should turn, walk away, run away, leave this human and whatever he had become in the shadows behind her. Her ancestry demanded it. Her pride as a shict demanded it. Her own instincts demanded it.

Kataria listened carefully. And, in response, she drew in a sharp breath and walked into the cloud of dust.

‘I’m here,’ she said as she might speak to an injured puppy, her hands groping about blindly. ‘I’m here, Lenk.’

She found him in a sudden shock as her hands clasped around flesh that froze like a fish’s. She swallowed hard, ignoring this sign as she had done the last, hearing in the faintest whispers Riffid cursing her for her stupidity.

Another hand reached out to clasp about hers and she froze. Through the leather of his glove, through the leather of hers, she could feel it, a sensation that caused her to go breathless as he squeezed her fingers in his.

Warmth.

‘You’re alive,’ he spoke.

He spoke, she told herself, unable to fight back the smile creeping onto her face. Lenk spoke. No one else.

‘Come on,’ she urged, pulling at him.

They staggered out into the stagnant air and the dying light of the torches. She drew in a sharp breath before looking at him, afraid to find grey flesh or pupilless spheres staring back at her.

Instead, she saw a man barely alive. His shirt was tattered and clung to a body that was stained red in areas. His leg, rent with a jagged cut, barely seemed capable of supporting the rest of his wiry frame. Deep circles lined his eyes and his smile was weary and accompanied by a sharp wince.

He looks so weak, she thought, like a sick dog or something. Why she should find that endearing, she did not know. The faint smile that crept to her face quickly vanished by the time her gaze drifted to the black-stained blade and the severed, golden-haired head in his grasp, however.

She cleared her throat. ‘Busy in there?’

‘A bit,’ he replied as he tucked the head’s glimmering locks into his belt.

He paused at the centre of the corridor, noting grimly the Abysmyth corpse striped by sizzling green lacerations. Quietly, he looked her over, frowning at the bruise upon her flank, the cuts criss-crossing her pale skin, the dried trail of blood under her nose.

‘How was your day?’ he asked.

She sniffed a little. ‘Pleasant.’

‘So long as you kept yourself occupied.’ He took a step forwards, then winced to a halt. Smiling sheepishly, he extended his arm to her. ‘Help me?’

‘Help you?’ She gestured to her own wreck of a body. ‘I fought a hulking, purple-skinned white-haired man-woman! ’

He patted the severed head at his belt. ‘I took the skull off a three-headed shark-lady.’

‘She kicked me,’ Kataria said, gesturing to the long bruise running down her flank, ‘might’ve broken my ribs, too. This was all after I stabbed her.’

‘Yeah? Well, she. .’ Lenk looked at the head disparagingly. ‘She yelled at me.’

Kataria stared at him blankly. He coughed.

‘Really loudly.’

She pursed her lips. He sighed and offered his shoulder to her.

‘Fine, get on.’

‘No.’ She took his arm instead, draping it over her shoulder. ‘You’d probably soil yourself with the effort, anyway.’ She grunted, bolstering him. ‘You owe me, though.’

‘I’d offer my blood, if I hadn’t left it behind.’ He chuckled, then winced. ‘It hurts to laugh.’

‘Then stop telling terrible jokes.’ She guided him down the corridor. ‘Denaos lived.’

‘Pity,’ he replied. ‘And the others?’

‘Possibly.’

‘Possibly what?’

‘Either.’

He squeezed her hand and she froze. His grip was still warm.

‘You’re alive,’ he whispered, the faintest edge of hysteria in his voice.

‘I am,’ she replied in a voice just as soft.

‘And you’re still here.’

She hesitated, looked down at the ground and frowned.

‘Yeah. . I know.’

‘I didn’t think-’

‘Don’t ruin it by starting now.’

And so they hobbled in silence until they reached the water’s edge. There they stopped, there they stared at themselves in the gloom.

The liquid seemed slightly less oppressive now, the air a bit cleaner, if tinged by a distant stench of burning. Kataria glimpsed Lenk’s reflection in the water as it twisted and writhed. Odd, she thought, but as distorted as it was, she could still pick out his features, his silver hair and his blue eyes.

What comfort she took in that was lost the moment she spied her own reflection, however. The creature of pale skin and green eyes stared back up at her, twisting, contorting and fading. She frowned, for even as her reflection re-formed, she still didn’t recognise the shict looking back at her.

‘Kataria,’ Lenk began, sensing her tense under him, ‘I-’

‘Later,’ she grunted, adjusting herself and him as they slid into the water.

If there was a later, she would handle it then. Whatever excuses needed to be made, whatever apologies had to be voiced to herself, to her Goddess, to her kin, could be made later. For now, they were both alive.

And Kataria couldn’t help but think it would be easier if one of them weren’t.