Tome of the Undergates

Interlogue

The Aeons’ Gate

Ktamgi, a few days north and east (?) of Toha

Summer, getting later

So, why be an adventurer?

Why forsake the security of a mercenary guild, the comfort of a family or the patriotism of a soldier to serve at the whims of unscrupulous characters and perform deeds that fall somewhere in the triangle of madness, villainy and self-loathing?

To be honest, I hadn’t actually asked myself that for awhile. Don’t misunderstand; I asked myself all the time when I first began doing this sort of thing, three years ago. I don’t recall ever finding an answer. .

Eventually, one begins to accept one’s lot in life, adventurers included, so I suppose I’d say the chief reason people stay with this, let’s be honest, rather abhorrent career decision is out of sheer laziness. But that doesn’t really offer an answer to the chief question, does it?

Why do it in the first place?

Freedom, perhaps, could be one reason: the need to be without the beck and call of sergeants, kings or even customers. An adventurer is as close as you can get to that sort of thing without declaring yourself outright a highwayman or rapist. Hardly any profit in the latter, anyway.

Greed is certainly another factor, for though adventurers don’t get hired often, we do typically end up with whatever gold we acquire along the way from robberies, plundering or looting … which might be why we don’t get hired very often.

That aside, I think the real reason is the first one: laziness.

Wait, let me rephrase.

Comfort.

There’s precious little of it to be found in an adventurer’s life, it’s certain. . and maybe that’s why we pick up a sword or a bow or a knife and decide to do it. It makes sense, doesn’t it? We all want comfort, in one way or another.

Asper wants the comfort of being able to provide comfort to others in the name of Talanas; being an adventurer gives her plenty of opportunity.

Dreadaeleon wants the comfort of knowing he did everything he could to make himself and his art stronger; again, plenty of opportunity.

Gariath wants the comfort of knowing he did everything he could to reduce the population of every non-dragonman species; I suspect there’s a greater reason, but I haven’t had any inclination to endure the head-stompings that asking would entail.

Denaos wants gold, I suppose, but why our gold is anyone’s guess. He could get gold anywhere else. Maybe he just wants the comfort of knowing he’s close to people as scummy as himself.

Kataria. . is a mystery.

She has everything people who adventure typically don’t have: family, identity, security, homeland. Granted, I know only as much about shicts as I’d heard in stories and what I’ve learned from Kataria, but such things, and she’s bragged as much, are abundant in shictish society. If she had stayed with them, she’d undoubtedly lead a happy life hunting deer, raising little shictlets and perhaps killing a human or two.

As for me. . maybe by staying near her I can remember what having those things is like. .

… The family and identity part. Not the killing humans part. Though I suspect I’ve done enough of that to warrant at least a nod from the shicts.

To that end, I briefly considered asking her to stay behind today.

If I die, there’s nothing much that will be sorry for my loss. A dead child is a tragedy. A dead man is a funeral. A dead soldier is a loss. A dead adventurer is a lump in the ground and possibly a round of drinks from his former employer. If Gariath or Denaos die, there’ll just be one less murderer running loose. If Asper or Dread die, they’ll have done so for a cause and, thusly, not in vain.

But if Kat dies. . people will mourn.

I would have liked to tell her to stay. . but, alas, I am an adventurer and it’s true what Denaos said: practicality, not bravery, is what drives us.

And having her as a part of my plan is very practical.

The following sentence will undoubtedly prove to be the point of identification in this particular saga where I ceased to be merely foolhardy and became totally mad:

I’ve decided to go into Irontide, after the tome.

Thus far, I’ve determined the best means of procuring said book will be through stealth. And, with that in mind, it should come as no surprise that I’ve decided to divide us up for that purpose. It should come as no further surprise that Gariath won’t be coming along.

Nor will Asper or Dreadaeleon — they are too squeamish and too curious, respectively, to be of any use. Denaos, however, is both a thug and possessed of a particular aversion to what lies inside. He’ll be perfect.

Kataria is a stalker and a hunter. I need keen senses in there, too; if Gariath’s nose can’t come, I’ll gladly settle for Kat’s ears. Her bow will be a welcome asset, as well.

With that in mind, the rest of the plan falls pretty easily into place. Dread’s glamer, we’re hoping, can apparently draw out the Omens. . and the big one, too. If that doesn’t work, we’ll find a way to lure them away long enough for us three, who I’ve deemed ‘Team Imminent Evisceration’, to swim across and find our way in.

The remainder will stay behind to watch out for anything, to fix the boat. . and to carry what’s left of us back to Miron should we fail. Now, I don’t mean our remains, since if we do fail, there’s most certainly not going to be enough left of us to sprinkle on gruel, much less bury.

But Greenhair, for all her shrieking, made clear something that had plagued me for a while.

These aren’t pirates we’re fighting. They’re demons. Their goals aren’t loot and murder, but resurrection. They, themselves something that should not be, are trying to summon something that definitely should not be. And they’re succeeding, if a bigger Omen is anything to go by.

If we do fail, I trust Asper, at least, to make it back to Port Destiny to tell Miron exactly what’s going on.

Dawn is approaching. After a less than satisfying meal of jerky and fruit, my intestines are in working order and my rear is tightly clenched. If I do die today, I most certainly will not be going out soiled.

I’ll write more if I make it out.

Hope is ill-advised.