Tome of the Undergates

Six

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?’

‘Adventurer.’

‘That would explain it, wouldn’t it? I’ve no inherent disrespect for the profession, mind you, though it’s always seemed to me that an adventurer is naught more than a pirate who couldn’t bring himself to admit he’s scum.’

‘We’re all entitled to our opinions.’

‘Regardless, I feel compelled to ask you,’ he shifted his glance to Argaol, ‘both of you. . why put up such a fight? While I wouldn’t list it as a fault in polite company, are you blind, good man? Can you not see the merry company we keep?’ He gestured over his shoulder to the pale invaders, sliding up to reinforce their pirate allies. ‘Be frank with me — how many mere pirates do you know that command such beasts?’

‘I’ve met more than a few beasts in my time,’ Lenk grunted, standing as straight as he could. ‘I’m not impressed. ’

‘A pity.’ Rashodd shook his head sadly and turned to Argaol. ‘Then I appeal to your reason, good Captain. Is it too late to call for a cessation that we might converse as proper gents? Must it always come to violence?’

‘It came to violence ages ago,’ Argaol snarled, ‘when you started slaughtering my men.’

‘The merry boys of the Linkmaster are nothing if not famed for their bravado.’

‘What you’re famed for is rape, murder and slavery.’

‘You do me no honour with flattery, kind sir. Nor have I the patience to continue such an argument. Simply give us what we wish and we can spare you any more tidying-up.’

Argaol regarded the man hesitantly. ‘And what, pray, is it you wish?’

‘I had come intent on taking away some cargo, but I think it a bit rude,’ the Cragsman cleared his throat, ‘given that you’ll be requiring most of your merchandise to hire on crew to replace the men you’ve so unfortunately lost.’

‘Your hacking them to pieces was a bit unfortunate.’

‘Details. At any rate, we’ll simply search your cabins and take two of your gentle lady passengers.’ He held up a pair of fingers. ‘One of our choosing, one of yours.’

Argaol hummed; the sound was faint and distant in Lenk’s ears, slurred by the thunder pounding through his head. Even through blurring vision, however, he could see the captain’s gaze drifting upwards to the crow’s nest. Kataria and Quillian had both vanished from the mast; perhaps for the better, Lenk thought.

The captain’s thoughts were just as audible. He could see Argaol questioning himself, posing any number of logical scenarios in the tilt of his head. Why not, Lenk asked himself, why not abandon a savage for the sake of the crew? Please the pirates and please the Gods by ridding himself of a heathen adventurer.

Lenk clutched the hilt of his sword, unsure as to who he should turn it on once enough feeling returned to his arm to heft it.

‘As well as the priest below.’

Argaol’s neck went rigid. ‘Absolutely not! Murder is one thing, Rashodd, but I’ll not let you blaspheme this ship.’

‘Had I any manner of hat not made of iron, I would doff it in reverence of your godliness, kind sir.’ The Cragsman paused to pantomime this. ‘But I must attempt to skewer you with logic for a moment: consider the fate of your men. Resist us and the priest comes along with us, cooperate and the priest comes along with us. The only difference that remains is how big a charnel heap you’re left with.’

‘Zamanthras guides this ship,’ Argaol countered hotly, displaying the Goddess’s symbol hanging around his neck. ‘I will not risk the generosity She’s shown me by acquiescing to your logic, no matter how skewering.’ He reached for the cutlass at his hip. ‘You offer me a quick death by your own hand or a slow one by the Gods’ disfavour. I will accept neither.’

‘We aren’t giving up any woman or man, either,’ Lenk attempted to say without vomiting as the breath returned to him fiercely. ‘Heathen or faithful, adventurer or otherwise. ’ He hefted his sword and turned an icy glare upon the captain. ‘No one dies here without taking someone else with him.’

Rashodd was impassive as Lenk charged towards him, the tiny gnat levelling his tiny silver stinger against the massive, iron-clad frog. The pirate twirled an axe casually in one hand, testing its weight as he might a butchering knife in the face of a particularly choice piece of meat. As he lowered his visored stare upon Lenk’s head, he undoubtedly figured that his weapon would split a melon just as well.

The axe swung, bit only a few stray strands of silver as Lenk ducked low and thrust his blade upwards with a triumphant cackle, aiming for the small gap in his foe’s armour. Such mirth was drowned in the clamour of steel, however, as Rashodd’s second axe came up with an unfair deftness, grinding against the young man’s sword.

Undaunted, Lenk pressed the attack. The pirate might have had leverage and strength, but the young man had two hands firmly on the sword’s hilt and its tip poised tantalisingly close to the Cragsman’s intestines. Just a little farther, he thought, a good push and it’s all over. He saw his grin widen in the blade’s reflection, brimming with malicious hope.

It was then that he remembered that Rashodd had two hands.

The flat of the second axe came crashing down and slammed against his ribs. His sword clattered to the ground, hands contorting as muscles locked against the blow. Paralysed, he was barely able to let out a pained squawk, let alone squirm away from Rashodd’s massive hand.

‘Kindly use your reason, gentlemen.’ The ire boiling in Rashodd’s voice was reflected in the fingers tightening around the young man’s neck as he hefted Lenk from the deck. ‘Perhaps it has been your woe to have dealt with considerably less couth men than myself, but I can most benevolently assure you that my terms would be considered most generous by anyone slightly less deranged.’

‘There can be no negotiation where blasphemy is involved, ’ Argaol snarled in reply.

‘Ah, my dear Captain, there can be no victory where Rashodd is involved.’ He gestured out over the deck. ‘Amongst his allies are counted men who ply the waters like frogs and fight like devils. Look upon them, Captain, embrace the wisdom of our terms and we can begin the long and arduous process of restraining ourselves from the mutilation of fruits, stones and other synonyms for manhood, ’ he brought his axe up, let the blade graze Lenk’s trousers, ‘starting with this ardent young lad.’

Being strangled by a giant hand and with an axe brushing his genitalia, Lenk began to see the wisdom in surrender. He hoped between what meagre breaths he could muster that Argaol, too, had enough sympathy for his situation, if not his profession.

While he couldn’t twist his neck to see Argaol’s reaction, the captain’s derisive laughter assured the young man that godliness was, in his eyes, well above concern for an adventurer’s dangling bits.

‘And what then, Rashodd? Do we see how many more sacks are slashed before you get your men under control?’ He chuckled blackly. ‘Besides, if you want to negotiate, I suggest you find a more valuable hostage.’

‘Truly, good Captain, it is rare that I find myself in a position where callousness overwhelms me.’ The Cragsman shook his head. ‘I trust the honour isn’t lost on you.’ He looked Lenk over appraisingly like a particularly gristly piece of beef. ‘This upstanding young gent has spilled much blood for your well-being and you would cast him off so crudely?’

‘There are always more adventurers. They’re like cockroaches, as you say.’

The surprise in Rashodd’s voice was genuine. ‘It is with no great glee that I admit I hadn’t expected this of you.’ He twirled the axe in his hands, raising it a little. ‘And it is with even less glee that I make this example.’

‘You ought to listen to the captain,’ someone hissed from behind.

Rashodd turned laboriously with two heavy feet, not nearly deft enough to avoid the arrow that shrieked from the steps and angrily bit at his wrist as it grazed his flesh. His grunt was more of surprise than of pain as he dropped Lenk to the deck, his scowl more of annoyance than anger as he turned to the woman already nocking another arrow.

‘Cockroaches are everywhere.’ Kataria smiled behind her bow, flashing broad canines. ‘Back away from him,’ she gestured to Lenk with her chin, ‘that one belongs to me.’

‘Shicts, is it?’ Rashodd’s thick lips twisted into a grin that was undoubtedly supposed to be coy. ‘My good Captain, you can hardly retain your claims to godliness while consorting with heathen savages.’ He raised his hands, taking a step away from Lenk. ‘By all means, keep the dear lad if you think it will do you any good.’

Her arrow followed him as he took another two steps backwards. It wasn’t until a moment passed that Argaol glanced from the shict to the fallen young man and coughed.

‘Shouldn’t you. . help him?’

Kataria blinked suddenly, glanced down at her companion and sighed.

‘Yeah. . I guess.’

Rashodd seemed less than worried, even though Kataria kept her bow aimed at him while she came to Lenk’s side. The pirate, rather, let out a great sigh, as though a potential arrow through the eyeball was all one tremendous inconvenience. He plucked up his stray axe and twirled it.

‘And how do we solve this, then?’ He shook his head. ‘Kill me, my men will fight harder and, while they weren’t particularly restrained boys to begin with, they’ll have much less restraint if I’m not here to control them.’

‘Every last heathen aboard this blessed vessel will be cleansed by steel, scum.’ Quillian’s approach was heralded by the hiss of a sword leaping from its scabbard. Though she levelled her blade at the pirate, her scowl was for Kataria. ‘Every. Last. One.’

‘She looks mad,’ Lenk noted through a strained gulp.

‘She always looks mad,’ Kataria replied.

‘In the interim,’ the Serrant said, turning her attention back to Rashodd, ‘it is only logical that we begin with the biggest.’

Lenk held his breath as the woman took a menacing step. Rashodd was right, he knew — the Cragsmen wouldn’t even notice that their captain had been killed until well after every last man was dead. Such an occurrence, however, rested on the idea that a sword would be enough to stop him.

An idea, he thought grimly, that seemed more ludicrous with every step the Cragsman took to meet the Serrant.

She growled and Lenk winced, though the sound of steel carving flesh never came. Rather, there was the sound of bronze clattering to the floor as a great, clawed hand reached up, seized Quillian by the head and shoved her aside.

Despite having no breath to chuckle, Lenk felt rather satisfied seeing Rashodd leap backwards at the sight clambering up the stairs. If the Cragsman strode with insulting casualness, Gariath stalked with infuriated ease. The leathery skin of his face was twisted angrily, bared teeth as red as every other part of his body. Cuts and gashes criss-crossed his body like so much decoration, which seemed to be all the credit he gave his wounds.

‘It’s over.’

Gariath seemed to say this with more irritation than satisfaction, though it was difficult for Lenk to distinguish his companion’s irritation from his other emotions; all of them involved some manner of rage.

‘They barely even fought.’

Red pooled at his feet. Red, Lenk noted grimly, not his own.

‘This one didn’t even raise his sword.’

Gariath tossed the limp body at the Cragsman’s feet. The man was barely recognisable as one of the Linkmaster’s crew, so badly broken and crushed was he. Limbs were bent in ways they weren’t meant to bend, extra joints had been added, and haemorrhages bloomed in ugly purple blossoms beneath the man’s skin.

Lenk quietly wished Rashodd hadn’t angled himself to prevent the young man from seeing his face.

The colossal captain gasped at his underling. ‘What in the name of All On High did you do to him?’

‘I killed him. Isn’t that obvious?’ The dragonman took a step forwards and Rashodd backpedalled with uncharacteristic haste, axes raised. ‘The rest of them will follow.’ Gariath levelled a claw at the captain. ‘Unless you kill me.’

A glance at the deck confirmed Gariath’s declaration. The battle, it seemed, had taken a definite turn with the dragonman’s presence. Many of the pirates lay dead, the remaining ones herded by the now superior numbers of the Riptide’s men. Only the pale invaders held strong, pressed into a small mass at one side of the ship, heedless of the Cragsmen’s pleas for help.

Those meagre few who hadn’t already thrown down their arms collapsed as smouldering husks in the shadow of Dreadaeleon, the boy breathing heavily, hurling gouts of fire from his hands as he strode along the deck like an underfed titan.

‘It’s an insult,’ Gariath growled, tearing all eyes back upon himself. ‘I wanted a fight. I wanted warriors and you send me babies.’ He kicked the corpse harshly. ‘Babies.’ The foot came up and down with a crack of wood and a spatter of thick, grey porridge. ‘BABIES.’

Rashodd cringed at that. Lenk thought it would have been a satisfying sight had he not also been forced to look away.

‘So boldly did you utter condemnation of imagined blasphemies, Argaol,’ the Cragsman’s voice betrayed not a hint of fear, ‘yet now you consort with murderous monsters and do not quiver at your own righteous hypocrisy?’

‘Stop talking to them,’ Gariath growled, clenching his hands into fists. ‘I had to fight through a lot of ugly, weak, smelly humans to get to you. Now, stand still and fight so one of us can die and we might be able to get something done today.’

‘I care not what atrocities linger before, throughout or herein, reptile.’ Rashodd’s axes kissed in a challenging clang. ‘Nor do I yearn to know what allegiances they hold to. If you seek to die, I’ll make your funeral impromptu and decidedly lacking in attendance.’

Not one of the dragonman’s smiles had ever been pleasant, Lenk noted as he watched his companion’s lips curl backwards, but this particular grin crossed a threshold the young man had not yet seen. Something flashed in the hulking brute’s eye, notable only in that it was no glimpse of bloodlust, nor promise of a memorable dismembering. What glimmered behind Gariath’s obsidian orbs was anxiousness, eagerness, anticipation better fitting a young man about to bed his first woman.

After that particular metaphor, Lenk did not dare contemplate what his companion was thinking.

‘Show me, then,’ Gariath’s challenge was punctuated by the ringing of his silver bracers clashing together, ‘what humans can do.’

‘Requested and granted.’

No sooner had the pirate’s massive foot hit the deck than a piercing wail cut through the air.

‘Stop him!’ All eyes below and above turned towards the shadows of the companionway as something emerged, pursued by a voice brimming with righteous indignation. ‘Stop him, you fools! Retrieve the book!’

With unnerving speed, something came springing out of the shadows. So white as to be blinding in the sun, the slender, pale creature leapt out onto the deck. It hesitated, surveying the carnage surrounding it with animal awareness, baring black gums and needle teeth in a defiant hiss. The combatants, pirates and sailors alike, ceased their fighting at the sudden appearance of the creature and the booming voice that followed it.

‘I said stop him!’

At the sound, the creature went bounding through the crowds. Sweeping from the shadows like a white spectre, Miron Evenhands came bursting out, frost flakes on his shoulders. He flung a hand out after the creature in such a dramatic gesture that the figures of Denaos and Asper behind him were hardly noticeable.

‘He has the book! Bring it back to me!’

‘SHEPHERD!’ the creature wailed to no visible presence as he rushed past the crowd. ‘Summon the Shepherd! This one has the tome!’

‘What the hell are you doing?’ The roar came from Rashodd. In the angry turn of a heel, the dragonman was forgotten as the captain stormed down the stairs after the fleeing creature. ‘We don’t need any books, you dim-witted hairless otter!’

‘Get back here!’ Gariath howled in response, charging after the Cragsman.

Lenk and Argaol shared a blink as a new breed of chaos began to unfurl below. The pale creature nimbly darted between those determined to stop him and rushed to the cluster of his own kind at the ship’s railing. All the while, Miron bellowed orders as Rashodd pursued the creature and Gariath pursued Rashodd.

‘Well?’ Argaol asked, turning to the young man suddenly.

‘What?’

‘Shouldn’t you do something?’

The young man sighed heavily and tapped the toe of his boot on the wood.

‘Yeah,’ he muttered, ‘fine.’

Lenk leapt from the stairs, though he knew not why. His breath was still ragged, his grip weak on his sword, his legs trembling. He charged into a throng of flesh, wood and steel with Rashodd’s blow still echoing in his body and he knew not why he did. Yet even as he felt himself stagger, he continued to charge after the pale thief, into the battle, into the sprays of red.

He knew not why.

Voices were at his back: commands from Miron, cries of mingled encouragement and warning from Asper and Denaos, all fading behind him. Arrows flew past his ears to put down particularly bold invaders rushing forth to aid their companion. Rashodd was before him, then at his side as he nimbly darted past the hulking pirate. He caught the flash of an axe out of the corner of his eye, moving to hack his legs out from under him.

There was a roar, a flash of red as something horned, clawed and winged caught the Cragsman from behind.

That threat fled from Lenk’s mind with the sound of two heavy bodies hitting the deck. As sounds and screams faded around him, as the world slipped into darkness, leaving only the slender-limbed creature and the burlap satchel it clutched, he knew what sent him in pursuit. He knew, and it spoke to him in a harsh, frigid voice.

‘They cannot flee,’ the voice said, an edge of joy to it, ‘they cannot run. Strike. Kill.’

The command lent him strength, pushed cold blood through his legs, drove him to leap. The pale creature was quick, but Lenk was more so. In the breath between his leap and his descent, the last trace of the world slipped away, bathing everything in darkness. He saw the invader turn, spurred by an unheard shout from his compatriots; Lenk saw the reflection of his steel in the creature’s dark eyes.

Then, in a glittering arc, the world returned.

The thief collapsed unceremoniously. Something square and black tumbled out of its satchel, bouncing once upon the deck, then sliding gently to rest in a particularly moist, sticky spot. Even as life leaked out of him, the invader gasped and reached out a trembling, webbed hand for the object.

‘Tome. .’ he gasped, ‘Shepherd. . take-’

Lenk twisted his sword and the creature went rigid, laying its quivering head down in a red pool as though it were a pillow. His blade still glistening, Lenk raised his weapon warily, warning off the small press of pale creatures that took a collective menacing step forwards. They retreated from the weapon, he noted, but with hardly the fear or haste he had hoped. Their eyes were still appraising, their bone daggers still clenched tightly.

‘Lenk!’ He didn’t have to turn around to recognise Miron’s booming voice. ‘The book! Return it to me!’

A book.

He wasn’t exactly sure what he thought the thing should be. It was a broad, black square, only a little bigger than his journal. High quality leather of crimson and ebon bound its pristine white pages; it certainly looked like a book.

And yet, as it slid out of its silk pouch with the rocking of the ship, it somehow didn’t seem to be a book.

It was unadorned. No title, no author, no symbol of any faith or people. The pale creatures lurched backwards, regarding it carefully, warily, anxiously. Yet even their reaction went unnoticed beside a fact that hit Lenk as he felt the warmth of the sun on his back.

It doesn’t glisten.

Leather of such high quality should shimmer. It should reflect the sunlight in its onyx face. Yet this leather did not glisten, nor shine, nor even flicker in the sunlight.

‘Quickly, you fool!’ Miron roared. ‘Take the book!’

With a swift glance over his shoulder, the young man nodded and moved forwards. Quickly, he reached down to scoop up the item.

‘NO! Not with your hands!’

He thought it slightly odd that Miron’s voice should seem distant, so distant as to render whatever he had just shouted silent. Truly, all the sounds fell silent as Lenk plucked up the book. No seawater, nor blood, though both flooded the deck in excess, clung to the leather cover. He thought that odd for only a moment before he felt a twinge in his palm.

Did. . did it just move?

The book quivered at his thoughts and, in the blink of an eye, responded.

The black cover flipped open, baring the pages to his eyes and, spurred by some unseen, unfelt breeze, began to turn. They went slowly at first, blinding him with hymns, invocations, prayers to things he had never heard of, pleas for things he would never have thought to ask for. An eternity seemed to pass as the words scarred themselves onto his eyes.

He was scarcely aware of the fact that he wasn’t breathing any more.

The leaves continued to turn, to flip. Words vanished, blending into images, symbols, pictures that were discernible at first: people in torment, things with horns, claws, feathery wings. Then those too vanished and blended into nothing more than black lines scrawled in shapes that reached out and clawed at him, trying to pull his eyes from his skull with inky fingers.

Someone behind him screamed, told him to put the book down, but he could not will his hand to do so. Even as they made less and less sense, flipping viciously through his mind, the lines began to take a shape. He blinked, and with each passing moment, they continued to form a shape. It was horrible, yet he could not turn his head away, could not shut his eyes. He was forced to stare.

The book looked back at him.

The book smiled.

‘NO!’

The book snapped shut. His fingers tensed involuntarily around it as the frigid howl reverberated through his head, coating his skull with a vocal rime. He dropped it then, watching it splash in a pink puddle. The liquid did not pool beneath it.

‘Something,’ the voice uttered, ‘is coming.’

Before Lenk could think, a howl filled the air. His eyes rose at the noise, spying the pale creatures as they clustered together at the railing. Standing above them, perched on the ship’s edge and clinging to the railing, the tallest of the invaders pressed a conch shell to its lips. Its chest expanded with breath, then shrank as a wailing exhale cut the air.

Voices rose from behind him, excited warnings to the sky. Lenk saw it: the clouds moved suddenly, twisting and shifting. They grew larger, shimmering with a dozen facets as they descended in great drifts.

The sky, it seemed, was falling.

They descended in ominous unity, a flock of frenzied feathers and bulbous blue orbs, to land upon the masts and rigging and railings of the Riptide. Lenk watched them, spellbound by their harmony as they settled. Plump bodies covered with feathers, sagging, fleshy faces dominated by two great blue eyes.

How many? He could not find an answer; they seemed to be endless, lines of ruffling, cooing birds. Seagulls? No, he told himself, seagulls didn’t sit and stare with unblinking eyes. Seagulls didn’t gather in such numbers.

Seagulls didn’t have long, needle-like teeth in place of beaks.

What, he asked himself, are they?

‘Harbingers.’ Miron’s sneering disgust answered his thoughts. ‘The book, Lenk! Seize the book! Keep it away from those monstrosities!’

‘What are you gentlemen doing?’ Rashodd bellowed from the deck, still wrestling with Gariath. ‘Your master requires aid!’

‘These ones no longer require that one,’ the creature with the conch said, levelling a finger at the Cragsman. ‘These ones have found the tome they seek.’

‘What tome?’ All semblance of composure vanished from the captain. ‘I ordered you to take no tome!’

‘No, that one did not,’ the frogman replied, glowering at the captain. ‘Yet that one is not this one’s master.’

‘What in all hell are you-’

Before Rashodd could find the words for his fury, the timbers quaked with sudden, violent force. Another series of gasps coursed through the crowd, hands tightening around weapons as eyes went wide with bewilderment.

Something had just struck the ship.

Distantly, where wood met froth, the hull groaned ominously. The deck shook once more, shifting to one side, sending sailors and defenders alike struggling to keep their footing. An eternity seemed to pass between sounds of wood splintering, punctuated by further wooden whines as something from below crawled up the hull.

The pale creatures whirled, suddenly heedless of the others behind them, the prize they had lost upon the ground. As a single unit of pasty skin and scrawny legs, they collapsed to their knees, pressing their foreheads to the salt of the deck.

All save one.

‘Speak not in the Shepherd’s presence,’ the conch-blower uttered, its eyes on Lenk. ‘Dare no movement, dare no impure thought. Be content in salvation.’ Its finger trembled as he pointed. ‘For that one has seen much purity.’

The ship listed further. Men stepped backwards, caught between the struggle to get away from the railing and to stay on their shifting feet.

And then, all were still; no sound, no movement. Only the groan of wood and the death of wind.

Screams were frozen in throats, hands quaking about weapons, unblinking eyes forced to the edge of the ship. From over the side, an immense, webbed appendage dotted with curling claws and wrapped in skin the colour of shadow reached up to cling to the railing. The wood splintered with the force of the grip, threatening to be crushed as the arm, emaciated and clad in painfully stretched flesh, tensed.

‘Sweet Khetashe,’ Lenk whispered breathlessly.

With one great effort, the clawed limb pulled the rest of the creature up from the hull and turned the sailors’ anxious terror to panic as a great monstrosity landed upon the deck with enough force to crack wood beneath two massive webbed feet.

It stood more than ten feet tall, dwarfing any creature present with its emaciated, ebon-skinned splendour. Attached to a torso of flesh drawn cruelly tight over a long ribcage were two arms and legs, both longer than spears, jointed in four places and ending in great, webbed claws.

All its thin, underfed horror was nothing compared to the monument atop its long neck. Massive, almost the size of its painfully visible ribcage, resembling the head of a rotted fish, the thing regarded the crew through vast, unblinking eyes: frigid white pools dominated by great blots of darkness. Its wide, toothy maw stretched its entire face to the point of agony, its lower jaw hanging slack. More than one man present retched, cringed or added a distinct yellow tinge to the grisly paint upon the deck as the creature’s mouth swung open to speak.

‘Where does the salvation lie?’ Its voice was lilting, gurgling, the sounds of drowning men. ‘Where can it be?

‘There, Shepherd.’

Lenk saw their fingers, pale little digits pointed to the deck right at his feet. He glanced down at the tome for only a moment as it lay in a dry space with nothing but wet about it. His attention was then torn upwards once more as he felt the timbers quake beneath his feet.

The thing walked towards him in a loping, unhurried gait. He could see every webbed claw settle into the wood as it set a foot down, see the water cling to its black soles as it raised a foot up.

Was it aware of the fear it inspired? Lenk wondered. Was it aware that there had been so much blood spilled and so many bodies falling just moments ago? Was anyone else still aware? He could feel their frozen presence behind him, feel the ripple of air as they quivered, feel the breath of whimpered prayers.

Were they aware of him, he wondered, or did they merely see a tiny silver shadow before a looming tower of gloom?

‘The tome!’ Miron’s shout was fading, softened by the terrified silence. ‘Get the tome!’

By the time Lenk realised there was a world beyond the creature looming before him, the tome was ensconced in webbed claws, examined by empty eyes. It did not blink, did not so much as scowl; whatever it saw in Lenk, Lenk could not see in it.

‘Is it tempting? Is it envious?’ The abomination’s voice was incapable of softness, boiling up in its flabby throat like vocal bile. ‘Curious. . and envious, both. The temptation is great to look within and muse on the salvation that lies beneath man-wrought covers.’

‘Temptation is strong.’ The rotund, feathered creatures chanted in horrifying unison. ‘Flesh is weak. Shelter in salvation. Salvation in the Shepherd.’

The black monstrosity leaned down, looking Lenk squarely in the eyes.

‘And yet. . is it more faithful to keep eyes chaste, minds pure?’

‘Chastity leads to the endless blue,’ the chorus above chanted. ‘Blessed is the pure mind.’

Its arm extended, reached out to touch the deck as the thing remained unbent and Lenk remained unmoving. It reached over him and he heard its joints pop into place with greasy ease. The warning cries that had been at his back were quiet; all was quiet save for the shifting of the creature as it plucked the book’s silk covering from the water.

‘It is,’ it continued, drawing its great arm back, ‘for there is nothing without faith, no hope without chastity.’ Like a great, bony crane, the thing dipped its hand, replacing the book into the silk pouch. ‘And such great beauty must be kept only for eyes as beautiful.’

Lenk hadn’t even noticed the pale creature scurrying up beside the abomination, now accepting the tome with eager hands.

‘Is it not so?’ The creature did not wait for answer from itself, Lenk or its aide. Without another movement, it gurgled to the pale invader beside it. ‘Go.’

‘Fools!’ Miron cried, though no one seemed to hear him. No one noticed the frogmen retreating, ambling from their prostrate circle and over the railing of the ship, to land in the salt with muted splashes.

No one could see anything beyond the stake of darkness that had impaled the heart of the deck.

‘There is no escape from envy,’ the creature gurgled, staring down at Lenk, ‘however base a sensation it may feel. But to tolerate it. . feel it and let it live, that is inexcusable in the eyes of Mother.’

‘Move.’

He wished he could; the voice was so distant, drowned in the echo of the abomination’s gurgle. Between them, the frost and the shadow, he was smothered, frozen, unaware of the glistening black claw reaching down as though it intended to pluck a flower.

‘MOVE!’

‘Understand,’ the thing gurgled, ‘this is simply how it must be.’

‘How it must end,’ the chorus agreed with bobbing heads.

When the blackness of the thing’s hand had completely engulfed his sight, he felt it. A roar tore the sky apart, ripping through the air as it ripped through Lenk. The creature’s hand wavered for a moment, the field of black broken by a sudden flash of angry red, the smothering echo of its voice shattered by thunder.

Gariath struck the creature with all the force of a battering ram, leathery wings flapping to propel his horned head into its ribcage. The abomination staggered, but did not fall. It gurgled, but did not scream. Gashes formed in its chest as it took a great step backwards … but it did not bleed.

It doesn’t bleed.

He was reminded, however, that he did, as the dragonman’s knuckles cracked against his cheek. Whatever else had lingered inside him was banished in a fit of bloody-nosed rage as he turned a scowl upon his companion.

‘What was that for?’

‘Just checking,’ the dragonman grunted back.

Lenk blinked as a glob of red-tinged phlegm dripped down his face.

‘For what?’

‘Huh.’ Gariath shrugged. ‘I didn’t think I’d have to follow that up with a reason.’ He held up a scarred hand to prevent protest. ‘If it makes you feel better, say I was checking if you were too busy soiling yourself to fight.’

‘I wasn’t-’

‘Then what were you doing?’

Lenk opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. He was muted, blinded, deafened all at once as the images flashed through his head again, the words echoing in his ears: the portraits in the book’s pages, the smile across the parchment, ‘salvation’, ‘MOVE!’ He found himself dizzy suddenly, but dared not sway, lest he find Gariath performing another check-up.

‘Never mind,’ Lenk grunted. ‘Whatever it was, it doesn’t warrant you punching your leader in the face.’

‘Leaders lead, they don’t stand around and wait to die.’ Gariath snorted at that, raising a claw to one black eye. ‘Cry later. Kill now.’

Whatever fear and frustration had been boiling within left him in one great resigned sigh. He glanced over at Gariath; even in the face of such a horror as the black-skinned foe, even against such walking foulness, he was still tensed for the fight, his wounds and cuts threatening to reopen over the bulge of his muscle. His posture, the eager twitch of wings, the flicking of moistened claws, told Lenk that the dragonman had already prepared to throw himself into a gaping, saw-toothed mouth of death. The sole question that lingered between their gazes was who was going to follow him into the afterlife.

Lenk raised his sword unconsciously. He saw his reflection in his companion’s teeth; they both knew the answer.

Thunder burst from Gariath’s mouth and crashed beneath his feet as he threw himself on all fours, charging towards the towering creature, wings unfurled, tail whipping behind him. Lenk struggled to keep up, following closely in the dragonman’s splintered wake.

The creature regarded them with a curious tilt of its head, as though not entirely sure what was charging towards it. Before it could react, Gariath closed the distance in a sudden spring, leaping up to drive his horns against the monstrosity’s ribcage. With an impact that shook the ship in the water, the creature staggered backwards as the dragonman sprang away, landing on all fours as he braced his body.

Lenk was quick to follow, charging up and over Gariath’s back as though he were a winged ramp. With a grunt, he went flying off his companion’s shoulders, his blade flashing in the air. He swung in a wide, murderous arc, intent on bringing his weapon anywhere he could against the thing’s emaciated figure.

Rage turned to confusion in an instant as Lenk felt his blade connect with something, though his feet did not return to the ground. He glanced up with mouth agape at the sight of his blade caught neatly between webbed digits. Slowly, he looked to the creature, who regarded him with the same, unblinking expression as it held him aloft with one long black limb.

‘Well. . uh. .’ Lenk began.

Before he could even think to let go of the weapon, the loose flesh about the creature’s neck quivered as it gurgled unpleasantly. In a blur of silver and black, the thing’s arm rose up and snapped downwards, hammering Lenk against the deck.

The air was robbed from him, sight failed him as he was pulled up from the deck by his sword, his hands wrapped about the hilt in a barely conscious death-grip. His senses failing, he barely felt the sudden lightness of his body as the creature’s arm snapped forwards once more, sending him sailing through the air.

In an instant, sound and sight returned to him. Screams and frightened gasps filled his ears as he saw the deck rising up to catch him in his plummet. Bones trembled in flesh with the impact of his fall.

‘Gods alive,’ his voice was a breathless whisper, ‘what made me think that would work?’

‘And so it becomes clear.’

The voice was a scar on his brain, rubbed with clawed digits, the drowned gurgle painful even to hear. Through blurring vision, Lenk stared up, pulling himself to his feet just in time to see the ebon hand reaching down for him.

‘What God can hear such a voice so far below?’ the creature asked.

‘They are deaf to your fears,’ the chorus muttered.

Lenk fell limp in the creature’s grasp as it raised him up with all the effort it would use to lift a dead fish. He stared into its empty whites, saw the lack of any emotion boiling behind the great black pupils. There was no hatred there, no malice, not even a sinister moment of joy. Nor did the creature’s stare reflect any predatory instinct or mindless sense of duty.

Within the thing’s eyes, there was simply nothing.

‘In the sky where your pitiless Gods dwell, none can hear you.’

A roar tore through the air. Out of the corner of his eye, Lenk spied Gariath rushing forwards, pools of blood quivering on the deck with the force of his four-legged charge. What momentary relief he might have felt was dashed with the sudden snap of a long, black arm.

Gariath was plucked from the deck like a tumbling kitten, a claw wrapping about his throat. It raised him for but an instant, holding him aloft as he thrashed, clawing and kicking at the creature, before bringing him down harshly. Wood splintered beneath the impact, forming a shallow grave of timber and seawater for Gariath to vanish into as the abomination’s foot came pressing down upon him.

‘But down here,’ it gurgled, ‘only Mother will hear you.’

The creature’s mouth went wide, flesh creaking with the effort of its jaws as it bared rows of jagged teeth glistening with saliva.

‘Let your end be a blessing to you.’

‘Fight back.’

It struck Lenk as odd that he should feel guilty for disappointing the voice, odd that he should feel so guilty for clubbing an impotent fist against the creature’s emaciated limb. After all, there were surely worse things than failing a hallucination.

‘Fight!’

Too little strength, too close to the jaws, he realised. He could do nothing but stare, his scream choked in his throat, as the creature’s eyes rolled back into its head, the gaping oblivion of its mouth looming before him.

‘DROP HIM!’

The scream was distant in Lenk’s ears, as were the cries that followed: shrieks of horror, open-mouthed pleas for someone not to be heroic.

Someone, a man whose name Lenk had never known, burst from the press of flesh like a two-legged horse, a long fishing pike clenched in his skinny hands. His roar was more for his own sake than the monstrosity’s, trying to convince himself of his own bravery through sheer volume.

‘With me, boys,’ he howled, ‘we need no heathen adventurers to save us!’

Lenk fell from the monster’s grip, suddenly seized by hands about his shoulders as soon as he hit the ground. He glanced up, noting the glint of green eyes and gold hair through his still-swimming vision. A smile tried futilely to worm itself onto his face.

‘Kataria,’ he groaned.

‘Shut up,’ she snarled back as she pulled him into the relative safety of the crowd.

His throat aching, he had little choice but to obey. He looked back towards the creature and saw the sailor standing before it, unflinching, unmoving, as he drove the pike through the wisp of flesh that served as the creature’s belly. There was the sound of flesh tearing, sinew splitting as the metal head came bursting through the creature’s back.

Gariath seized the momentary distraction, reaching up to grab the creature’s ankle. With a snarl, he threw the massive webbed foot up and leapt from his half-finished coffin. Splinters jutted from his flesh, weeping gouts pooling at his feet. If he was in agony, he did not show it.

The creature did not fall, but swayed. It did not shriek, but hummed contemplatively. It did not look at the man with scorn, but with nothingness, a strange sort of curiosity that was something between annoyance and sheer befuddlement.

‘A mistake.’ it uttered. ‘Your rage at your uncaring Gods drives you to strike at your saviour. Do you repent?’

The man staggered backwards, lips mouthing a wordless prayer.

‘Then let salvation be done,’ the creature said.

What composure it had lost was regained in an instant as it rose tall and erect to glance at the pike’s shaft jutting from its belly. With no sound but that of its own flesh being mangled, the creature wrapped a claw about the handle and tore it free, sending meaty black blobs plopping to the deck.

‘And thus is my part written. I am here to make wide your error, your false hope.’

There was a sucking sound, as of a foot being pulled from mud, and the creature’s gaping wound began to quiver. Slowly, the flesh groaned, reaching out with frayed edges to seal itself in a grotesque slurp of sinew.

‘What the. .’ The sailor was breathless, taking another step backwards. ‘What. . what in the name of Zamanthras are you?’

Like a black, rubbery tentacle, the creature’s arm shot out to seize the sailor about his head, claws sinking into his cranium as it held the sailor aloft. The man shrieked, kicking about madly, clawing at the creature’s webbed hand, writhing in its unquivering grip.

‘I am,’ it gurgled ominously, ‘mercy.’

The sailor’s screams died as the beast’s claws twitched. With agonising slowness, cloudy, viscous ooze dripped from trembling fingers. The crowd took up their fellow’s screams as the slime continued to pour from the creature’s hand, coating his head and face to his shoulders. Like a rabbit caught in a trap, the kicking of the sailor’s legs slowly died, his thrashing silencing.

In moments, a hunk of breathless meat dangled from the creature’s grip, like a condemned prisoner from the gallows, wearing a mask of viscous sludge. The echo of his corpse hitting the deck carried for an eternity.

‘A better place, a better dream, free of your uncaring Gods. This is Ulbecetonth’s gift to you.’ Its voice was a whisper, could almost have sounded tender if not for the boiling bile in its throat. ‘Sleep now. . and dream of blue.’

Even the murmur of the waves had fallen silent, the sea losing its frothy voice as it bore witness to the horrors occurring upon its surface. All present on the ship shared its sentiment, every man breathless, every woman speechless, not so much as a gull to break the choking quiescence. None present dared even a frightened sob, none heard a single sound.

None save Lenk. His eyes were locked on the man’s corpse, this sailor he had never met, whose name he had never known, whose death would never be explained to his widow’s satisfaction. His eyes were fixed, his ears were full.

‘Needless. Wasteful. Would still be alive if you had killed.’

‘He’s dead,’ Lenk uttered.

‘Because of you.’

‘Shut up, Lenk,’ Kataria urged, squeezing his shoulder. ‘It’s going to hear-’

Her voice died as two empty eyes rose up. It had heard.

‘Curious,’ the creature gurgled, as if suddenly aware of the presence of the crew and adventurers, ‘what strange vermin swim upon the seas.’

The answer it was offered was subtle, barely more than a whisper. In the wake of sound, however, it began to carry, it began to swell like the waves that had fallen impotent. For the first time in the horrific eternity that began when the creature had risen, eyes managed to blink as they tore themselves away to spy out the source of the new sound that filled their ears.

They parted before Miron like human waves, allowing the priest to stride between them with noiseless steps. The wind rose in his wake, causing his robes to whip about him, as if to silence his quickly growing voice. He spoke louder in response, his chant a series of prayers wrought from words too pure for any present to understand. He raised his hand to the monstrosity, his faith challenging nature and shadow with the gesture.

‘No.’ The creature’s voice was breathless, like a mewling kitten. Its eyes grew wider as it stared at Miron as its victims had stared at it. ‘Cease your pitiless wails! Silence your mourning, vermin! I have no ears for it!’

Miron was not silent.

The chorus of feathered creatures was the first to scream. They erupted in a cacophony of noise and flapping feathers, leaping, tumbling, tearing from their perches upon railings and rigging. The sky was painted white, men falling to the deck as great white curtains of ripping, frenzied feathers fell over the ship.

Miron was heedless.

Every breath the priest took seemed to cause him to grow. His presence grew brighter, the whites of his robes suddenly blinding, the fall of his feet causing the deck to quake. His chant became thunder, every word a bolt of lightning, every syllable a crackle of purpose. None dared to stop him, to pull him back as he drew closer to the monstrosity. They fell away, as terrified of him as they had been of the creature.

The creature’s jaws tore open as it let out a terrible, unearthly howl that carried the sounds of a thousand drowned voices. Miron did not relent, his chant rising in volume to match the monster’s scream as he continued to advance towards the abomination. The creature’s claws clutched its skull as it backpedalled on trembling legs, shrieking in agony as it shook its head about angrily. The priest continued forth, his chant a bellowing chorus of alien phrases, his face a mask of wrath as he drew closer, his symbol raised like a shield, his voice a weapon.

Driven to the wind, the chorus disappeared from the ship, becoming clouds as they swiftly disappeared into the blue upon shrieks of terror and agony.

The foul beast itself let out one last, agonised howl and turned, breaking into an ungainly sprint as it loped towards the railing. With one immense leap, it sailed over the edge of the ship and fell into the waters below with a colossal splash.

The waves settled and Miron’s chant slowly died as he lowered his hand, his twisted face returning to normal. He took a deep breath and let out a great exhalation, his body shrinking considerably as he released all his air in one great gasp. None dared speak in his presence as he stared out over the waves, his eyes locked upon the unseen creature as it fled beneath the waters.

Men dropped their weapons and their jaws, their eyes agog and their murmurs breathless. Dreadaeleon wore a look of amazement, while Gariath’s face was carved into an expression of suspicious concern. Kataria pulled her silver-haired companion to his feet, staring out over the railing with wide eyes. Denaos looked towards Asper for an explanation, but she had none to offer, her eyes locked upon Miron in awed disbelief. From the crow’s nest, Quillian gazed out at the waters, hardly believing that the beast was truly gone, believing even less easily the way it had departed.

Sole amongst them, Lenk took a step forwards, his footsteps echoing across the waves. Miron remained unmoving, unchallenging of his employee’s approach, unspeaking as Lenk cleared his throat behind him.

‘It’s gone now, is it?’ Lenk whispered. ‘The danger’s passed?’

‘Danger?’ Miron cast a smile out from beneath his cowl.

‘I suspect you’ll soon learn the reason that word was invented. ’