Tome of the Undergates by Sam Sykes Page A

thing might be. ‘If they can afford a damn siege engine, why are they raiding us ?’

    No answer was forthcoming from either the four Cragsmen pushing it, nor from the visor-bound gaze of Rashodd. It was not them that Lenk looked at, but rather the wisp of a man standing by the side of the titanic captain.

    Or at least, Lenk thought it was a man. Swaddled in conservative black where the pirates displayed their tattoos brazenly, the creature’s clothing was the least curious thing about him. He was heads shorter than the others, looking like a mere shadow next to Rashodd, and his head resembled a bleached bone long scavenged of meat: hairless, pale, perfectly narrow.

    Whether he saw Lenk staring at him or not, the young man did not know. But as the insignificant person’s lips twisted slightly, the bone showing a sudden marring crack, Lenk couldn’t help but feel as though it was intended for him.

    To your left.

    The thought came with greater clarity, with greater will, as though it was no longer even a part of his own mind, but another voice altogether. Lenk was highly surprised to hear it.

    Not quite as surprised as he was to feel the rounded guard of a cutlass smash against his jaw, however.

    He staggered backwards, his heel catching a dead pirate’s arm as though his foe reached out in death. His senses reeled as his sword fell from his hand, his vision blurred as he felt blood trickle down his nose. He looked up, blinking and shaking his head; the first thing he made out, shortly before the tattoos, was a long, banana-coloured grin.

    ‘It could hardly be said of me that so noble a man of the Crags does not endeavour to make good on his word,’ the pirate said. ‘But I do beg your pardon, kind sir. You do us no honour by sitting quietly and watching.’ He looked down at the man Lenk had tripped over and frowned. ‘Nor by the theft of so fine a fellow as this gentleman was to me.’

    ‘I’m . . . sorry?’ Lenk’s voice was hoarse and weak, his hands trembling as he reached for his fallen sword.

    ‘Ah, of course, your apology is accepted with the utmost gratitude,’ the pirate replied. ‘Even if the idea of repairing such egregious breaches of conduct is more than a tad absurd.’

    His fingers felt numb, unable to sense the warmth of the hilt, the chill of the steel. He tried to regain his footing, the ringing in his skull and the uncertainty beneath his feet conspiring to keep him down. The Cragsman seemed less than concerned with the young man rising, if his very visible pity was any suggestion.

    ‘I don’t suppose it would help if I said I wouldn’t do it again?’ Lenk asked, trying to talk through his dizziness.

    ‘I’m more than a mite remorseful to inform you that such would hardly be the proper retort.’ The pirate shook his head and levelled his blade at the young man’s face. ‘Regrettably, this is the point in proper protocol where we resolve and absolve alike through the gouging of eyes and spilling of entrails upon the uncaring deck, if you’ll excuse the crudeness.’

    ‘Ah.’

    Absently, Lenk regretted not having thought of something better for his last words.

    That thought was banished as his hands thrust up weakly, catching the pirate’s wrist and holding the blade fast a hair’s length away from his face. The gesture was futile, both Lenk and his foe knew; his arms trembled, his fingers could not feel the skin and metal they sought to hold back. His breath gave up before he did, becoming short, rasping gasps in his throat.

    He clenched his jaw, shut his eyes, felt his arms begin to yield.

    No.

    That thought lasted for but a moment, while the moment existed as a drop of moisture on the pirate’s blade, dangling for a silent eternity. Lenk felt his breath run cold in his lungs, felt his blood freeze in his veins and time with it.

    Fight.

    His muscles did not strengthen beneath his skin, rather they denied strength entirely in favour of the frigid fingers that