by Sam Sykes
One of many.
“Come on. COME ON!”
She grabbed Olio’s hand, fled toward the East Gate. The screams of the people—the many who couldn’t escape—filled her ears. But the smell hit her harder.
Oil. Talgo Fluid. Reekrout. Potent alchemics. Flammable alchemics. Even from so far away, she could see their sickly sheen glistening in the dawnlight, painted across the road and ruin.
The Children of the Dead stood there, steel bared and eyes cold, affirming what Virian already knew.
No one, not a single person, would be getting out of Paarl’s Hollow alive.
Virian fought to keep her composure. Her heart fought to break it. It slammed against her rib cage, tried to crawl into her throat, pushed against her spine, begged her to run, to scream, to do anything.
But what?
What could she do? If she ran, they would all run, into the steel and the flames waiting to be ignited. If she hid, they would all hide, and be hunted down or crushed by the Beast. And if she tried to fight…
Is that all I’ve got? She reached for the crossbow on her back. This thing doesn’t even shoot real bolts. She closed her eyes, breathed deeply. But if it’s all I can do, then…
And maybe… just maybe she stopped and wondered why she could suddenly hear herself think.
The screams had died to frightened chatter. The chatter had died down to terrified whispers. And when the whispers had died down, she could hear the sound of boots crunching on sand.
And the voice of the man who had once been her father.
“Virian.”
Maybe she loathed herself for feeling comforted by his voice. Or maybe she was just glad he was there. I don’t think I’ll ever know.
But what I do know, from talking to the ones who were there, was that when she looked up at him… his eyes were locked on the field beyond the East Gate.
“Virian,” he said, “please lead as many of these people to safety as you can. The Beast will be here soon.”
“Fa… I… you can’t…”
If she knew I would hear about it, I wonder if she would have chosen more dramatic words. Either way, Rogo didn’t notice.
“I will handle the bandits. And I have to…” He swallowed something bitter, he looked to her with bleak eyes. “I have always tried to do my best for you, Virian. I am sorry for the ways I failed. I love you.” He unsheathed his sword. “Please hurry.”
Virian could only stare, slack-jawed and weeping, at the man. Her father? A Vagrant? A killer? She had no idea. She had no idea who he was, who he had been, and now that she was ready to find out…
Rogo the Dervish did not wait to hear her.
Rogo the Dervish walked, sword in hand, out of the East Gate.
And so did Rogo the Dervish.
And Rogo the Dervish. And Rogo the Dervish.
One by one, they filed past her, past their terrified neighbors and their ruined city. They walked, eyes ahead and unblinking, beneath the eyes of those who now looked upon them with horror. And one by one, they filed out of the East Gate, until thirteen copies of Rogo the Dervish stood before their neighbors, asking for no apology and offering none.
Save this.
All of them and their black blades that drank the dawn.
Standing between his neighbors and the steel.
The Children of the Dead watched him for a moment, uneasy about the chance of fighting a Vagrant. Many of them wondered if this was truly what they’d signed on to fight. Many of them wondered if they could get away before the Beast attacked. Many of them wondered what dark path led them here.
Or so I like to think.
Because all I know for sure is that there was a shout that came from somewhere inside the knot of steel and hides. It was taken up, from painted mouth to painted mouth. Their steel was raised, swords and spears and bows. A cry of anguish, of terror, of rage so big it blotted out everything else.
That cry drove them forward. That cry raised their steel high. That cry hurtled them headlong into the shadow of the Beast.
And Rogo met them.
They clashed in a frenzy of metal. The Children pressed against Rogo, their axes hacking madly and their swords lashing out. Their bolts flew from crossbows, seeking flesh, and their spears hunted for him in the crowd. The roar of their rage carried them to greater strengths, greater furies, hurling themselves fearlessly against him.
And Rogo… was everywhere.
Where they slashed, he dodged. Where they struck, he parried. Where they sought to push past, he was there. And there. And there. The roaring song of the Children’s anger and steel was met with a simple harmony, a song Rogo had sang many times before. He saw through every eye, moved with every step.
And he cut. And cut. And cut. The blood of the Children stained their war paint and bathed the ruined earth. Hands were cleaved from wrists. Legs went limp as tendons were torn. The bravest and the angriest found their life dripping off black blades embedded in their chests.
And still, they came.
Rogo—one of them—looked up from the man he had just put down, back toward the East Gate.
He could no longer see it. It was drowned in shadow.
And over the West Gate, clear across town, the Beast loomed.
It was here.
“RUN, DAMN YOU!”
A sword burst out from his chest. Rogo collapsed face-down in the dirt beneath a grinning bandit. He vanished in a flash of light as the bandit’s face fell, followed by the rest of him as Rogo the Dervish shoved him into Rogo the Dervish’s waiting blade.
“Come on! Hurry! Hurry!”
Virian and Olio shouted to be heard over the sound of the earth shaking. The Beast’s great head loomed over the West Gate now, its breath tearing banners down and its step shaking the stones from the walls.
Somehow, the people heard them. Or saw their flailing arms. Or just couldn’t bear the panic anymore. They started rushing the Gate, fleeing past Virian, clinging only to each other as they fled across the ruined field.
The Children of the Dead saw them, but those few that dared break to run after them were swiftly intercepted and cut down by Rogo. And as the people broke free of the battle, they disappeared into the forest. But even as spirits lifted with every escape, each flash of light that heralded the death of a copy was an ominous reminder of how close they held.
By the time half of the people had fled, only eight bodies stood between them and the Children.
Yet even then, Rogo did not stop fighting, did not stop cutting, did not stop moving. And even then, more and more people fled into the woods. The Beast was coming, but they were quicker. The Children were many, but they were more. For a great, single moment, it appeared like this was going to work.
Which is about the time, in my experience, where something catches on fire.
A command went up from the Children. Black objects sailed through the air. Glass shattered on the ground.
And a small and intimate hell was born.
The alchemics soaking in the earth caught ablaze. A wall of flame, tinged with a sickly chemical riot of greens and purples, erupted. It swept across the battlefield, chewing up already incinerated earth as it swept around the city. They burst between the fleeing people and the forest, opening fiery jaws wide in laughter and looming out for the villagers. Their terrified screams were drowned beneath the roaring cackle of the flames.
I didn’t see her that day. But I wonder if Dread Niri was there. I wonder if she saw how the flames went for every escape route, cutting off any escape. I wonder if she saw the people hold each other and fall back, cowering beneath the flames as they waited for the Children to overwhelm Rogo and butcher the rest of them.
I wonder if this was what she wanted.
I’d tell you this was the point, where all hope was lost, that a hero appeared.
A lone wanderer, a do-gooder, a meddler who appeared when things were at their darkest and delivered the people from a morbid fate.
A
hero who would be celebrated, revered, and spoken of warmly by the people they had rescued for years, maybe even generations, to come.
I’d tell you that…
But no one’s ever happy to see me.
They saw the shadow of a great bird cresting the hill. They saw the glimmer of brass catch the sun. They saw the scars, the tattoos, the scarf and their panic-stricken minds cobbled it together that Sal the Cacophony had arrived.
And I don’t mind telling you it hurt my feelings just a little that they started screaming louder.
I raised the Cacophony, stared down his grin as I leveled the gun at them. I saw them cower and scream at the sight of it. I heard the click of metal as the trigger pulled and the hammer struck. The shell streaked toward them.
Exploded.
Hoarfrost erupted in a burst of freezing wind. Tongues of cold lashed out and drank the flames. Two more clicks. Two more shells. Each Hoarfrost exploded, plunging the battlefield into a cloud of freezing cold and burying the flame-scarred earth beneath a layer of ice.
I never caught the name of the person who looked up at the sound of heavy feet crunching on ice. A nice-looking old man shielding two children gaped up at the irritable bird looming over them and the woman riding her, casually loading more shells into a wicked-looking hand cannon.
But I remember what I said to him.
“I’d never presume to tell you what to do or where to go, sir,” I said as I slid another shell into the Cacophony’s chamber and slammed it shut. “But if you want to stick around, you’d better find someone to pick up your pieces when I’m done.”
He blinked. He picked up the children. He ran.
Like I said, nice guy.
The rest of them followed, ignoring both me and Congeniality as they did. Which suited us both just fine. We weren’t here for them.
I kicked her flanks. With a squawk, Congeniality went tearing into the melee. She crashed into the rear guard of the Children. Talons tore through hides as her beak caught wrists and necks, seizing bandits in her mouth and tossing them aside like toys. I followed her lead, cutting down the ones not smart enough to stay down.
I don’t know how many we killed. I wasn’t counting. I didn’t care. Not once I saw my target.
Rogo had time enough to shout something as Congeniality burst from the fray. It ended with an abrupt grunt as she bore him to the ground and struck at his neck with her beak. Rogo leapt out at me, blade in hand as he struggled to strike at me, and caught my sword in his face.
They collapsed, vanished in flashes of light. I spat a curse, searched the battle for the real Rogo. I saw him fighting bandits, saw him flicking blood off his blade before he leapt into the fray again, saw him chasing down a pair of fleeing archers. Any of them might be him.
The earth shook under my feet. Wood and stone broke. In the distance, the Beast let out a sound, a weary sigh before he got to the work of grinding everything to dust.
I didn’t have time to find him. Didn’t have time to wade through this all and—
Wait.
I saw him. The only one of them not fighting, Rogo the Dervish was rushing back into Paarl’s Hollow.
That was the one.
I jerked on Congeniality’s reins. She let out a low squawk of disapproval. When I pulled on them again, she bristled, planting her feet in the earth. I saw the blood spatter around her beak and rolled my eyes.
She always got this way around blood.
“Fucking fine.” I slid off the saddle, wincing as I landed. “Not like you’d be much help in there, anyway.” I stroked her neck, grinned, and gave her tailfeathers a quick swat. “All right, all right, go have fun.”
She let out an excited shriek before hurling herself back into the throng, eliciting screams of terror from the mob. Normally, I wouldn’t let her. But she hadn’t been exercised in days, the Children were already routing, and…
Well, what can I say? I just like seeing her all happy and excited like this.
I hurried after Rogo, into the East Gate. I had barely gotten through when the earth was pulled out from under me like a rug.
Dust swept over the city. A great cloud of debris and dirt cloaked me as I looked up. In pitch silhouette, I could see the West Gate. Or what had been the West Gate before it disappeared beneath a colossal pillar of a foot.
The Beast was in the city.
The fucking Beast was in the fucking city.
And so was Rogo.
Now, it would have been smart of me to flee just then. It would have been smart of me to try to take cover from the falling debris. Hell, even lying on the ground and waiting to be crushed would probably be smarter than what I did.
But how many tales of Sal the Cacophony doing the intelligent thing have you heard?
Don’t answer that.
And how many tales of Sal the Cacophony going into a crumbling city to kill an asshole have you heard?
Don’t answer that, either.
Because this one was going to be the first.
I pulled my scarf up around my face, took my sword in one hand and the Cacophony in the other, started sweeping through the town. But every step I took made me glance back up to the dust-choked sky. The pale light had drowned entirely beneath the shadow of the Beast as it stepped into the city proper. Its great mane dragged from its skull, thick strands of hair shattering windows and denting doors as they brushed against the houses.
Not much time. Where would Rogo have gone? Was he lurking in the cloud of dust? Hiding in an alleyway?
No.
A tinge of cold dread.
Asking the wrong question.
I shut my eyes. Opened my ears.
What did Rogo come back for?
I heard screaming.
And I followed it.
I found them at the city square. The buildings there hung in disrepair—doors had fallen off hinges, roofs had caved in—and the Beast hadn’t even reached this area yet. The dust hung thick, but through its veils, I could see a struggle at the back of the square.
“Run! We’ll be okay!” someone screamed.
“No, you fucking won’t be okay,” Virian shouted back as she and a tall lad struggled to dislodge debris from a house’s doorway. “Just shut the fuck up and let us handle this!”
“PLEASE DON’T SWEAR! IT’S NOT HELPING!”
“WELL I’M FUCKING SORRY BUT—”
“Hey.”
That last part was me, putting a hand on her shoulder and gently shoving her back as I shouted into the doorway.
“Step back.”
I squeezed the trigger. Discordance shot out, erupted in a blast of sound, splintering the door… and the frame… and the wall…
But beggars who are about to be crushed by monsters can’t be choosers, as the old saying goes.
The people inside—two young men carrying their grandmother between them—barked out quick gratitudes before disappearing toward the East Gate. I grabbed Virian, shoved her after them.
“You follow them. It’s not safe here.” I glowered at the tall guy. “You too, fuckface.”
“My name’s Olio.”
“Sorry. Let me try again.” I leveled the Cacophony at his face. “You too, fuckface.”
I know that was coarse and just dreadfully cliché, but if there was ever a time to curtail discussion, this seemed like it. Olio and Virian held each other as they turned and ran, hesitating only at the edge of the cloud.
She looked over at me and I could see the question on her face, the fear and confusion and anger fighting to be the first to make it to her lips. She wanted to know what I was going to do.
She didn’t want this to be the last time she could look at me and not see a killer.
Frankly, I didn’t want that, either.
But revenge doesn’t end with “want.” Revenge begins with it—someone dreams of something that they could never own and wants it. And then slowly, with time and scars and pain, it becomes need. And that need just keeps going. It keeps gr
owing. It keeps spreading. Until everyone touching it can’t even think of anything but that need.
The need to hurt. The need to make it stop hurting.
Maybe if I had time, I could have explained it to her.
Or maybe she could have explained it to me.
But this was the Scar. This land had as much time as it had mercy and comfort. None at all.
The earth rocked. The last of the West Gate collapsed into rubble. The dust swirled around us. I saw Olio pull on Virian’s hand before sheets of dust. I had to believe they made it out.
A better woman would want to make sure they did.
But like I said, revenge wasn’t about want. It was about need.
I flipped open the Cacophony’s chamber. Two shells left. Couldn’t find any more on Congeniality. But that was all right. The Cacophony was more than a weapon.
And the parts that made him dangerous weren’t the parts that exploded.
“Show me,” I whispered to him.
The brass of his barrel grew hot. Whispers of steam leaked out between my fingers. And over the smell of dirt and earth, the scent of cinders filled my nostrils.
“There,” he whispered.
And I followed.
That heat, that steam-choked whisper, guided me through the crumbling streets and swirling veils of dust. That burning heat swept through the black wood of his hilt, through the leather of my glove, so deep into my bones I could feel the marrow cooking. The pain gnawed at me in a deeper, softer place than my leg or even my scars could ever touch. But still I held on.
Just as I’d held on to that need ever since that dark place.
Through the streets, through the ruin, beneath the shadow of the Beast.
“Virian!”
Until I found him.
He burst out of a building, covering his face against the swirling dust. Rogo the Dervish looked around, shouting into the dust.
“Virian! VIRIAN!”
“She’s gone.”
He whirled at me, sword in hand, terror in his eyes. “What have you—”
“Nothing.” My voice was cold. Soft. Snow on a gravestone. Funny. I always thought I’d be screaming at him. “She left.”
He held his stance for a moment before lowering his sword. “I… I see. For a moment, I thought you…” He shook his head before offering a stiff bow. “You have my thanks… Salazanca.”
