by Jesse Teller
Aaron closed his eyes and saw Peter before him. Peter stared with a shining face, clear eyes, and set jaw. Aaron had seen that impeccable look so many times, had fought for it, had been ready to die for it. He focused, long and hard. He fought for the image of hate he was sure had at one time marred his king’s face, but no matter how much he summoned forth the image, Aaron could not find a face of wrath from his past with Peter.
Seven years and no snarl. Seven years of a calm, steadfast visage looking back at him.
“Will you snarl when you kill me?” Aaron backed away from the rain barrel and dropped to the ground in the middle of the long abandoned street. “Will I elicit rage in you when you kill me?” He thought about the army he had commanded during the war. The men who had followed an eleven-year-old into battle, blatant rage on their faces. “Maybe that is all I can bring to a man. Rage and hate. Maybe that is my real and lasting gift to Redfist. Hate. Am I teaching him to be me, or is he teaching me, as he promised so long ago he would? Is he leading me back to my honor?”
Aaron covered his face with his hands and wept.
An image came to him from years back, in Prox when he had fought the legions of Maw.
It was Jordai’s face, the face of one of his two friends. Jordai had been yelling at Mort. He had been furious with her.
“They call him Aaron the Sleepless because he can’t rest. He can’t know peace. He is searching for something they told him he lost. He is seeking it all the time. Ever watchful for signs of its passing. He searches every day for the honor they tell him he doesn’t have.”
“I am the Sleepless.” He laughed as he realized he hadn’t slept in two days. For some reason, that made him laugh more than anything ever had, and he sat cross-legged in the street, laughing and crying.
“Get up,” he heard behind him when the worst of the laughing had passed. It was Mort. He lowered his head and wept.
“Aaron the Marked, get up right now,” she said. “We need to talk.”
Aaron shoved his way to his feet. He swayed and finally caught himself before he fell. She grabbed him, and he leaned on her.
“I marched and fought for three weeks in Tienne during the Sleepless March.” He shook his head and almost fell. “Still I have never been this tired before.”
She walked him past the Stalwart. She walked him past the magistrate’s office. He passed an old livery where the Ganamaians kept their horses, and out past the last of the houses, to the edge of the city. Mort sat down on the edge of the cliff and patted the ground.
“We are going to decide right now if you are going to jump off this cliff or get up and go back,” she said. “I will let you talk it out, and I will say a few things. And in the end, I will either watch you fall or watch you rise.”
He nodded.
“It hurts so much.” He gripped his chest where his heart rested, and he shook his head. “They say a man or woman can break your heart, but I have never really felt it.”
“Thanks,” she said with a chuckle.
“You were different. I just raged at you. Never gave myself a chance to feel the pain of it but this—” He rubbed his chest where a great yawning chasm seemed to have opened up. “I haven’t felt this since my mother died when I was four.”
“Why is it so bad?” Mort said. “Did you not see this coming?”
“See that Peter would one day kill me? No, Mort, I didn’t see that coming,” Aaron spat.
“Really?” she said. “That surprises me.”
Aaron curled his hands into fists and fought to keep his composure. He struggled with it for a long time before he let loose a roaring scream that held pain, rage, and an aching release he thought would kill him.
Aaron heard feet running toward him, and he lowered his head.
“Marked, are you okay? Do you need help?” a passing Ganamaian asked, frightened.
“I am going to be,” Aaron said, without turning around. He knew the words a lie, but he also knew he had to speak them.
“If you need anything that I can give,” the man said.
“I will find you or one of your brothers to aid me. Right now, I think I just need to scream.”
The man walked away. Mort took Aaron’s hand.
“You knew, in the end, he was going to be your death,” Mort said. “This should come as no surprise for you.”
“How can you say that? How many times has he said to me that he wanted love and happiness for me? He has told me he wants me to rise more times than I can count. He calls me the most honorable man he knows, yet one day he will kill me. How do I make peace with that?”
“By his hand or by decree, Peter Redfist was always going to be your death,” Mort said. “You have told me many times that you would jump into the pits of Hell if he but waved his hand and mumbled it so. Peter has held your life in his hands for many years now. This news that he will one day kill you is to be no great shock.”
“What do I do?” Aaron looked at her tiny hand in his, then up at her face. She had recently scrubbed it clean, and it was shining and bright, with spots of red where a speck of stubborn paint had been scrubbed harder. She looked bright and innocent. She looked no more than a girl. But more than anything else, she looked like a human free of death’s grasp. Mort looked like a normal person, a person not held fast by the tenets of The Pale.
“You need to ask yourself if you can live with it.” Her voice seemed softer than it had ever been before. “You need to try to figure out if this death is too much for you, and if it is, then when you see him next, you have to kill Peter Redfist.”
Aaron flinched. He jerked his hand from hers and curled it tight. “What did you say? By the gods, why would you say that?”
“If a man is going to kill you, and you want to live, you must kill him first,” Mort said. “Tell me where my logic fails here.”
“Your logic is monstrous.”
“Why?”
“Peter is going to save them all. All the nations of the mountain, all the dead that have passed. Peter Redfist is the very hope of his race.”
“You would die for him?”
“In a breath, without a moment hesitation,” Aaron said.
“Then why is this death any different than any other you might find? If you would serve him in life and death, then tell me why this is so abhorrent to you. What has changed? Because, Aaron, I can say without any doubt at all that a death is a death.”
“What do you mean?”
“Death for a cause, or death from an infection. Death by decree or death by drinking, all of these result in the same thing. Death has many forms, but only one destination. So why does this death appall you so?”
“He will find a day when he wants me to die,” Aaron said. “A day will come to Peter Redfist where he will say, ‘The world is better off without Aaron the Marked.’”
“Do you trust him?”
Aaron’s head was spinning. He closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. “Maybe I shouldn’t.”
“Well, do you? This is the only question that needs answering. Do you trust him? Do you trust him to know when you need to die?” she said. “If you don’t, then you have to kill him. If you do, then nothing has changed.”
Aaron looked at his lap. He turned the Fury arrowhead in his hands and thought of Peter, Fora, and the entire mountain. He nodded and sighed.
He needed to sleep.
The Crow’s Nest
They stepped on the deck of the Venture, and Trysliana flashed her beautiful smile at Oak. She wore her pirate garb, complete with feathered wide-brim hat and rapier. She stepped up before Rayph and Smear to stomp her boot on the deck.
“Hey, boys and girls, did you miss me?”
“Can’t believe you would bring him back on my ship, woman,” Oak said. Giggles stepped up beside him with death in his eyes. Horsehair laughed and placed a hand on Oak’s wrist.
“Let’s try to remember Peeps and what she did for us,” he said.
Oak shook his head and
grinned. “That’s the only reason they are still alive. What are you doing here?”
“We came for two reasons; first, to introduce you to your newest crew member.” Rayph stepped aside to reveal Aaron the Marked standing behind him, glaring at the crew and the people he had come with.
The Venture went totally silent as all on deck looked Aaron over. After a great deal of staring, Horsehair whispered something to Oak, who nodded and nervously licked one of his exposed fangs.
“You’re Aaron the Marked,” Avent said.
“Who are you?” Aaron spat.
“Are you Aaron the Marked?” the ship’s mage asked again.
Aaron said nothing. His face, and his sword being drawn from its sheath, said it all. Oak laughed and spread his arms out wide. “We know of a man who wears scars like those that decorate your body. We are allied to the house of Prox. They speak of a man of wrath who helped their nation during Drine’s war.”
“I did nothing. My king aided that nation. Without him, they would have been enslaved.”
“That is not the story we were told. Four mighty giants from a distant nation came to the aid of Tienne when she needed heroes most. You are one of them,” Oak said.
Aaron brushed the words off. He lowered his eyes to the rest of the crew, scanning them quickly before landing his gaze once more on Oak. “Which ones?” Aaron asked as he tapped the tip of his sword against his calf.
“Which ones what?” Avent asked.
“Which members of your crew do I have to beat or kill to earn a spot among you? Speak their names and have them step forward.”
Rayph looked at the kid’s eyes and saw death, cold and black. Certainty rode every word Aaron spoke. Rayph realized to be threatened by Aaron was to die on the spot.
“Are you Aaron the Marked, the Demon of the King?”
“I am a servant of Peter Redfist. He is in captivity right now, and I will get to him if I have to kill every one of you to do it,” Aaron stated.
“Why us?” Oak asked.
“The witch said this tub would take me to him.” Aaron shook his head. “I mean to win my spot among you.”
“If Peter Redfist is in danger, then we will aid you in delivering him,” Oak said. “He saved the life of a dear friend of mine. Where is he?”
“He can be found in the bowl of Darkfess, in the city of Bladesport.”
The whole of the crew looked as if they had been slapped. More than one face paled, and more than one head shook, but through it all, Giggles only giggled.
“You wish to go to Bladesport?” Oak said.
“I am going, and you are going to take me.”
“We will get you close and give you a boat,” Oak said. “Easier to replace a boat than a crew. Aaron, come stand beside me. You can be one of us without proof of your prowess.”
Aaron grunted at Rayph, a sound that might have been a thank you. He stepped beside Giggles, and Rayph decided not to look at that side of the boat.
“What is the second reason you have come to my ship?” Oak said.
“We need a favor, hon,” Trysliana said. “We have to get into a bar and you’re the only ones who can get us there.”
“You want to go to the Crow’s Nest?” Horsehair said. “You know that is suicide for your group, right? They would spot you in a moment. Rayph’s picture is up on the wall. They throw daggers at it and crossbow quarrels. Grabble, the owner, has placed a bounty on your heads. He will sense your aura and you will be done for. Anyone who tries to save you will be ripped apart. You can’t be this foolish.”
“We need in.”
“What are you going to do about your aura?” Avent asked.
“That is my problem.”
“What are you going to do about your face?” Horsehair said.
“Mundane disguise,” Rayph said. “They will not look at me twice if I walk in with you, sit at your table, and drink your drinks.”
“You’re buying,” Helm said as she walked down the steps of the steering deck and stopped at its base. She was hard and big, scarred and tanned. She was, for the most part, the only one Oak would let run his helm. She knew the ship’s subtleties better than anyone living.
“You want us to put our reputations on the line for you?” Oak said. “You want us to walk you into the pirate hub of this continent, you, Rayph Ivoryfist, the bane of all pirates of these shores?”
“That is exactly what I want you to do.”
“What makes you think we would ever do something like that?” Horsehair said.
“You will do it because I will kill everyone you point at. You will do it because I will settle all of your scores for you. And you will do it because, if you do, I will speak on your behalf to the city’s commander of guard.”
“How can you, a criminal, expect that conversation to profit anyone?” Oak said. “The city’s new commander, Sagon, has closed the port, locking everyone in it. He won’t listen to you no matter how you speak,” Oak said before he noticed the smile on Rayph’s face and threw out a laugh that boomed across the harbor. “You have him under your thumb. You are in control of the entire city.” The crew snarled, and Oak laughed. “So, you will set us free and settle all of our scores if we will get you in and drink with you?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re buying.”
Rayph wore rags. He hobbled on his limp leg and snarled at everyone he saw. The massive grewla at the door stared at him, then grunted before turning to Oak. They spoke words Rayph could not find the meaning in. Some sort of code, some sort of language of gestures and words. The big grewla laughed and slapped Rayph on the back. Rayph knew better than to smile back, so he scowled and trudged on into the bar.
The place was nasty with whores and drunks. His boot splashed in vomit, and he nearly slipped. The bar wenches were topless, and sea dogs and roustabouts fondled and pinched as they were served. A grand staircase wound the left side of the pub leading to a balcony overlooking the bar. In a throne of sorts, made from a combination of mastheads and a helm, sat the owner and master of the bar, Grabble Nix, the wealthiest pirate to haunt this city since Crease.
A naked woman knelt at his feet. She stroked his thigh and murmured to him as he laughed and talked to his bodyguards. One was a half-cyclops. Rayph knew him by reputation but not name. He was an old sea mage who had retired many decades ago. His pure white shock of hair rose from the center of his head and was tied in a topknot. His hand rested on a cane with a black diamond sitting atop it, and even from here, Rayph could see the glyphs carved down its length. Rayph opened his third eye, seeing the man’s power throbbing around him. To the left of Grabble stood a snarling elondri. Black war paint covered the bottom half of her face, stopping at her breasts. She wore a scarf around her bosom and a tiny skirt. In her hands rested a bo staff covered in nicks and deep cuts. Grabble briefly turned his attention to Rayph before dismissing him.
Rayph touched the fetish inside his filthy vest as he looked around for his crew. He could not make Smear, though he could sense him here. Trysliana sat at a table, slapping a viper and snatching up coins nestled in its coils. It snapped and hissed at her and the others at the table. She glanced up and caught Rayph’s eye. She wore tattered town guard’s armor, too big for her it was evident, but everyone there was sure she had killed a guardsman to get it. Her daggers fit crossed and tied on her breastplate. Her sword, Rayph could not see.
“Smear, make a scene. I need to see you and your disguise is too good,” Rayph whispered.
In a different section of the bar, a thin man, scarred with burn marks across his face, with a bald head and a nose ring, leapt to his feet and smacked a passerby. The two men broke out in a fight, and Rayph saw at once the scarred man was Smear. Rayph whistled through his teeth at the masterful disguise before sitting back down, grabbing a bar wench, and pulling her into his lap.
He thought of his wife and felt sick to his stomach, but he knew he needed to play the part and do it well. She squealed when she fell int
o his lap. She wrapped arms around his neck and whispered. “Two silver will get you privacy, one and you can have me on the table in the back.” She kissed his neck, and he forced his eyes to her breasts as she jumped to her feet.
“Drinks?” she asked.
“Drinks!” Oak demanded. “For the table, and food—good food—not the swill Carpenter is slinging. Open the meat, the real meat.”
“Oh, big spenders!” she said with a coy smile. She was not unpretty, and her sweat glistened off her body in a pleasing way, but Rayph still found himself disgusted by the act of touching her.
“He’s buying,” Oak said, pointing at Rayph, who smiled a shy grin.
“Oh, my, I will have to remember that,” she said with a wink. Rayph looked across the table at Giggles, who still steamed at helping Rayph do anything, and Rayph scowled at him.
“I need to know who your contact is for this town,” Rayph said.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Oak said.
“The one who sells your cargo and sets you up with the new. I need to know who he is.”
“Why?”
Music was struck up, and over the din of the floor, the squeals of the barmaids, and the rising music, Rayph had to shout to talk to Oak. He moved closer, and he spoke in Oak’s ear. “They are setting up the shipping of hazardous cargo, lethal stuff. For the good of the nation and the world, I need to know who this person is.”
Oak laughed and downed his drink as it was brought to him. Rayph turned for the side of the bar, where a stout door with a black handprint marked the toilet. When he neared the door, he found the stench oppressive and violent. He braced himself, knowing better than to shield his nose against the odor, and grabbed the door and stepped in. Within was a merciful gloom lit only by the gaps in the slats of the wall. The noise of the bar was muted slightly, and Rayph could see in the vague light piles of feces and buckets of urine. He stepped up behind a man taking a piss and thought over the consequences of stabbing him in the back. Assassinations were ugly work, but so was transporting the undead. He felt the dagger on his hip and thought better of it.
