Tome of the Undergates

Four

‘Useless?’

The rip of bandages being yanked from their roll echoed in the confines of the ship’s mess, just as Asper’s snarl did, sticking in the timbers like knives. The man struggled, but she didn’t pay him any mind. She kept pulling the bandages tight about his charred face, growling.

‘Sermons, indeed.’ She tied the bandage off with a jerk. ‘The stupid little savages could all use one, coupled with a few swift blows to the head.’ Her hands trembled as she pulled another roll from her bag. ‘Swift blows to the head with a dull, rusty piece of iron. .’ She ripped the cloth free, wrapping another layer about the man’s face. ‘With spikes. A few to the groin wouldn’t hurt, either. . well, it wouldn’t hurt Kat, anyway.’

‘No disrespect, Priestess,’ her patient meekly said, ‘but the bandages, they’re-’

‘Soaked in charbalm,’ she finished, wrapping them around his head. ‘I apparently have to keep a lot on hand when I’m dealing with heathens who can’t even control their oh-so-impressive fire. You know he gets the shakes after he casts that fire? Loses bladder control, sometimes, too. He’s probably pissing himself right now.’

Don’t piss yourself, don’t piss yourself, don’t piss yourself.

The boy should have been more worried about passing out, he knew. His body felt drained; the heat that coursed through him was all but spent; he’d already reduced two men to slow, smouldering pyres. His hands felt dull and senseless, the electricity that ran through them having been expended on dislodging a chain.

And still they kept coming. The sailors put up an admirable defence, even in the face of the new, pale-skinned invaders. But they couldn’t hold out for ever. Neither could he, and he knew it. Nothing was left of him but spit.

He narrowed his eyes as he spotted two of the pale creatures rushing towards the companionway.

He inhaled sharply, chanted a brief, breathless verse and blew. The ice raced from his lips across the deck between the two and formed a patch of frost in the doorway. His foot came down, hard, frigid spikes rising up to cage the passage off. The creatures turned black scowls upon his red-glowing eyes.

‘No one,’ he said through dry lips, ‘gets in.’

‘I cured that,’ Asper said to the charred man, ‘with a tea I learned after four years of study. I can cure the shakes, heal their little cuts and scratches and make sure they don’t all die of dysentery. That’s what I do. I’m the priestess of the feather-arsed HEALER, for His sake!’ She coughed. ‘Forgive the blasphemy.’

‘Of course, Priestess, but-’

‘But do they appreciate it? Of course not!’ She snarled and jerked the bandage tight. ‘The stupid little barbarians think that killing is the only thing in life. There’re other things in life. . like life. And who tends to that?’

Her patient said something, she wasn’t sure what.

‘Exactly! I’m the Gods-damned shepherd! I keep them alive! They should be following me! The only person on this whole stupid ship with more godly authority is-’

‘Pray, does there exist some turmoil amongst the good people in my employ?’

She froze, breathless, and turned.

The Lord Emissary spoke with no fury, no sadness, no genuine curiosity at the sight before him. He raised his voice no higher than he would were he consoling a wailing infant. His conviction was that of a mewling kitten.

Yet his voice carried throughout the mess, quelling hostilities and fear with a single, echoing question. Eyes formerly enraged and terrified went wide with a mixture of awe and admiration as a white shadow entered the mess on footsteps no louder than a whisper.

‘Lord Emissary.’ Asper turned to face him, her voice quavering slightly.

From under a white cowl, a long, gentle face surveyed the scene. A smile creased well-weathered features, eyes glistening brightly in the dim light as Miron Evenhands shook his head, chuckling lightly. One hand was tucked into the cloth sash about his narrow waist while the other stroked a silver pendant carved in the shape of a bird, half-hidden by the white folds of his robe.

‘And what evil plagues my humble companions?’ he asked gently.

‘N-nothing,’ she said, suddenly remembering to bow.

‘Instances of “nothing” rarely beget so strong a scent of anger in the air.’

‘It. . it was simply a. . disagreement of sorts.’ She cleared her throat. ‘With. . with myself.’

‘Good for the soul and mind, always.’ The incline of Miron’s head was slow and benevolent. ‘I find it better to voice concerns before violence comes into play, even if it is with oneself. Many wars and conflicts could be avoided that way.’ He turned to Asper pointedly. ‘Could they not?’

Her eyes went wide as a child’s caught with a finger in a pie — or perhaps a child caught with a finger in burned flesh.

‘Absolutely, Lord Emissary.’

Miron’s smile flashed for only an instant before there was the sound of something crashing above. He glanced up, showing as much concern as he could muster.

‘We are. . attacked?’

‘My com-’ She stopped herself, then sighed. ‘Those other people are handling it, Lord Emissary. Please, do not fret.’

‘For them? No,’ Miron said, shaking his head. ‘They have their own Gods to watch over them and weapons to defend themselves.’ He looked with concern at her. ‘For you, though-’

‘Lord Emissary,’ she said softly, ‘would you permit me the severe embarrassment of knowing how much you overheard?’

‘Oh, for the sake of discussion, let us say all of it.’

His voice was carried on a smile, gentle as the hand he laid on her shoulder. She started at first, having not even heard his approach, but relaxed immediately. It was impossible to remain tense in his presence, impossible to feel ill at ease when the lingering scent of incense that perpetually cloaked him filled her nostrils. She found herself returning the smile, her frustrations sliding from her shoulders as his hand did.

‘Goodness,’ the priest remarked, padding towards the bandaged man. ‘What happened here?’

Her shoulders slumped with renewed burden. ‘Adventure happened,’ she grunted, momentarily unaware of the fact that such a tone was inappropriate in the presence of such a man. ‘That is, Lord Emissary, he was wounded. .’ she paused, balancing the next word on her tongue, ‘by Dreadaeleon. Inadvertently. Supposedly inadvertently.’

‘A hazard with wizards, I’m informed. Still, this may have done more good than ill.’

‘Forgive me, Lord Emissary, but I find it difficult to see the good in a man being torched.’

‘There is yet joy in simply staying alive, Priestess.’ He looked down at the man’s bandages and frowned. ‘Or there would be, had you left him a hole through which to breathe.’

She began to stutter an apology, but found no words before Miron gently parted the bandages about the man’s charred lips.

‘There we are.’ He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘After your capable treatment, sir, I must insist that you retire to whatever quarters you’re permitted. Kindly don’t scratch at your wrappings, either; the charbalm will need time to settle into the skin.’

On muttered thanks and hasty feet, the man scurried into the depths of the ship’s hold, sparing a grunt of acknowledgement for Asper as he left. Though she knew it to be a sin, she couldn’t help but resent such a gesture.

He would have thanked me proper if I had killed for him, she thought irritably, if only out of fear that I might have killed him. He’d be at my feet and mewling for my mercy if I were a warrior.

‘Tea?’

She turned with a start. Miron sat delicately upon one of the mess benches, pouring brown liquid from a clay pot into a cup: tea that had been left cold when the Cragsmen arrived.

Unperturbed by the temperature, the priest sipped at it delicately, smacking his lips as though it were the finest wine. It was only after she noted his eyes upon her, expectant, that she coughed out a hasty response.

‘N-no, thank you, Lord Emissary.’ She was suddenly aware of how meek her voice sounded compared to his and drew herself up. ‘I mean to say, is this really the proper time for tea? We are under attack.’

So much blood.

The air was thick with it. It clotted his nostrils, travelled down his throat and lingered in his chest like perfume. Much of it was his. He smiled at that. But there was another stench, greater even than the rank aroma of carnage.

Fear.

It was in the tremble of their hands, the hesitation of their step, the eyes of the man who struggled in his claws. Gariath met his terror with a black-eyed scowl. He drew back his head and brought his horns forwards, felt bone crunch under his skull, heard breath in his ear-frills.

Still alive.

He drew back his head again, brought forth his teeth. He felt the life burst between them, heard the shrieks of the man and his companion. He clenched, gripped, tore. The man fell from his grasp, collapsing with an angry ruby splotch where his throat had been. He turned towards the remaining pirates, glowering at them.

‘Fight harder,’ he snarled. ‘Harder. . or you’ll never kill me.’

They did not flee. Good. He smiled, watched their fear as they caught glimpses of tattooed flesh between his teeth.

‘Come on, then,’ he whispered, ‘show me my ancestors.’

‘That being the situation, it would seem wiser for us to stay down here, wouldn’t it?’ Miron offered her that same smile, the slightest twitch of his lips that sent his face blooming with pleasant shadows born from his wrinkles. ‘And, when confined to a particular spot, would it not seem wise to spend the time properly with prayer, contemplation and a bit of tea?’

‘I suppose.’

‘After all,’ he spoke between sips, ‘it’s well and good to know one’s role in the play the Gods have set down for us, no? Fighting is for warriors.’

She frowned at that and it did not go unnoticed. The wrinkles disappeared from his face, ironed out by an intent frown.

‘What troubles you?’

If fighting is all there is, what good are those who can’t fight? Her first instinct was to spit such a question at him and she scolded herself for it. It was a temporary ire, melting away as she glanced up to take in the full sight of Miron Evenhands. Of course, it’s easy for him to make such statements.

The Lord Emissary seemed out of place in the wake of catastrophe, with his robes the colour of dawning clouds and the silver sigil of Talanas emblazoned upon his breast. She had to fight the urge to polish her own pendant, so drab it seemed in comparison to his symbol’s beaming brightness.

The Healer Himself even seemed to favour this servant above all others, as the cloud shifted outside the mess window, bathing the priest in sunlight and adding an intangible golden cloak to his ensemble.

Evenhands cleared his throat and she looked up, eyes wide with embarrassment. One smile from him was all it took to bring a nervous smirk to her face.

‘Perhaps you feel guilty being down here,’ he mused, settling back, ‘attending to an old man while your companions bleed above?’

‘It is no shame to attend the Lord Emissary,’ she said, pausing for a moment before stuttering out an addendum, ‘not that you’re so infirm as to require attending to. . not that you’re infirm at all, in fact.’ She coughed. ‘And it’s not merely my associates — not companions, you know — who bleed and die above. I’m a servant of the Healer, I seek to mend the flesh and aid the ailing of all mankind, just not-’

‘Breathe,’ he suggested.

She nodded, inhaling swiftly and holding the breath for a moment.

‘At times, I feel a bit wrong,’ she began anew, ‘sitting beyond the actual fighting and awaiting the chance to bind wounds and kiss scratches while everyone else does battle.’

‘I see.’ He hummed thoughtfully. ‘And did I not just hear you rend asunder your companions verbally for taking lives themselves?’

‘It’s not like they were here to hear it,’ she muttered, looking down. ‘The truth is. .’ She sucked in air through her teeth, sitting down upon the bench opposite his. ‘I’m not sure what good I’m doing here, Lord Emissary.’

He made no response beyond a sudden glint in his eyes and a tightening of his lips.

‘I left my temple two years ago,’ she began.

‘On pilgrimage,’ he said, nodding.

She returned the gesture, mentally scolding herself for not realising he would know such a thing. All servants of the Healer left the comfort of their monasteries on pilgrimage after ten years of worship and contemplation. This, they knew, was their opportunity to fulfil their oaths.

She had been given ample wounds to bind and flesh to mend, many grieving widows to console and plague-stricken children to help bury, and had offered many last rites to the dying. Since joining her companions, the opportunity for such services had doubled, at the very least.

‘But there are always more of them,’ she whispered to herself.

‘Hm?’

She looked up. ‘Forgive me, it’s just. .’ She grimaced. ‘I have a hard time seeing my purpose, Lord Emissary. My associates, they-’

‘Your companions, you mean, surely.’

‘Forgiveness, Lord Emissary, but they’re something akin to co-employees.’ She sneered. ‘I share little in common with them.’

‘And that’s precisely what troubles you.’

‘Something. . something like that, yes.’ She cleared her throat, regaining her composure. ‘I’ve aided many and I’ve no regrets about the God I serve or what he asks of me. . I just wish I could do more.’

He hummed, taking another sip of his drink.

‘We’ve done much fighting in our time, my comp-them and myself. Sometimes, we’ve not done the proper work of the Healer, but I’ve seen many fouler creatures, some humans, too, cut down by them.’

And it had started as such a good day. .

Lenk hadn’t planned on much: a breakfast of hard tack and beans, a bit of time above deck, possibly vomiting overboard before dinner. Nothing was supposed to happen.

‘Unfair.’

The voice rang, steel on ice. His head hurt.

‘Cheaters. Called to it.’

‘To what?’ he growled through the pain.

‘Coming.’

‘What is?’

He felt the shadow over him, heard iron-shod boots ringing on the wood. He whirled and stared up into the thin slit of an iron helmet ringed with wild grey hair that was a stark contrast to the two young, tattooed hands folded across an ironbound chest.

‘Oh, hell,’ he whispered, ‘you sneaky son of a-’

‘Manners,’ Rashodd said.

An enormous young hand came hurtling into his face.

It was a bitter phrase to utter, but it came freely enough. She had learned many years ago that not everyone deserved the Healer’s mercy. There was cruelty in the world that walked on two legs and masqueraded behind pretences of humanity. She had seen many deserved deaths, knew of many that were probably occurring above her at that moment.

While she sat below, she thought dejectedly, waiting quietly as others bled and delivered those richly deserved deaths.

‘I heal wounds,’ she said, more to herself than the priest, ‘tend to the ill and send them off, walking and smiling. Then they return to me, cold and breathless in corpse-carts. I heal them and, if they don’t go off to kill someone themselves, they’re killed by someone who doesn’t give a damn for what I do.’

She hesitated, her fists clenching at her sides.

‘Lenk, Kataria, Dreadaeleon, Gariath,’ she said, grimacing, ‘even Denaos. . they kill a wicked man and that’s that. One less wicked man to hurt those who Talanas shines upon, one less pirate, bandit, brigand, monstrosity or heathen.’

‘And yet there is no end to either the wounded or the wicked,’ Miron noted.

Asper had no reply for that.

‘Tell me, have you ever taken a life?’ The priest’s voice was stern, not so much thoughtful as confrontational.

Asper froze. A scream echoed through her as the ship groaned around her. Her breath caught in her throat. She rubbed her left arm as though it were sore.

‘No.’

‘Were I a lesser man, I might accuse those who were envious of the ability to take life so indiscriminately of being rather stupid.’ He took a long, slow sip. ‘Given my station, however, I’ll merely imply it.’

She blinked. He smiled.

‘That was a joke.’

‘Oh, well. . yes, it was rather funny.’ Her smile trembled for a moment before collapsing into a frown. ‘But, Lord Emissary, is it not natural to wish I could help?’

His features seemed to melt with the force of his sigh. He set the clay cup aside, folded his hands and stared out through the mess’s broad window.

‘I have often wondered if I wasn’t born too soon for this world,’ he mused, ‘that perhaps the will and wisdom of Talanas cannot truly be appreciated where so much blood must be spilled. After all, what good, really, can the followers of the Healer be when we simply mend the arm that swings the sword? What do we accomplish by healing the leg that crushes the innocent underfoot?’

The question hung in the air, smothering all other sound beneath it.

‘Perhaps,’ his voice was so soft as to barely be heard above the rush of the sea outside, ‘if we knew the answers, we’d stop doing what we do.’

He continued to stare out at the roiling seas, the glimmer of sunlight against the ship’s white wake. She followed his gaze, though not far enough; his eyes were dark and distant, spying some answer in the endless blue horizon that she could not hope to grasp. She cleared her throat.

‘Lord Emissary?’

‘Regardless,’ he said, turning towards her as though he had been speaking to her all the while, ‘I suggest you spare yourself the worry of who kills who and work the will of the Healer as best you can.’ He plucked up his teacup once more. ‘Do your oaths remain burning in your mind?’

‘“To serve Talanas through serving man.”’ She recited with rehearsed confidence. ‘“To mend the bones, to bind the flesh, to cure the sick, to ease the dying. To serve Talanas and mankind.”’

‘Then take heart in your oaths where your companions take heart in coin. We all serve mankind in different ways, whether we love life or steel.’

It was impossible not to share his confidence; it radiated from him like a divine light. He was very much the servant of the Healer, a white spectre, stark and pure against the grime and grimness surrounding him, unsullied, untainted even as taint pervaded.

And yet, for all his purity, she knew he was her employer and her superior, not her companion, no matter how deeply she might have wished him to be. She looked wistfully to the companionway, remembering those she had left on the deck.

‘Perhaps it wouldn’t harm any to go up and see what strength I could lend them.’ She turned back to the Lord Emissary. ‘Will you be-’

Her voice died in her throat, eyes going wide, hands frigid as her right clenched her left in instinctive fear.

‘Lord Emissary,’ she gasped, ‘behind you.’

He spared her a curious tilt of his long face before turning to follow her gaze. Though he did not start, nor freeze as she did at the sight, the arch of a single white brow indicated he had seen it. How could he not?

It dangled in front of the window, pale flesh pressed against the glass as it hung from long, malnourished arms. To all appearances, it seemed a man: hairless, naked but for the dagger-laden belt hanging from its slender waist and the loincloth wrapped about its hips. Across its pale chest was a smeared, crimson sigil, indistinguishable through the smoky pane of glass.

Asper had to force herself not to scream as it pressed its face against the window. Its eyes were stark black where they should have been white, tiny silver pinpricks where pupils should have been. One hand reached down, tapped against the glass as a mouth filled with blackness opened and uttered an unmistakable word.

‘Priest.’

Miron rose from his seat. ‘That’s irritating.’

‘Lord Emissary,’ she whispered, perhaps for fear that the thing might hear her. ‘What is it?’

‘An invader,’ he replied, as though that were enough, ‘a frogman, specifically.’

‘Frog. . man?’

He hummed a confirmation. ‘If you would kindly inform your companions that their attention is required down here, I would be most grateful.’

Before she could even think to do such a thing, she felt the floor shift beneath her feet as the ship rocked violently. A din rose from above, a shrieking howl mingled with what sounded like polite conversation. A discernible roar answered the call, a chest-borne thunder tinged with unpleasant laughter.

Something had happened on the deck, and whatever had happened had also met Gariath. Another noise reached her through the ship’s timbers.

From the cabins beyond the mess in the ship’s hold, she heard it: the sound of an iron porthole cover clanging to the deck, two water-laden feet squishing upon the wood, a croaking command in a tongue not human, nor shictish, nor any that she had ever heard.

Something had just crept into the ship.

Something crept closer.

Her hand quivered as it reached for her staff. Lenk’s hands wouldn’t quiver, she thought. Her breath was short, her knees quaking as she trudged towards the cabin’s door. Kataria’s knees wouldn’t knock. Her voice was timid, dying on her lips as she tried to speak. Gariath wouldn’t squeak.

Lenk, Kataria and Gariath were somewhere else, though. She was here, standing between the noise and the Lord Emissary. When her hands wrapped about the solid oak staff, she knew that at that moment, the warriors would have to leave the fighting to her.

‘Lord Emissary,’ she whispered, stepping towards the hold, ‘forgive me for my transgressions.’

‘Go as you must.’

She cringed; it would have been easier to justify staying behind if he had been angry with her. Instead, she took her staff in her hands and crept into the gloom of the Riptide’s timbered bowels.

Miron turned from the portal towards the foggy glass of the window. The frogman was gone, slid off to join its kin on the deck. No matter; a black void spread beneath the water’s surface, a mobile ink stain that slid lazily after the ship as it cut through the waters.

‘She sent you, did she?’ he muttered to the blackness. Absently, a hand went down to his chest, tracing the phoenix sigil upon his breast. ‘Come if you will, then. You shall not have it.’

He turned, striding from the mess towards the shadows of the hold, intent on reaching his cabin. In his mind, a shape burned: a square of perfectly black leather, parchment bound in red leather, tightly sealed and hidden from the outside world.

‘They shall not have it,’ he whispered.

There was a sound from the shadows, a masculine cry of surprise met by a voice dripping with malice. Someone screamed, someone ran, someone fell.

The man tumbled out of the shadows, the broad, unblinking whites of his eyes indiscernible against the swathes of bandages covering his face. He croaked out something through blackened lips, staring up at Miron as Miron stared down at him, impassively.

A webbed foot appeared from the darkness. A pale, lanky body emerged. Two dark, beady eyes set in a round, hairless head regarded him carefully. Through long, needle-like teeth, it hissed.

‘Priest.’ It raised its bloody dagger. ‘Tome.’

The thing peered through the jagged, splintering gash in the ship’s hull that used to be a porthole. Only shadows met its black eyes as it searched through the gloom for another pale shape, another thing similar to this one. Quietly, it slid two slender arms through the hole, a hairless head following as it pulled a moist torso through the rent in the timbers.

The hole was no bigger than its head. Absently, the thing recalled that it should not have been able to squeeze through it.

It set its feet upon the timbers, salt pooling around its tender, webbed toes. Slowly, it bent down to observe a similar puddle upon the floor where similar feet had stood just moments ago. And yet now there was no sign of those feet, nor the legs they belonged to, nor any sign of that one at all.

‘It is a stupid one,’ the thing hissed. It recalled, vaguely, a time when its voice did not sound so throaty, a time when a sac did not bulge beneath its chin with every breath. ‘“These ones stay together,” these ones were told, “stay together”. That one must not have run off. That one must stay with this one.’

This one remembered, for a fleeting moment, that it had once had a name.

That memory belonged to another one. This one knelt down, observing the traces of moisture clinging to the wood. That one had taken two steps forwards, it noted from the twin puddles before it. It tilted its head to the side; that one had stopped there. . but not stopped. It had ceased to step and begun to slide. That struck this one as odd, given that these ones had been allowed to walk like men.

That one’s two moist prints became a thick, wet trail instead of footprints, a trail leading from the salt to the shadows of the ship’s hold. As this one followed its progress intently, watching it shift from clear salty water to smelly, coppery red, it spied something in the darkness: a tangle of pale limbs amidst crates.

That one was dead, it recognised; it remembered death.

It rose and felt something against its back. It remembered the scent of humanity. It thought to whirl around, bring knife against flesh, but then it remembered something else.

It remembered metal.

‘Shh,’ the tall other one behind it whispered, sliding a glove over its mouth while digging the knife deeper into its side. ‘No point.’ The other one twisted the knife. ‘Just sleep.’

Then it slumped to the floor.

Denaos grimaced as he bent down, retrieving the dagger wedged in the infiltrator’s kidneys. The last one hadn’t made half so much noise, he thought grimly as he wiped the bloodied weapons clean on the thing’s ebon leather loincloth. Replacing them in the sheaths at his waist, he seized the pale fish-man by the legs and dragged him behind a stack of crates where his companion lay motionless in a pool of sticky red.

With a grunt, the rogue heaved the fresh corpse atop the stale one.

They were skilled infiltrators, he admired silently; he would never have thought even a child could squeeze through the ship’s portholes, much less a grown man. Had he not chosen this particular section of cargo to guard, he would never have found them.

His laugh was not joyful. ‘Ha. . guarding the cargo.’

Yes, he told himself, that’s what you were doing. While all the men were dying to the pirates and the women were being violated in every orifice imaginable, you were guarding cargo, you miserable coward. If anyone asks why you weren’t fighting like any proper man, you can just claim you were concerned for the safety of the spices.

He caught his reflection in the puddle of water at his feet, noting the frown that had unconsciously scarred itself onto his face. In the quiver of the water, he saw the future: chastisement from his companions, curses from the sailors he had abandoned. .

And Asper. His loathing slowly twisted to ire in his head. I’ll have to endure yet another sermon from that self-righteous, preachy shrew. He paused, regarding his reflection contemplatively. Of course, that’s not likely to happen, given that they’re probably all dead, her included. . if you’re that lucky.

Something caught his eye. Upon the intruder’s offensively white biceps lay a smear of the deepest crimson. Denaos arched a brow; he didn’t remember cutting either of the creatures on their arms.

He knelt to study the puny, pale limb. It was a tattoo, that much he recognised instantly: a pair of skeletal jaws belonging to some horrid fish encircled by a twisted halo of tentacles. And, he noted with a cringe, it had been scrawled none too neatly, as though with a blade instead of a needle.

As morbid curiosity compelled him to look closer, he found that their tattoos were the least unpleasant of their features.

They lacked any sort of body hair, not the slightest wisp to prevent their black leathers from clinging to them like secondary skins. Their eyes, locked wide in death, lacked any discernible pupil or iris, orbs of obsidian set in greying whites. A glimpse of bone caught his eye; against an instinct that begged him not to, he removed a dagger and peeled back the creature’s lip with the tip.

Rows of needle-like, serrated teeth flashed stark white against black gums.

‘Sweet Silf,’ he muttered, recoiling.

A panicked cry echoed through the halls of the hold, drawing his attention up. He rose to his feet and sprang to the door in one fluid movement. As he reached for the lock, he paused, glancing over his shoulder at the dead frogmen behind. His hand faltered as he pondered the possibility of facing one of these creatures and their sharp teeth from the front.

Slowly, he lowered his hand from the door.

Someone shrieked again and his ears pricked up. A woman.

The door flew open.

Perhaps, he speculated, some sassy young thing slinking down the hall had run afoul of one of the creatures and now cowered in a corner as the intruder menaced her. It was an unspoken rule that distressed damsels were obliged to yield a gratuity that frequently involved tongues.

Surely, he reasoned, that’s worth delivering another quick knife to the kidneys. . of course, she’s probably dead, you know. He cursed himself as he rounded a corner. Stop that thinking. If you go ruining your fantasies with reality, what’s the point of-

A shriek ripped through his thoughts. Not a woman, he realised, or at least no woman he would want to slip his tongue into. The scream was a long, dirty howl: a rusty blade being drawn from a sheath, a filthy, festering, vocal wound.

And, he noted, it was emerging through a nearby door.

His feet acted before his mind could, instinctively sliding into soft, cat-like strides as he pressed himself to the cabin wall. The dagger that leapt to his hand spoke of heroism, trying to drown out the voice of reason in his head.

You can see the logic in this, can’t you? he told himself. It’s not like anyone’s really expecting you to come dashing up to save them.

The door creaked open slightly, no hand behind it. He continued forwards.

In fact, I doubt anyone will even have harsh words for you. It’s been about a year you’ve all been together, right? Maybe less … a few months, perhaps; regardless, the point is that no one is really all that surprised when you run away.

He edged closer to the door. The sound of breathing, heavy and laboured, could be heard.

And this won’t solve anything. Nothing changes, even if she isn’t dead. His mind threw doubt at him as a delinquent throws stones. You won’t be any braver for it. You won’t be a hero. You’ll still be the same cowardly thug, the same disgusting wretch who gutted-

Enough. He drew in a breath, weak against the panting emerging from behind the door.

But it was not the kind of panting he had expected, not the laboured, glutted gasps of a creature freshly satiated or a fiend with blood on his hands. It was not soft, but hardly ragged. The breathing turned to heaving, someone fighting back vomit, choked on saliva. There was a short, staggered gasp, followed by a weak and pitiful sound.

Sobbing.

Without pausing to reflect on the irony of being emboldened by such a thing, Denaos took an incautious step into the shadowy cabin. Amidst the crates and barrels was a dark shape, curled up against the cargo like a motherless cub, desperately trying to hide. It shuddered with each breath, shivering down a slender back. Brown hair hung messily about its shoulders.

No pale monstrosities here, he confirmed to himself, none that you don’t know, anyway.

‘Odd that I should find you here,’ he said as he strode into the room, ‘cringing in a corner when you should be protecting the Lord Emissary.’

Hypocrite.

‘I protected the Lord Emissary. .’ Asper said, more to herself than to him. Silver glinted in the shadows; he could see her stroking her phoenix pendant with a fervent need. ‘They came aboard. . things. . frogs. . men, I don’t know.’

‘Where?’ His dagger was instantly raised, his back already finding the wall.

She raised her left arm and pointed towards the edge of the room. The sleeve of her robe was destroyed completely, hanging in tatters around her shoulder, baring a pale limb. Following her finger, he spied it: the invader lay dead against the wall, limbs lazily at its sides, as though it were taking a nap.

‘Lovely work,’ he muttered, noting her staff lying near the corpse. ‘What? Did you bash its head in?’ She did not reply, provoking a cocked eyebrow. ‘Are you crying?’

‘No,’ she said, though the quiver of her voice betrayed her. ‘It. . it was a rough fight. I’m. . you know, I’m coming down.’

‘Coming down?’ He slinked towards her. ‘What are you-’

‘I’m fine!’ She whirled on him angrily, teeth bared like a snarling beast as she pulled herself to her feet. ‘It was a fight. He’s dead now. I didn’t need you to come looking for me.’

Tears quivered in her eyes as glistening liquid pooled beneath her nose. She stood sternly, back erect, head held high, though her legs trembled slightly. Unusual, he thought, given that the priestess hoarded her tears as though they were gold. Even surrounded by death, she rarely mourned or grieved in the view of others, considering her companions too blasphemous to take in that sight.

And yet, here she stood before him, almost as tall as he, though appearing so much smaller, so much meeker.

‘There are. .’ She turned her head away, as if sensing his scrutinising judgement. ‘There are more of those things around.’

‘There were, yes,’ Denaos replied. ‘I took care of them.’

‘Took care of them how?’

‘How do you think?’ he asked, sheathing his dagger. ‘I found the other two and did it quietly.’

‘Two?’ She turned to him with concern in her eyes. ‘There were four others besides this one’

‘You’re mistaken, I only saw two.’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I caught a glimpse of them from the porthole as they swam by. There were five in all.’

‘Five, huh,’ Denaos said, scratching his chin. ‘I suppose I can take care of the other two.’

‘Assuming they aren’t looking,’ she grumbled, retrieving her staff. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Are you certain?’ he asked, his tone slightly insulting as he looked her up and down. ‘It’s not like you should feel a need to fight.’ He glanced at the pale corpse against the wall. ‘After all, you took care of this one well enough.’

He blinked as the thing shifted beneath his eyes. It did not stir, it did not rise. Its movement was so subtle it might have been missed by anyone else. Yet, as he took a step forwards, the body responded to his foot striking the floor. It quivered, sending tiny ripples through the flesh as though it were water.

Flesh, he knew, did not do that.

‘Leave the dead where they lie.’ Whatever authority Asper hoped to carry slipped through the sudden crack in her voice. She drew in a sharp breath, quickly composing herself. ‘The thing’s almost naked; it doesn’t have anything you can take.’

His attentions were fixed solely on the thing lying at his feet. The rogue leaned forwards intently, studying it. Its own body had begun to pool beneath it. He let out a breath as he leaned closer and the tiny gust of air sent the thing’s skin rippling once more.

‘Leave it,’ Asper said.

Curiosity, however morbid, drove his finger even as common sense begged him to stay his hand. He prodded the thing’s hairless, round head and found no resistance. His finger sank into the skin as though it were a thick pudding and when he pulled it back, a perfect oval fingerprint was left in its skull.

No bones.

‘Sweet Silf.’ His breath came short as he turned to regard Asper. ‘What did you do to him?’

She opened her mouth to reply, eyes wide, lips quivering. A scream emerged, though not her own, and echoed off the timbers. Immediately, whatever fear had been smeared across her face was replaced with stern resolution as she glowered at him.

‘Leave the dead,’ she hissed one last time before seizing her staff in both hands and tearing out of the room into the corridor.

Ordinarily, he might have pressed further questions, despite her uncharacteristically harsh tone. Ordinarily, he might have left whatever had screamed to her, given that she could clearly handle it. It was simple greedy caution that urged him to his feet and at her back, the instinct inherent in all adventurers to protect their source of pay.

The scream had, after all, come from the direction of Miron’s room.

He doesn’t know, Asper told herself as they hurried down the corridor, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know. He won’t ask questions. He’s not smart enough. He won’t tell. He doesn’t know.

His long legs easily overtook her. She sensed his eyes upon her, angled her head down.

The litany of reassurances she forced upon herself proved futile. Her mind remained clenched with possibility. What if he didn’t need to ask questions? He had seen the corpse, seen what it was. He saw her sobbing. He was a coward, a brigand, but not a moron. He could be replaying it in his mind, as she did now, seeing the creature leaping from the dark, seeing her hand rise up instinctively, hearing the frog-thing scream. .

He heard the scream.

Stop it, stop it, STOP IT! He doesn’t know. . don’t. . don’t think about it now. Think about the Lord Emissary. Think about the other scream. Think about-

Her thoughts and her fervent rush came to a sudden halt as she collided with Denaos’s broad back. Immediately, fear was replaced by anger as she shoved her way past him, ready to unleash a verbal hellstorm upon him. But his eyes were not for her. He stared out into the corridor, mouth open, eyes unblinking.

She followed his gaze, looking down the hall, and found herself sharing his expression, eyes going wide with horror.

‘L–Lord Emissary,’ she gasped breathlessly.

A pale corpse lay at Evenhands’ feet, motionless in a pool of rapidly leaking blood. Miron’s sunken shoulders rose and fell with staggered breaths, his hands trembled at his sides. The blues and whites of his robes were tainted black with his attacker’s blood. The elderly gentleness of his face was gone, replaced by wrinkles twisted with undiluted fury.

‘Evenhands,’ Denaos said, moving forwards tentatively. ‘Are you all right?’

The priest’s head jerked up with such sudden anger as to force the rogue back a step. His eyes were narrowed to black slits, his lips curled in a toothy snarl. Then, with unnatural swiftness, his face untwisted to reveal a bright-eyed gaze punctuated by a broad, gentle smile.

‘I am well. Thank you for your concern,’ he replied in a trembling breath. ‘Forgive the scene. One of these. .’ he looked down at the pale man disdainfully, ‘brutes attacked me as I went to see what was happening on deck.’

‘We’re still under attack, Lord Emissary,’ Asper said, stepping forwards. ‘It would be safer if you remained in your quarters.’

‘Yes, of course,’ he replied with a shaking nod. ‘But. . be careful out there, my friends. These are no mere pirates.’

‘What do you mean, Lord Emissary?’ Asper asked, tilting her head at the priest.

As Miron opened his mouth to reply, he was cut off by a sudden response from Denaos.

‘It’s the tattoos,’ the rogue said, eyeing the priest, ‘isn’t it?’

‘Indeed.’ Miron’s reply was grim. ‘They are adornments of an order who serve a power far crueller than any pirate. Their appearance here is. . unexpected.’

‘A power?’ Asper asked, frowning. ‘They’re. . priests?’

‘Of a sort.’

‘Then why do they side with the pirates, Lord Emissary?’

‘There is no time to explain,’ Miron replied urgently. ‘Your friends require your aid above.’ He raised his hands in a sign of benediction. ‘Go forth, and Talanas be with you in your-’

A door slammed further down the corridor. Miron whirled about, Denaos and Asper looking over his shoulders to spy the fifth intruder darting away from the direction of the priest’s quarters. He paused to regard the trio warily for a moment, clutching a square silk pouch tightly to his chest.

‘Drop that, you filth!’ Miron roared with a fury not befitting his fragile frame.

The creature’s reply was a mouth opened to reveal twin rows of pointed, serrated teeth in a feral hiss. Without another moment’s hesitation, he stuffed his prize into a burlap sack and tore down the hallway.

‘Stop him!’ Miron bellowed, charging after the fleeing infiltrator. ‘STOP HIM! He must not have that book!’

‘What’s so important about it?’ Denaos called after him.

The priest did not respond, rushing headlong into the shadows of the hold. Denaos opened his mouth to repeat the question, but the breath was knocked from him as Asper shoved her way past, hurrying after the priest. With a sigh, Denaos shook his head and sprinted after them both.

Pirates, boneless beasts, books worth dying for, he thought grimly, all in one day. Whatever distressed young ladies are rescued from this mess had better be disgustingly grateful.