Sam Sykes - Tome of the Undergates

• Название: Tome of the Undergates
• Автор: Sam Sykes
• Жанр: Фэнтези

---

‘I don’t want to be anyone’s master,’ Lenk snarled suddenly. He stabbed a finger at the man, accusing. ‘I. . I want you to go.’

‘Go?’

‘I want you to get out of my head. I want to stop hearing voices. I want to stop feeling cold all the time. I. . I. .’ He clutched at his head, wincing. ‘I want to be me, not us.’

The man’s face did not move at the outpour of emotion, did not flinch in sympathy nor blink in scorn. He merely stared, observed his counterpart through cold, blue eyes, his hair unmoved by wind and heedless of sun, just as Steadbrook was heedless of them upon the ridge.

‘Look.’

Lenk blinked and felt cold.

The sun sputtered out like a dying torch, consumed behind a black veil of darkness. The golden fields below were bronzed by the fires engulfing Steadbrook, moving in waves of bristling, crackling sheen. The livestock lowed, their cries desperate to be heard over the roar of fire, their owners and tenders motionless in the red-stained dirt. Shadows moved amongst them and where their black hands caressed, people fell.

Lenk felt his heart go cold, despite the fires licking the ridge. He had seen this happen before, had watched them die before, his mother, his father, his grandfather. He could not recall their names, but he could remember their faces as they fell, nearly peaceful, herded to the darkness upon the whispers of shadows.

‘This. .’ he gasped, ‘this is-’

‘How we were created,’ the man finished for him. ‘What we were created to stop.’

He caught sight of figures in the distance, out of place against the common folk lying in the streets. These figures fought, resisted the shadows. One by one, they looked up, and he saw the faces of his companions turn pleading gazes to him.

‘Look,’ the man commanded, and it was so. ‘They are lesser than us.’

Gariath howled, swinging his arms wildly before the shadows fell upon him, consumed in swathes of blackness. Lenk winced, eyes unable to shut themselves against the stinging smoke.

‘I don’t want to. .’ he whimpered.

‘You do not have a choice,’ the man uttered. ‘We have our duty.’

Asper shrieked, fervently babbling indecipherable prayers as the shadows dragged her into the gloom. Lenk felt tears brimming upon his lids.

‘Please-’

‘And our duty,’ the man continued, unheeding, ‘is to cleanse. As we cleansed the Deepshriek, as we cleansed the Abysmyth, so we shall continue. We shall do as we must, for no one else can.’

Dreadaeleon collapsed, the fire in his eyes sputtering out to be replaced by blackness.

‘No, it can’t-’

‘It will. You cannot recall what suffering was necessary to create us. If more suffering is needed to remind you of our duty. .’

Denaos twitched, convulsed, tore apart as the shadowy tendrils raked and whispered at his body.

‘I want-’

‘Your wants are meaningless. Our duty is all. They are hindrances. ’

Kataria’s body was pale against the gloom as they lifted her up to the black sky, as if in offering. The fingers shivered and trembled against her skin, flowing over her stomach, wrapping about her neck, snaking over her legs as she was cocooned in the gloom. Her head rolled, limp, to expose her eyes, bright and green, locked on to his. She stared at him as she vanished into the darkness.

And smiled.

‘NO!’ Lenk roared, collapsing to his knees. ‘No, no, no. .’

When he opened his eyes again, he was in a vast field of darkness, no flames, no death. All that remained were him, and the two great blue eyes focused upon him, pitiless and cold.

‘The gift shall not be wasted,’ the voice whispered. ‘The duty is all encompassing. Do what must be done.’

Lenk opened his mouth to scream, his voice silenced as the darkness flooded past his lips and filled him completely.

He awoke not with a start, but with a snap of eyes. Not with fear, but with a cold certainty. Not with thunder in his heart, but a single drop of sweat that slid down his brow and murmured as it dripped past his ear.

Do what must be done, it uttered, voice mingling with the murmur of the surf, if more suffering is needed. .

And his hand was slow and steady, balling up into a determined fist as he understood what the voice told him.

But he did not rise, suddenly aware of the weight upon his chest. He didn’t even see her until she peered down at him through a pair of hard, green eyes, glittering in the darkness. Her knees were on his chest, hands on his shoulders, the knife dark and grey against the moonlight.

‘Hey,’ Kataria muttered.

‘Hey,’ Lenk replied, blinking at her. ‘What are you doing?’

‘What I have to.’

She means to kill us, he heard within his own mind, but paid the warning no heed. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing. He eyed the blade in her hand, its edge a line of silver in the darkness. No, he told himself, no, you can’t ask her to do that.

‘Can it wait?’ he asked.

The shict’s face twisted violently, her eyes softening as her mouth fell open, as if she hadn’t expected that one answer of all of them. ‘Wha-what?’

‘I need to do something,’ he said, placing a hand on her naked midriff. Her body shuddered under his touch, like a nervous beast. ‘Get off, please.’

She complied, falling off him as though she was pushed. On shaking legs, his arms barely strong enough to draw him, he got to his feet. He suddenly felt very weak, his body pleading with him to lie back down, to return to sleep and think upon this in the light of day. He could not afford to listen to it, could not afford to listen to his instincts or his mind.

They, too, were tainted, speaking with a voice not their own.

No, he told himself while he could still hear his own voice inside him, before it was drowned out completely, this is what it has to be. He staggered forwards, nearly pitching to the earth. He maintained his footing, his shaking hand rising and reaching for the sword lying upon the sand. This is how it has to end. There’s no other way to get rid of it. .

‘Hey,’ he heard a voice call from behind him.

Do what must be done.

‘Hey!’

This is how it must be.

‘HEY!’

‘WHAT?’ he roared, turning upon her. She stood before him, ears bristling, teeth bared. ‘What do you want?’

‘I could have killed you there!’ she snapped, pointing to the knife. ‘I. . I could have-’

‘You didn’t,’ he said simply. ‘You had every chance in the world, but you didn’t.’

So I have to, he finished mentally, turning back to the sword.

‘No,’ she whispered, eyeing the weapon. ‘You can’t do that.’ I have to, she finished mentally, reaching out.

This is how it has to be, he told himself.

How else could it end? she asked herself.

One blow. He reached out for the weapon.

Clean and quick. She reached out for him.

Her hand fell upon his shoulder.

This is what has to be done.

They both froze, each one suddenly aware of the other as they connected, hearing each other’s breath upon the night wind, feeling each other’s heart beat through each other’s skin. They felt so weak, all of a sudden, his legs barely able to keep him up as he turned to regard her, her arm barely able to hold up the knife above her head.

Her eyes glittered in the darkness, so soft suddenly, quivering like emeralds melting. His shimmered in the gloom, so warm, ice under sunlight. Her arm shook, the knife trembling in her hand as he stared at her, not with challenge, not with threat, but with a pleading he wasn’t even aware of. Her teeth clenched behind her lips, body shaking.

The blade fell to the earth, crunching into the sand, as his body fell into hers. She caught him in her arms, wrapped them about his waist and drew him in closer, tighter. Against each other, they found a strength too weak to keep them up, enough to keep their arms about each other, but not enough to keep them from falling to their knees, the earth’s pull suddenly so strong.

‘I could have killed you,’ she whispered, running a hand down his hair.

‘Yeah,’ he said, feeling her heartbeat through his hands. ‘You could have.’

‘I didn’t,’ she said.

‘Thanks,’ he whispered.

The surf yawned against their legs, as if disappointed that it ended in such a way. The moon waned with a staggering breath of relief and the stars allowed themselves to blink. They rested there, upon their knees, barely aware of the world moving again beneath them.

Thirty-Six

TRAGIC

The Aeons’ Gate

The Island of Ktamgi

Summer, late. . date unknown. . who cares?

No one picks up a sword because they want to.

It’s a matter of need. People are called to wrap their hands about the hilt, even if they can’t hear what calls them. The noblest of us do it out of what they call duty, the desire to serve their country, their lord if they have one, or their God. The pragmatic amongst us do it out of a need for work, for coin, for respect.

And the lowest, meanest of trades picks up a sword because that’s all we know how to do. Violence is all we know, all we will ever know, everything else having long been burned away and fled to the shadows. The irony of it is that the mercenary, the soldier, the knight must all carve their own way through life, but there’s always enough violence and hatred in the world that it will make room for the adventurer.

I remember now, if only in fleeting glimpses, when the rest of it was burned away for me.

Not shadows, but men, who swept into Steadbrook with candles, not torches, and set the dry hay ablaze. They killed while the flames still whispered, vanished when the fire started to roar. That was enough time for them. Mother, Father, Grandfather … all dead … me, still alive. I don’t know why.

Maybe that’s how adventurers are made, maybe an act of suffering and violence is necessary as the forge that shapes the metal or the knife that shapes the wood. To that end, I don’t suppose anyone can blame us for doing what we do, even if they don’t like it. I don’t suppose I can blame anyone for thinking what they think of us, even if I don’t like it.

At the moment, I have larger problems than other people’s opinions.

The tome is ours, but so many questions are unanswered. Will we even be able to get to Teji? If we do, will Argaol have kept up his end of the deal? Does Miron have that sort of sway over him? Does Miron even care?

And what of the demons? Do so many of them just let their precious book escape without a fight? If not their book, will one of them come back for their head? I’m not stupid. I know they haven’t just rolled their shoulders, given up and gone back to hell for tea and toast. But will they at least stay in the shadows until we can reach dry land?

On a deeper level, should I even give this tome to Miron? Does any one man have the right to carry such a thing?

I don’t have the answers. Really, I don’t care. Someone else can worry about them on their time. My time is worth exactly one thousand pieces of gold. Past that, I don’t really mind what the demons, longfaces or beasts of the world do. The world will continue without the actions of adventurers, long after the profession has died out.

My companions are solemn as we set out for Teji, untalkative, not even mustering the will to fight with each other, for once. At the moment, our humble little vessel resembles something of a flower with half its petals missing. Each of us stares over the edge into the water, watching ourselves, not even aware of the people next to us.

I should be pleased, I know. After so long spent in prayer, the Gods have answered me and finally taken their tongues. But now. . I want them to talk. I want to hear a distraction, another noise, if only to divert me from the other ones.

The voice. . is not gone. I know because it murmurs to me, still, in the time between my breaths. But it is quieted, put down slightly. I don’t know why and, again, I don’t care, so long as it’s quiet again.

Another few days until we reach Teji. A haven, supposedly, friendly to us, our kind. Is that true? I’m not too sure, really. Argaol doesn’t really seem the type to make himself useful to us, in any way possible. But I can deal with that when I come to it.

Kataria just looked up at me. She seems to be doing that a lot tonight. I try to smile at her. . no, I want to smile at her, but she doesn’t make it easy. But it’s not because of all those questions, oh no. The demons, longfaces, Argaols, Mirons, Deepshrieks, Xhais and tomes of the world can all go burn.

I’ve got bigger problems.

Epilogue

TEARS IN SHADOW

The silhouettes moved viciously against the cavern wall. There was no grace in them, nor gentleness as they twisted against each other. Between the snarls and cries emerging from the back of the cavern, the shadows found individual shapes. A man, tall and lean with long flowing hair. A woman, her curves indistinct as they quivered against the man’s movement.

Greenhair could not see the smile on the man’s face, nor the tears on the woman’s cheeks. But she heard his teeth grinding, her liquid pooling upon the floor in quiet splashes. It was the only noise she allowed herself.

And the siren cringed, the only one to hear them.

‘Cahulus is dead,’ one of them said at the fore of the cavern. ‘Over twelve of the warriors were lost in the battle. That’s nearly half of the force we sent.’

‘Nearly is not all. Nearly is not even half,’ a second, snider voice retorted. ‘We still emerged victorious, with the underscum cleared out.’ A thin body settled into a large chair. ‘Besides, Cahulus was an idiot.’