Tome of the Undergates - Sam Sykes

A smile creased her face, breaking into a peal of laughter that was long, loud and unwholesome.

‘How many do you think that was worth, Squiggy?’ She cast a glance behind her, spying nothing. ‘Squiggy?’

When she discovered the bronze-clad fingers clutching at the nest’s edge, she had to fight to keep her laughter from overpowering her. She couldn’t say at that moment why the sight of Quillian dangling by one stubborn hand was so amusing to her. Perhaps it was her expression, the mixture of fear and outrage at having been hurled from the nest by the force of the collision. Perhaps it was simply the rush of having scored so many Kou’ru with one shot, the woman’s humiliation being merely the punctuation of a squeal-filled giddy sentence.

Or perhaps it was the opportunity dangling before her.

‘Help me up.’ Quillian’s voice had not even the slightest hint of request.

Kataria’s own hand lingered on the rail, her gaze contemplative. There was no real reason to watch the Serrant fall, she realised, but was hard pressed to think of a reason to haul her bronze-clad bulk back up.

And yet, something stayed her hand, a mere finger’s length from the Serrant’s own reaching gauntlet. Here was a human with genuine hate reinforced with swords, cross-bows and blind zeal. Here was a human who saw notched ears as a target.

She had seen such hate before, but only in the eyes of those not content to revile her people and wallow in deluded myth about the tribes. This hate, the undiluted foulness behind Quillian’s eyes, was reserved for those who had seen shicts. Seen, she thought, and killed.

Her suspicions were confirmed, at least as much as she needed them to be, in the grit of the woman’s teeth and narrowing of her eyes. She could not disguise her loathing, even as she dangled above the already blood-soaked deck. Even for the sake of her life, Kataria realised, this human couldn’t commit the fraud of repentance.

‘If you’re going to kill me,’ the Serrant hissed, ‘then cease drawing it out.’

Kataria made no reply besides a careful, contemplative blink. Here was a human who had killed her people. Here was a human who had committed the one sin all shicts were sworn to avenge. Here was a human who could be one less slayer of her tribeskin, a human the world wouldn’t miss.

They can always make more, she thought.

‘Do it,’ the Serrant hissed.

Kataria’s hand moved in response, wrapping around the Serrant’s wrist.

‘Don’t be such a whiner,’ the shict grunted, straining with the effort of hauling up the bronze-clad woman. ‘Just because,’ she paused to breathe, ‘I took my time,’ she gasped, ‘Riffid Alive, but you’re heavy.’

Suddenly she paused, as the woman’s chest rose just above the basket’s edge.

‘Wait a moment, how many did you say that last one was worth?’

‘What?’ Hate vanished in a moment of puzzlement in Quillian’s eyes.

‘When the ships collided,’ Kataria repeated, ‘how many was that worth? How many did I kill?’

‘I don’t know,’ the Serrant snarled, ‘I was a bit busy nearly falling to my death.’

‘Just take a guess.’

‘I don’t know. .’ She drew in a breath through her teeth. ‘You killed. . perhaps eight heathens.’

‘EIGHT?’

Quillian’s shriek was short and brief as the shict released her. She came to a sudden, jerking halt, her bronze fingers digging deeper into the wood to suspend herself. A staggering gasp that sounded as though the woman’s stomach was on the verge of spilling out of her mouth went unheeded by Kataria.

‘That had to be fifteen,’ Kataria protested sharply, ‘at least twelve.’

‘You’re delusional,’ Quillian growled in response. ‘Eight is being generous. You didn’t do more than shoot one man and send a few others into the sea.’

‘In a chunky jam I sent them! Give me a better number!’

‘Lying is a sin in the eyes of all Gods.’

‘Then you’d better cut it out before I send you to meet them.’

Until that moment, it hadn’t truly occurred to Kataria that she was prepared to send the woman to her death for refusing to concede a few extra Kou’ru when she hadn’t been willing to condemn her for supposedly killing her own tribesmen. It bothered her little; whether by righteous vengeance or petty numbers, still one less human.

If, Kataria told herself, she continues to act in such a human manner.

‘Do you concede?’

‘Not a chance,’ Quillian snapped back.

‘Lovely.’ The shict put on a self-satisfied smirk. ‘Bid your smelly Gods good day on behalf of Riffid for me.’

She turned about, folding her arms over her chest. She could resume shooting in a moment, when this particular distraction was over. Absently, she scratched her flank as she waited for the sound of bronze grinding against wood, gulls crying above the inevitable shriek, a pompous melon exploding in a barrel.

Either that or a plea for mercy. They’d be equally satisfying.

‘Shict,’ Quillian gasped.

So soon? Kataria resolved not to turn just yet; that would be too easy.

‘Shict!’

She can hold on for a few more moments. . or not.

‘Damn it, you long-eared vagrant! Something’s happening below!’

Kataria’s ears twitched. The Serrant’s concerns were confirmed in a cry of pain from a familiar voice. She whirled about, leaning over the dangling woman to peer at what was occurring below.

What had begun as a melee had degenerated into a matter of swaths: swaths fleeing before Gariath as he tore through the ranks of the pirates, swaths collapsing before Dreadaeleon’s fiery hands as his arcane chant went unchallenged.

‘That hardly counts as a “happening”,’ the shict sneered. ‘I’ve already killed as many as they have.’

‘Not that, you imbecile!’ Quillian pointed a bronze finger across the deck.

Kataria’s eyes widened immediately, ears pricking up in alarm at the sight. The greatest swath of all lay at the Riptide’s helm, the sailors who had been guarding it now cast to the timbers like scythed wheat. The figure of Rashodd was immense amidst the carnage, wading unhurriedly up the steps towards the sole figure, short and wiry, standing in his way.

‘Lenk,’ she whispered.

Her arrow was up and nestled in the bowstring in an instant, aimed squarely for Rashodd’s massive back. The pirate, however, seemed less than interested in standing still and suddenly twisted, drawing up beside Lenk, uncomfortably close. Even as wiry as he was, as skilled as she was, and as massive as the Cragsman was, her fingers quivered.

No, she resolved at that moment. She would not add Lenk to her score. Besides, she reasoned, a shot from such a distance into a man of Rashodd’s girth had no guarantee to kill. To waste arrows on a single Kou’ru, no matter how big, simply wasn’t acceptable.

Her arrow was back in her quiver, bow in hand, leg over the crow’s nest’s railing as she prepared to climb down the rigging. Only a sudden shriek gave her pause.

‘Hey! HEY!’

‘Oh, right.’ She glanced over the quaking bronze digits and stared down at Quillian. ‘I almost forgot.’ She smiled. ‘Now, we’re agreeing that the collision caused at least twelve in my favour, yes?’

‘Yes, sure, whatever!’ The Serrant nodded fervently. ‘Just-’

‘Mind yourself, I have to count.’ The shict made a show of wiggling her digits. ‘Fourteen from arrows alone plus, if we’re frugal, another twelve makes. .’ She smiled morbidly down at Squiggy, tapping her nose with a finger. ‘An even twenty-seven. Lucky number!’

The total dawned on Quillian the moment Kataria leapt from the nest and deftly seized the rigging. Squeals of fury followed her down, but she ignored them. There were more pressing concerns.

A flash of sparks at the helm drew her attention; Lenk was hard pressed against Rashodd’s twin axes, his sword nothing more than a weak stinger in the hands of a tiny wasp. Kataria gritted her teeth, splayed her legs against the ropes of the rigging and slid down, ignoring the burn of the hemp that bit through her gloves. She had no time for pain.

The game was not yet over.

Six

THE HERALD

Lenk felt a hammer explode against his belly.

The wind left him, the earth left him as he flew up into the air, sailing blissfully across currents carried by fast-fading screams in the distance. This, he thought, must be what it is to ascend to the heavens.

The Gods proved not so kind.

He struck the timbers with a crash, sliding like a limp, breathless fish. He collided with the base of the ship’s wheel with the meagrest of bumps, giving him the opportunity to lament that the blow hadn’t killed him.

‘Khetashe,’ he gasped breathlessly, ‘that didn’t work.’

‘You thought it would?’ Argaol was quick to kneel beside the young man, helping him to a sitting position. ‘Rashodd’s twice your size if you stand up straight, boy!’

‘I thought,’ he paused to breathe, ‘I could. . strike quickly. Use size to my advantage. . gnats and frogs, right?’

‘What?’

‘Something my grandfather told me.’ Lenk rubbed his stomach, grimacing; the indentations of Rashodd’s knuckles were all too fresh in his skin. ‘The frogs are big, slow and lumbering. . the gnats are small and quick, they can escape.’

‘No gnat ever managed to beat down a frog, runt.’

‘Well, I know that now. When he told it to me, it sounded like good advice.’

Any further conversation went silent against the sound of distant thunder, the sound of heavy boots. The timbers shook beneath them, the ship trembling with Rashodd’s stride. They glanced up as the pirate cleared the last step to the helm.

Rashodd stalked towards them with almost insulting casualness, heedless of the dead beneath his boots, the red flecking his beard, the glistening of his axes. His gaze was unreadable behind his helmet, his voice a metallic ringing.

‘It is with no undue fondness that I recall a time when this was a respectable business. It is with nostalgia that I remember when two captains could do business without bloodshed and drinks were always proffered to guests.’ He sighed. ‘Where is my drink, Argaol? Where is the courtesy extended to a man of my particular prestige? I would give you all the mercy I could spare had you merely displayed a bit of the propriety I am inarguably due.’

Using his sword as a makeshift crutch, Lenk staggered to his feet, steadying himself with the ship’s wheel.

Rashodd inclined his head respectfully. ‘You seem to be the most decent lad amongst this merry band of rabble we’ve had the pleasure to treat with.’ He hefted one of his axes over a broad shoulder. ‘I can’t say I don’t admire your — if you’ll pardon the comparison — cockroach-like tenacity. I’ve scarce known a man to display such resilience in the face of common sense.’ He lofted a great, grey brow. ‘Mercenary?’

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