Sam Sykes - Tome of the Undergates

He couldn’t honestly say the thought of Argaol’s furious face, screwed up so tight his jaws would fold inwards and begin to devour his own bowels, caused him any great despair. After all, the man gave us a lute.

Besides, he reasoned, whatever price Argaol demanded could be paid out of his earnings. One thousand gold , he told himself, divided amongst six. . one hundred sixty five pieces, roughly. My share, plus Asper’s, equates to three hundred and thirty. This bottle , he paused to survey the golden-stained glass, can’t be more than thirty. Expensive, but still enough to buy many more and a new bowel for Argaol.

The good captain’s sacrifice would not be in vain. Silf demanded sacrifice for His role in their victory, the recovery of the book. Fortunately, the Patron was, if His own scriptures were to be believed, satisfied with whatever revelry that might occur being done in His name.

And what was not to revel about? The book was in their possession, patiently waiting to be exchanged for hard, shiny coin. The demons were fled for a glorious three nights, the longfaces gone, as well. And, as an added answer to an oft-muttered prayer, both Gariath and Dreadaeleon had been strangely absent for the past day and night, leaving Denaos alone with two lovely women who would no doubt be at least tolerable when the bottle was drained.

And Lenk, too , he thought disdainfully, but let’s not dwell on the negative. Tonight is a night of revelry! Silf demands it! He demands empty bottles, drunken dreams and remorseful lamentations in the morning! He demands satisfied women, wrinkled skirts and trousers that can’t be found in the morning! He demands riot, revel and, at the absolute minimum, three violations of scripture by two women with a strong desire to explore their own mystique.

What greeted him when he arrived, however, was not revelry or riot. There was hardly a smile shared around the fire, much less two women committing blasphemies on the sand. Their faces were sombre, their eyes hard and their mouths stretched into frowns so tight they might as well have come off a torturer’s rack.

‘Frankly,’ he said aloud, placing hands on hips, ‘I’m wondering if I might not find a livelier bunch in Irontide.’

‘Amongst the maggots and corpseflies, perhaps,’ Asper muttered, looking up from Lenk’s leg. She eyed the bottle with scrutiny. ‘What’s that?’

‘Huss’s Gold Cork,’ the rogue replied, holding up the bottle triumphantly. ‘The finest whiskey ever to be wrought past the last Karnerian Crusade. Only one hundred barrels of this made it out of the empire before liquor was outlawed there.’

‘Where’d you get it?’ the priestess asked, lofting a brow.

‘Argaol so generously donated it to our cause.’

‘Uh-huh. And why don’t I believe you?’

‘Likely because you have two working eyes and at least a tenuous grasp on the concept of behavioural patterns.’ The rogue batted his eyelashes sweetly. ‘Or maybe Talanas just loves you.’

‘Sure, fine.’ She held out a hand. ‘Give it here.’

‘A zealous little one, are you?’ He slipped the bottle to her. ‘By all means, begin your indulgences first. The tightest buttocks require the most lubrication, after all.’

Asper ignored his remark, seemed to ignore the bottle as she studied Lenk’s leg. The young man’s trouser leg had been sheared off above the knee, pulled back to expose the jagged wound in his thigh. It had since been treated, the dead flesh removed, the salve applied, the skin pulled together and stitched tight with black gut thread. All the same, Asper scrutinised it with the same sort of frown she might an oozing, infected, scabrous thing.

She uncorked the bottle and held a white cloth to the mouth. Quietly, she tipped it and stained it amber, wiping it upon the young man’s leg.

The scream of agony came not from Lenk.

‘What are you doing, heathen?’ Denaos shrieked as he shoved her over and wrenched the bottle from her hand, cradling it to his chest as he might an infant. ‘This is none of your wretched Talanite swill! This. . is. . liquor .’

‘It’s alcohol,’ she replied, scowling as she righted herself. ‘It’ll fight infection.’

‘If you were any kind of decent healer, you’d have fought it with another weapon already.’

‘I wanted to make sure.’ She shrugged. ‘What else am I supposed to clean it with?’

Denaos glanced from the bottle, to the priestess, to the young man’s leg. He snorted, a wet, rumbling sound coursing through his nose, and spat a glistening glob upon the stitched wound.

‘Walk it off,’ he snarled.

‘Yeah, sure,’ Lenk muttered. ‘You’ve been trying to indirectly kill me for as long as I’ve known you. I suppose you had to escalate at some point.’

‘You didn’t cry out.’

Lenk turned a hard stare upon Kataria. It was with a frown that Denaos noted the shict had affixed such a stare to the young man ever since they had settled around the crackling fire. He would have hoped that her gaze would have turned to him by now, or at least to Asper.

Then again , he thought, noting the particular hardness and narrowness of her gaze, perhaps it’s all for the best.

‘What?’ Lenk asked.

‘You didn’t cry out,’ she repeated, gesturing to the bottle. ‘Didn’t that hurt?’

‘It might have.’

‘But you don’t know.’ Her ears twitched with a sort of predatory observation. ‘Humans are supposed to cry out when they get hurt.’

‘And what do you think that means.’ It was not a question that came out of Lenk’s mouth, and the cold hostility with which it was delivered indicated no particular concern for whatever Kataria might have to answer.

For her part, the shict said nothing. It was with some concern that Denaos noted the hunting knife securely strapped to her belt. He hadn’t ever noticed her wearing it when not hunting, but that was far from his largest concern.

‘Oh, let’s not do this now, shall we?’ Denaos took his place around the roaring orange. ‘We’ve a victory to celebrate, after all, and it’s two days overdue.’

‘Victory?’ Lenk asked, raising a brow. ‘We barely escaped alive.’

‘Barely counts.’

‘We’re wounded and tired,’ Asper pointed out.

‘But alive.’

‘For now,’ Kataria muttered.

‘And now, we need to celebrate. We need to get drunk, roll around in our own vomit and lick whatever amphibious wildlife we can catch in our stupor.’ The rogue paused, blinked and cleared his throat. ‘ Granted , in practice, it’s a lot more amusing, which is all the more reason to start drinking.’

‘I don’t feel the need to,’ Lenk replied harshly.

‘But the need feels you. . to-’

‘That doesn’t make sense.’

‘It doesn’t have to! We’re celebrating!’

‘Celebrating what?’ The young man rose, his injured leg shaking beneath him. ‘What did you do that’s worthy of celebration?’

‘Well, I-’

‘Did you fight the Deepshriek?’

‘No, but-’

‘Did you get wounded?’

‘I was fairly well-’

‘When you close your eyes, what is it that you see, Denaos?’ Lenk snarled.

The rogue glowered, his lips twitching as if ready to deliver some scathing retort to that. After a moment, his face twisted, cracked around the edges, and he quickly looked down at the earth.

‘I’d rather not say,’ he whispered. ‘But I do know that liquor often helps it.’

‘Then you keep it,’ Lenk muttered, turning around. ‘Thank whatever kind of God Silf is that your problems can be fixed like that.’