In the morning, the Historian approached the Reaper, carrying the Queen’s hand. “Her Majesty is no longer moving away from us.”
“’Bout damned time. Don’t tell me she’s dead, though.”
The Ahklatian smiled wanly. “No, not dead.”
“How long ‘til we catch up with her, you reckon?”
“Assuming her captives don’t resume their pace? Within a fortnight.”
Vykers cursed. “A fortnight? Why is it never a day? Never an hour? The hells blast this Mahnus-forsaken land to oblivion!”
The Historian chuckled. “You’ve become more eloquent in your old age.”
“You’re a fine one to be callin’ anyone old, Shaper.”
The Ahklatian changed the subject. “What are your plans for the prisoners?”
“Haven’t decided,” Vykers answered. “Right now, they’re naught but dead weight. Might be, it’s better to finish ‘em today and have done with it. Or maybe I should let the Frog eat ‘em.”
“I would advise against that,” the Historian said.
I bet you would, Vykers thought wryly to himself. Time was, he’d have said that out loud. There was nothing to be gained from antagonizing the Historian, though, and the man had dealt fairly with the Reaper thus far, so Vykers said nothing.
The days and leagues went by, and still he could not get the dream out of his head. When he recognized his first olive tree, he became incensed.
Burner! Arune!
Yes?
This Brouton’s Bind?
There was a pause. Is what Brouton’s Bind?
This tree, here. It’s an olive tree. Why do I know that?
I’ve no idea, the Shaper responded defensively.
That wasn’t good enough for Vykers. You’re supposed to be the smart one. Figure it out. I feel like my mind is…leaking.
I’ll ask the Historian. Privately, Arune was worried. There had always been parts of the Reaper’s mind to which she could not gain access, no matter how hard or how often she tried. What was becoming clear, though, was that her host – and friend – had visited this part of the world before. When that had been and what he’d done here were questions that offered only disturbing possibilities, at a time when seemingly everyone needed the man focused on the task at hand. Even Arune had hopes and ambitions that hinged on the successful rescue of Her Majesty.
Do that, Vykers ordered.
Oh, trust me, Arune thought to herself, I’ll positively grill the bastard.
Fortunately, an event near midday offered the whole party a bit of distraction.
“I smell somethin’…” the Frog said to Vykers as he rode up alongside.
A sad smile came to Vykers’ lips. “Three was always doin’ that, too.”
The Frog didn’t understand.
“Anyway,” the Reaper continued, “what are you getting’?”
“I dunno. I never smelled it afore. It eats meat, though, and it’s big.”
“What? How can something smell big?”
“Dunno,” the Frog shrugged. “It just does.”
It’s some sort of cat, Arune offered.
Like a lynx?
Sure. A lynx the size of an ox.
Are you shittin’ me? Vykers asked.
I wish I were.
“Any idea where this thing is?”
“Off in the trees, to the…” The Frog couldn’t quite figure out how to explain.
Northwest, said Arune. I think he’s got his eyes on our two captives – and probably their horses, too.
Think we could get him to settle for the Fool?
Now, now, the Shaper laughed, he hasn’t been as bad as all that.
You mean, apart from the fact the man smells like a midden and can’t tell a good jest from a boil on his ass?
How do you know there’s a boil on his ass?
I heard him singin’ about it t’other day. Anyway, how far away’s this big cat?
I hate it when you get bored, Arune complained.
Seeing the Shaper was unwilling to oblige him, Vykers asked the Frog. “How far away is this thing, you figure?”
The Frog pointed to a mound of good-sized boulders, from which seven or eight waxen-leafed bushes grew defiantly. “Just there, in the shadows between them rocks.”
Vykers didn’t see anything.
“He’s in there,” the Frog confirmed.
What are you going to do? Try to lure it back to camp like you did with the Frog? Arune asked. Or are you really so desperate for a fight?
I’m just curious, is all. I just wanna see this thing.
And then?
Haven’t decided. Without an ounce of caution, Vykers slid off his horse, slapped its backside, and began walking towards the pile of boulders. He noticed the Historian had turned his horse in Vykers direction, but the Reaper waved him off. As if to reassure the Ahklatian, he drew his sword and held it up for all to see.
And then resumed walking.
When he got within fifteen or twenty paces, he heard a low, warning rumble that gave him pause. Oh, this kitty was bigger than an ox. A damned sight bigger. If only he could sight it. “I’m right here,” he told the boulders. To his astonishment, a gigantic shape faded into view at the edge of the shadows, no more than ten feet from his position. It had been moving all this time, and he hadn’t heard it, save for its warning growl. The beast was impossibly large – easily the biggest land creature Vykers had ever encountered – with eyeteeth as long as swords. It had a scruff of mane, and its tawny fur was mottled in blacks, greys, and browns that seemed to shift and change with the beast’s position in his surroundings, a natural, ever-changing camouflage.
The Reaper was fairly confident he could kill it before it killed him, but ten feet was much closer than he’d planned on getting, and he didn’t want to make any obvious adjustments to his stance that might alarm the big cat.
It moved closer.
Vykers could smell it now, too, and found its odor not altogether unappealing. Its giant, shield-sized eyes, like its coat, seemed to change color with every step, now bronze, now green, now yellow. But whatever their color, their expression remained unchanged: an unmistakable mixture of curiosity and naked hostility.
I should prob’ly be afraid, Vykers thought to himself. Funny thing is, I ain’t. “I am Tarmun Vykers,” he said quietly. “The Reaper.”
The cat pushed at Vykers’ head with its nose, loudly sniffing every inch of him.
I could put its eyes out right now, Vykers thought. Shaper! He called to Arune.
Vykers?
Tell the Historian to stake the weakest of our mounts to the ground and lead the rest of our party away.
There was no point in contesting the wisdom of this action, Arune knew. Vykers would do as he chose. As you say, she responded.
Man and beast remained nose-to-nose and toe-to-toe whilst the Historian carried out Vykers’ order. The big cat was too canny to take its eyes off the warrior; a slight shift in the creature’s ears was the only sign it had noticed the Reaper’s offering. With a degree of patience Vykers rarely demonstrated in any other area of his life, he withdrew, gradually and in such minute steps that it seemed an hour had passed before he’d gotten out of striking range – whatever that might be for such a monstrous feline. In his peripheral vision, he could see the panicked horse some fifty paces to his right. Although the horse had been staked with its back to the cat, it was clear to all that it could nevertheless sense, perhaps smell, the predator. Just as it started to whinny in terror, a tremendous shadow fell upon it, followed by the sharp snap of bone and, again, a deep, throaty growl of warning.
It took a lot to amaze Tarmun Vykers, but he was amazed at the cat.
Even in retreat, dragging the horse’s considerable bulk by the throat, the beast kept its eyes on the Reaper until it had disappeared amongst the rocks again. Only then, did Vykers feel safe in remounting his own horse and leading his companions away.
And what was that all about?
Arune demanded.
Vykers chuckled. If you have to ask, I can’t explain it.
We just lost a good horse.
Good? I asked for the weakest.
And so it was. Still, it served.
And has been served, Vykers snickered. By the way, whose was it?
One of the prisoners’.
No matter, then. They can ride double. He paused. Did they see what happened to their horse?
How could they fail to?
And the Fool? Was he awake and watching?
Yes, yes, Arune cried in frustration. We all witnessed your little lesson. If only we understood what you were trying to communicate.
Oh, those knights understood, Burner. They understood just fine.
~NINE~
Kittins, House Gault
Despite the rank odor of rotting Svarren corpses, Kittins was famished. It occurred to him that this might be part of his punishment, a test to see how long or even whether he could resist devouring the flesh of the nearby dead. When and if he sank that far, he would know he’d fallen beyond redemption. Fortunately, he still had plenty of water, foul though it was, in the large half-barrel at the rear of the cell. He was about to slake his thirst when he was interrupted.
“Look at you,” a familiar voice snarled contemptuously, “An’ I thought we was friends.”
Kittins had been taunted so much in the past few days, he didn’t even bother to look up any more. His latest tormentor was Wrensl Deda. Frankly, he was surprised the man hadn’t worked up the courage to come sooner.
“You set me up, and now you’re sittin’ in a stinkin’ Svarren cell.”
Apart from his stunning grasp of the obvious, Wrensl had just shown a gift for alliteration that Kittins had not known he possessed. “Alliteration” was one of the last new words the big man had learned before going on his latest killing spree. He hadn’t quite understood the concept when he’d read about it, but Deda had unwittingly demonstrated its use to perfection. “Sittin’ in a stinkin’ Svarren cell.” Interesting.
“Man don’t like to be ignored when he’s talking to someone…” Deda growled.
“I’m not ignoring you. In fact, I’m riveted by your poetry.”
Deda looked as if he’d just swallowed something putrescent. “My what? My poetry?”
Kittins wasn’t moved to say more.
“Well, fuck you, big man!” Deda shouted. “Fuck you! We’ll see how long you last with them bleedin’ beastly bodies…”
Kittins started laughing and, when he caught sight of Deda’s bewildered expression, laughed harder and harder. Soon, he found he couldn’t stop.
Deda hurled every kind of obscenity he could at the prisoner, to no avail. The big man howled with mirth at Deda’s expense, and it made the smaller man feel smaller still.
Suddenly, another familiar voice barked out, “Get lost” and Deda slunk away. “What’s this, then, some new stage of your madness?” Lord Darley.
Kittins struggled to compose himself, took a deep breath, exhaled. “There’s easier ways to kill me,” he told His Lordship.
The man stared at him with those piercing eyes. “If killing you had been my goal, you can be sure I would have achieved it by now.” Kittins hadn’t a lot to say, so he waited. “The first time I laid eyes on you,” Darley continued, “I knew you were a weapon, that you’d been born, been made to kill. I can see now the fault for this fiasco,” he indicated the corpses behind Kittins, “is mine. I should have realized one cannot keep a weapon of such lethal potential unsheathed and lying about the house.”
Metaphor, Kittins thought. Alliteration, metaphor…what next? Iambic pentameter? He thought of Rem and quickly pushed the memory aside. Darley was preparing to pronounce Kittins’ fate, and he needed to pay better attention.
“Therefore,” His Lordship said, “I am sending you away, on an errand that may be beyond even your considerable talents.”
“A suicide mission, then?” Kittins intoned.
A slight shift in Darley’s gaze told Kittins he’d hit it, dead on. “But,” His Lordship was quick to add, “should you succeed, I’ll honor you with land and a title.”
“Not that I’m in any position to decline,” the prisoner said, “but this land…I’m guessing it’s a ways off?”
Darley inclined his head a fraction of an inch: correct. “It seems we may count intuition amongst your gifts. Yes, it’s a ways off, as you put it. An island, in fact, off the eastern coast.”
“And this errand…you want me to kill someone.”
“Of course,” Darley replied with more than a trace of condescension in his voice.
“I’m not real stealthy,” Kittins said, thinking aloud. “So this must be a straight-up brawl you’re looking for.”
“You may have to kill several guards before you reach your target, yes. From what I’ve seen, that should prove little challenge for you.”
Kittins sucked on his teeth. Seemed like his hunger had grown tenfold in the last five minutes. Surely His Lordship would have to feed and equip him before sending him off. “And who is this target?”
“A man named Kendell. Every House has a different name for the role he fulfills, but at House Blackbyrne they call him ‘Chief of Security.’ That’s a job you might’ve had for me one day…if things had turned out differently.”
“I hear House Blackbyrne ain’t especially important. Why do you want this fella dead?”
His Lordship swept his eyes across the cell and its disgusting condition and contents. “Does it matter?” He turned to look at Kittins, his gaze unflinching.
“No,” Kittins admitted. “Not really.”
“Good,” said Darley. “I’ve got some men coming to bring you to a bath and a meal. One of these men is a powerful Shaper. If you give him or any of his companions the slightest bit of difficulty…well, you’re a bright fellow. I hardly need to finish that sentence, do I?”
“No, milord.”
“You understand the same consequences will follow any attempt to escape into the city once we set you on your path?”
“Yes, milord.”
“Excellent. I expect our next meeting will be our last. But in the event you do complete your assignment, you’ll be a very wealthy man, indeed.”
“On a very distant island.”
Darley’s smile would’ve looked more at home on an undertaker. “Just so.”
*****
“Some men” turned out to be ten, which told Kittins that Darley was in deadly earnest, but also spoke of His Lordship’s regard for the big man’s abilities. In an ironic parallel to Kittins’ rescue of the Svarren woman, his escort led him to the bath, where he was forced to clean himself in full view of the other men. If they wanted to wink or smirk at one another at Kittins’ expense, they were damned subtle about it. The captain took his time scrubbing himself clean; the whole event had the air of ritual about it, a cleansing before battle…or death. When he emerged from the water, one of the men stepped forward and handed him a bundle of black linens. More ritual. In no time, he donned the proffered clothing and was ushered towards the room’s far exit. After several minutes of walking, he and his guards arrived in a room Kittins had never seen before. It was neither big nor small and featured only a large, sturdy table upon which sat a suit of armor and various weapons. Long minutes later, His Lordship deigned to make an appearance through a door beyond the table.
“You kept me waiting with your leisurely bath; I thought I’d return the favor,” Darley explained.
This was another of those moments when speaking at all seemed counterproductive and possibly dangerous, but Kittins felt it important to acknowledge he’d gotten the message, so he bobbed his head in what he hoped seemed an agreeable manner.
“I have hired, through a third party, a number of ruffians and thugs – brainless to a man – to attack a little used entrance near the back of the Blackbyrne estate. I’ve engaged another group, less stupid, but also less expensive, to stage a large, rowdy
party just outside Blackbyrne’s front gate. With these two events happening at roughly the same time, you’ll be able to climb and slip over the wall on the opposite side and work your way into House Blackbyrne. Kill as many people as you can find; I have no particular preference as to gender, age or occupation. Sooner or later, Kendell will hear of it and feel compelled to take matters into his own hands. At that point, one of you will die. I hope it’s Kendell, but I’ll lose no sleep if it’s you. I’m sure you understand. And, as I said, should you succeed in this attack and return, I shall honor my pledge to make you a very rich man.”
As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2) Page 31
