Knaves

by Abbott, Alana Joli; Meadors, Melanie R. ;

  Behind the Bloodletter’s back, his hand tightened upon the hilt of his sword.

  His muscles tensed.

  He prepared to spring from his formal stance and into a death-dealing position.

  With wickedly hooked and permanently blood-marked short swords, the monks came at the Bloodletter. He knew they had wielded these blades in countless butcher-orgies to honor gods that represented lust as much as slaughter. They had sliced the throats of innocents in their beds to pay homage to the god of dreams and nightmares. They had disemboweled shackled unbelievers in the name of hungry, feeder gods. The stained swords were implements both holy and unholy, symbols of awful times when the great and terrible lords above and below had roamed freely.

  Devotion and sacrifice bought each of the monks a half-dozen steps. As they charged, the Bloodletter welcomed them with vicious slashes and stabs, gutting them, opening their throats, piercing their chests. Their ceremonial blades fell to the dirt along with their spilled blood. Their faith did not save them.

  The Bloodletter murdered without malice—murdered, even though he struck in defense of his own life, because he had come to kill these men. He had lain in wait for them. In his planning, he had killed each of them a dozen times already. His work was clean and efficient. In a matter of seconds, five men lay dead at his feet.

  His sword whispered in delight.

  Four monks remained. They had not thrown themselves at the Bloodletter as the others had. This, the Bloodletter thought, showed them to be the most dangerous of their ilk. They would not fall so easily. Three took up defensive positions before the fourth, who stood behind the boy. The fourth monk held the boy’s arm tightly, yanking him back. He placed his hooked sword across the boy’s neck and sneered.

  “I’ll kill him!” the fourth monk said. “Stand down or I’ll open his throat! I know what you want, but you’ll never have it! He’ll not pray for you!”

  The hissing blade urged the Bloodletter to strike.

  The Bloodletter watched the monks. They were unafraid. They were bolstered by their faith, though it might be unrewarded. They were prepared to die for their beliefs, and they had been preparing to meet this destiny for years.

  “Stand down!” the monk ordered once more.

  The blade scratched at the boy’s skin. A trickle of blood ran down his neck. He did not react in any way.

  “You’re bluffing.” The Bloodletter took a step toward them. “If you kill him, you won’t be able to use his gifts, either.”

  “Stay back!” the fourth monk commanded, panic in his voice.

  The other monks clenched their weapons tightly. They braced themselves for the fight to come.

  “There’s no need for you to die,” the Bloodletter said.

  The hissing blade rasped in disagreement.

  “Give the boy to me,” the Bloodletter said, “and be on your way.”

  “Not another step!” The fourth monk cried. He shook the boy by the arm. He held his blade in a white-knuckled grasp. He was sweating and trembling.

  He might just do it, the Bloodletter thought. He might slay the boy to prevent any prayer other than his own from being heard. He might actually be a believer.

  A subtle shifting of his left foot through the dirt, and now the Bloodletter was in striking distance. Now he was poised to attack. He had already decided who would die first. The monk on the far right held his own blade in such a way that he’d be unable to parry an upward stroke coming in from the low left. The other two monks, scrambling in their surprise, would stumble into each other and be unprepared when the Bloodletter’s sigil- and blood-covered blade changed direction and came for them in two inelegant but effective hacking strokes. With any luck, the Bloodletter would be done with them in such brutal speed that the fourth monk would be too stunned to carry out a murderous slash across the boy’s throat.

  But the monk on the left—the man who was the Bloodletter’s intended third victim—cocked his head, taking notice of the hissing blade, and he gasped in fear.

  “His sword! It’s—”

  The Bloodletter drove his blade through the man’s throat before he could finish speaking.

  Now, though, he had opened himself up to attack, and he could not pivot in time to avoid the slashing blades of the other monks. A hooked and blood-flecked sword bit into his right side. If it had not scraped against his ribs, it might have killed him. He growled in pain, drew his arm back sharply as he yanked the hissing blade from the dead man’s throat. His elbow smashed one of the remaining monks in the nose, staggering him back, giving the Bloodletter some breathing room.

  Ignoring the pain from the wound in his side, the Bloodletter whirled, and he claimed another life—and a pair of eyes—with a vicious, backhand slash.

  The third monk drove his blade forward. Metal screeched against metal as the Bloodletter parried the attack, knocking the monk’s sword aside, then riposted stabbing his enemy through the heart.

  Before the third man fell, the Bloodletter sprang at the fourth. The remaining monk wore an expression of fright and confusion. He was alone now, and his conviction to kill the boy faltered. Before he could regain his senses, the Bloodletter sank the hissing sword right through the man’s mouth, silencing his useless invocations forever.

  The hissing blade lapped up the blood.

  To the Bloodletter, the whisper sounded a bit like, “Gooooood boy!”

  Panting and sweating, the Bloodletter stood among the child and dead men. He put a hand over the wound at his side. His clothing was sodden with blood, but he did not think the wound would do him in. It was more painful than deep. It could be tended later. He did not bother wiping the gore from his sword. He knew from experience that the blade would be clean within the hour, the blood seeping into the sword’s slowly moving sigils. He looked toward the boy, who stood unafraid before him. He held his own pale hand to his throat where the monk’s sword had scratched at him.

  “Don’t worry,” the Bloodletter said. “You’ll live.”

  “I… I’ll live,” the boy said.

  “What is your name, boy?” asked the Bloodletter.

  “Name?” the boy repeated.

  The Bloodletter busied himself checking the bodies of the monks. He did not like looting the dead, but even Bloodletters had to eat, and times had been lean since the Godwar ended. He found only a few coins secreted away in the monks’ robes. He found a small supply of Communion Dust, too, and he took that as well. He had no use for the hallucinogenic properties of the Dust, but some addicts he might encounter in his travels would pay a handsome price for it.

  All the while, the boy stood nearby, waiting.

  Waiting for guidance.

  “Do you know where they were taking you?” the Bloodletter asked.

  “Taking me?” the boy parroted.

  “Never mind.” The Bloodletter threw the last few baubles, coins, and a bit of food in his bag. He sat upon a stump and tended his bleeding cut, stitching it as best he could and placing a simple poultice—the last of his medicine—over the wound. Then, he motioned for the boy to join him. “Come on. We have a long road ahead of us.”

  Without argument, the boy followed.

  THE GODS WERE not dead, though it wasn’t for a lack of trying.

  Long ago, they had flooded greedily into the world. They came by the hundreds, gods both great and small. They represented love or beauty, hate or murder. They boasted dominion over the sun, over the air, over the water, and over the earth itself. They were the gods of the harvest, of the hunt, of festivals. They were the lords of the wild places as well as the cities.

  There were some that mused that every blade of grass had a deity associated with it.

  Perhaps that had been true.

  But all of the gods hated one another. They killed one another to claim spheres of influence the way some killers collected trophies from their victims. The god of cities became the god of cities and forests, though she knew not what to do with the latter. The go
d of the sun took the moon as his prize. The twin gods of disease became the gods of disease and feasts and of waterfowl.

  Soon, their hate and rage and jealousy erupted into war.

  The gods were all but wiped out. They died. They fled to hidden places. They vanished.

  And they almost took the world with them.

  Still, there were those who rejoiced at the thought that the gods yet lived. They uttered modest prayers. They scraped together meager offerings. They sacrificed livestock and let the carcasses rot while they themselves starved. One day, the monks and priests promised, the gods would return, and they would have learned humility, and they would rain miracles down upon the world that had suffered so at their hands. Mankind only needed prove that they had not forgotten the gods.

  “Bullshit,” the Bloodletter spat.

  He did not swear often. Such utterances had been forbidden by his order and now, when he was free to say whatever he pleased, there was rarely anyone to listen.

  “B-Bullshit,” the boy said.

  The Bloodletter and the boy had traveled the rest of the day, not stopping until well after dark. The wound on the Bloodletter’s side throbbed painfully with every step. His companion, however, had complained about nothing, and so the Bloodletter had kept his own grousing to himself.

  Now, they sat by a small campfire, huddled close to the crackling flames as the cold crept in all around them. The boy stared into the flickering glow. The Bloodletter watched the boy for a while.

  “What shall I call you?” The Bloodletter asked, talking more to himself than to the boy.

  As much as the man was known for his profession—bloodletting—the boy was known for his lot in life. It was possible he had a name once. His parents might have named him when he was born, before they recognized him for what he was. His parents were likely long dead, and the name they had given the boy had died with him. He was a Prayer Vessel. His mind was empty, and his soul was pure. The purity might attract the attention of those gods who remembered the value of such things. The purity might also draw the baleful gaze of those who wanted to feed upon such a delicacy. Either way, when the boy spoke, the gods above and below—forgotten though they may be—were likely to listen. The boy’s emptiness meant that holy… or unholy… men might guide his words. They would speak their prayers to him, and he would parrot them to the gods, asking for blessings and miracles on behalf of someone else.

  Maybe, the Bloodletter thought, that’s why the gods listen to the Prayer Vessels, because they never want anything for themselves.

  “I had a brother once,” the Bloodletter said. “His name was Errol. He was an annoying little shit, always running his mouth when he should have been listening. That’s what got him killed, I imagine. I always wanted him to be more like you. I wanted him to be quiet. I think I’ll call you Errol, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “Errol,” the boy said.

  Satisfied, the Bloodletter nodded, settled his back against the trunk of a tree and closed his eyes.

  SOMETIME LATER, THE sound of singing woke him.

  His hand went to the hilt of the Hissing Blade. He jumped to his feet.

  The Bloodletter knew many tales of ghosts and night-sirens and goblins that lured travelers with sweet songs. Such creatures were the messengers of the gods, and now that the gods had all but vanished, their emissaries grew confused and frightened and angry. They would fall upon hapless victims, torment and kill them, without cause and without mercy.

  In that way, they were not unlike priests.

  Or Bloodletters.

  But there were no goblins, no apparitions or phantoms. Instead, Errol sat quietly, staring into the embers of the dying fire, singing softly and sweetly. The Bloodletter listened to the boy’s soothing lullaby for several minutes. His fingers relaxed on the hilt of the Hissing Blade. The tension in his shoulders eased. The tune made the Bloodletter think about simpler, happier times, before he had been laden with the duty of slaying or cursed with the burden of the Hissing Sword.

  He could not help but wonder, though, who the boy—the Prayer Vessel—was listening to as he sang.

  Thus, even the thought of happier times filled the Bloodletter with unease.

  ANOTHER TWO DAYS of travel, and they reached the Temple of Vanris.

  In the distance, a tall but crumbling temple rose from a barren wasteland of slate. The structure stood miles away, black against an angry red sky. A line of people—men and women, young and old, priests and penitents alike—stretched into the distance. These hopeful worshippers shuffled forward—slowly, slowly—moving toward the temple step by step. Some carried valuables. Some brought chickens or kittens or small dogs in wooden cages. Others brought dried flowers or foodstuffs. A few bore hand-carved idols of warrior gods with multiple, sharp-toothed mouths. All carried prayers on their lips and in their hearts. All hoped the gods would hear their pleas.

  Even as the Bloodletter and Errol approached the meandering line, more worshippers approached to join the procession. Still others could be seen in the distance. The line would continue on forever, especially considering that those who had already visited the far-off temple would often march back to the end of the line, joining the group once again in hopes of getting their message to the god. At other temple sites, it was not unheard of for penitents to fall dead from exhaustion or malnourishment or exposure. When that happened, one of the people in line behind them would gather up the body as an offering to the deity that awaited them.

  The Bloodletter did not join the procession. It moved too slowly for his tastes. He took Errol by the wrist and together they skirted along the line, passing the slow-moving penitents and the prayer-uttering holy men. The Bloodletter kept his eyes down, hoping that if he ignored the people in the line, they would in turn ignore him. It took maybe a dozen steps before this plan fell apart.

  “You there!” A man called from the line. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  The Bloodletter paid him no mind. Clutching Errol’s wrist tightly, he moved a little more quickly.

  “Wait,” another voice called. “Wait!”

  Another yelled, “You can’t just walked to the head of the line!”

  “Stop, you!” cried another.

  “Your prayers are no more important than mine!” said another.

  Soon, the entirety of the line called out to him, a cacophonous riot of angry voices. Anger, the Bloodletter could contend with. He did not stop. But then he heard the exclamation he had been dreading.

  “The boy! The boy’s a Prayer Vessel!”

  He quickened his pace, but it did little good. The temple was still quite a way off. He and Errol would pass hundreds of desperate, pleading men and women. They no longer called for the Bloodletter and his companion to stop. Instead, they clutched at the boy, begging him to pass on their prayers.

  “Tell him,” an old man said, “that I served him well on the battlefields! Tell him I deserve my place in his Feast Hall!”

  “Ask if my brother is by his side,” pleaded a red-eyed woman.

  “My child,” cried a desperate mother, “is so ill. I know he will not heal her, but perhaps he’ll ask one of his brethren.”

  “I’m sorry for what I’ve done,” whimpered another man. “You’ll let him know I’m sorry, won’t you?”

  The Bloodletter moved along, dragging Errol step by step, ever closer to the massive temple. All along, the people standing in line grabbed at Errol, begging him to pass on their messages. The boy’s lips moved as he spoke to himself, reciting to nothingness the hundreds of prayers that were passed on to him. The Bloodletter payed them as little mind as he was able. He did not want to hear their prayers. He did not want to know what they needed. He knew that the boy would not help them—far from it—and he didn’t want to understand just how terribly they would be let down.

  The worshippers nearly cheered as the Bloodletter and the Prayer Vessel reached the steps to the temple.

  Fools, the Bloodletter t
hought. Poor fools.

  He climbed the steps toward the enormous entrance to the temple. Once, the titanic metal doors had been sealed. Now, they stood open. The metal was dented as if the doors had been battered open by giant fists.

  Within was a great hall, impossibly long, with a ceiling rising high above, held aloft by massive columns.

  The real miracle, the Bloodletter thought, is that this place did not fall in the war.

  He led Errol along the hall. The place was unlit, save for the light streaming in from beyond the great, battered doors. What awaited them at the far end of the temple was shrouded in darkness.

  But it smelled of decay.

  This was a tomb.

  As the Bloodletter and the Prayer Vessel moved through the temple, a great silence rushed in around them. Even the boy, who had been echoing the desperate prayers he had heard outside, fell silent.

  Before them rose the throne of a giant. The seat looked to have been carved from the floor itself, and it stood at least thirty feet high. Around the base of the throne were wilted flowers and moldy bread, rotted meat and gold coins, sacrificed livestock and pets, dried blood and even a severed finger or two—offerings to the thing that sat upon the throne.

  The seated god was a skeletal horror, a withered behemoth that might once have been godly but was now horrendous. Withered flesh sloughed off thick bones and tusks. The thing slouched in the chair, its massive skull lolling to the side.

  What god this was, the Bloodletter did not know, nor did he care.

  He placed a hand on Errol’s shoulder, guiding the boy to stand before him.

  Errol gazed at the dead god.

  “It’s time,” the Bloodletter said.

  He drew the Whispering Blade.

  “And I’m sorry.”

  The Bloodletter held his hissing sword next to the boy’s ear. The runes crawled across the metal, the movement of the etched letters creaking, forming whispers.