A quarter hour later, Vykers climbed, with no little effort, onto his new mount and he and his companions were again ready to move on. The Reaper took in the camp and its strange soldiers one last time and then urged Shalea southward, towards the next encounter.
He was not disappointed. His party came to a trench embedded with sharpened stakes, across which a small, portable bridge had been laid. On the far side, stood two exceedingly tall men in armor of bone, skin and feather, whose complexion was so dark Vykers knew them at once: makers and wielders of the Ntambi club. Sure enough, attached to their belts, each man had a version of the souvenir Vykers had with him even now, stashed with his gear. These men, then, were Ntambi. This was a fight he’d been looking forward to for ages.
*****
Spirk, Gangrene & Sons, Teshton
Things were slow at Gangrene & Sons, and although the barkeep reported having seen one or two other members of Captain Long’s team, he’d no news of Long himself, or Captain Kittins. Spirk volunteered to return to Lunessfor to search for his friends, but the barkeep wouldn’t hear of it, going so far as to lay his big mitts on Spirk’s shoulders and force him down into a chair by the fire.
“I’ve orders to keep you all here as you come in,” the hulking barkeep said. “City’s an angry hornet’s nest o’ riots, pillaging and the like. You go back into that, you’re like to get killed. Or worse.”
“What’s worse than gettin’ kilt?” Spirk asked, confused.
Ron choked on his ale. Some of it even shot out his nose.
The barkeep considered explaining what was worse, but decided against it. If the homely young fellow with the big birthmark couldn’t imagine a fate worse than death, he was lucky. Let him remain so. “Never you mind. You’re stayin’ and that’s that. I’ve got a room in the back you can sleep in and your meals are on me…within reason. I ain’t roasting a boar for ya, so don’t get any ideas, understand? Now,” the man said, “I have to get back to my bar. You get bored, you can see the sights o’ Teshton on foot,” he laughed.
Spirk grew bored immediately. “Let’s go see these sights, eh, Ron?”
Ron hadn’t noticed any sights on the way into town. Teshton was one of those places in which a sow giving birth was worthy of a weeklong celebration. But his master and new friend had been unusually restless since the banquet at the D’Escurzy estate, so Ron supposed a little stretch of the legs might do the man good. He followed Spirk out of the tavern and into the muggy afternoon sun. The air smelled of cow dung, and without the slightest trace of a breeze to alleviate the humidity or the stench, Ron was sorely tempted to run back indoors and lie down. Summer could sod off, for all he cared. He’d been made for autumn and winter. Well, mostly autumn. Fact was, he didn’t care for extremes in weather. Give him cool weather year ‘round, and he’d be a happy man.
Suddenly, Ron realized Spirk had been talking to him. “I’m sorry?” he said.
“I said I didn’t mean to kill no one, ‘specially Faenia.”
How much of this conversation had Ron missed? “I don’t believe you did, sir,” he stammered. “Kill anyone, that is.”
“I did, Ron. O’ course, I did! I misused Pellas’ Legacy and now he’ll never forgive me!” Spirk protested, in as agitated a state as Ron had ever seen him.
“But…forgive me, sir, but Pellas is dead. They say he died in an explosion of stars in the battle against the End.”
Spirk turned to his friend, tears in his eyes. “He exploded, right enough. I was there, remember. But I won’t b’lieve he’s dead.”
Ron stopped walking, faced his friend. “I’ll not gainsay it. But even if you did use Pellas’ Legacy, don’t you think that’s what he would have wanted? I mean, he chose you, right?”
“I kilt a whole room full o’ people, though,” Spirk cried. “And wounded a bunch more. That don’t seem like old D’Kem to me.”
Ron didn’t understand half of the things Spirk rambled on about. But he did understand that his friend was in torment. Not knowing what else to do, he embraced him…and Spirk began sobbing. Ron had never heard such pain in another man’s voice, and he almost broke down himself. Over Spirk’s shoulder, he saw a couple of farmers staring at him, but Ron ignored them. What did he care if the locals talked?
*****
Vykers, the Lake Bed
Vykers jumped from his horse, felt a terrible twinge in his side, didn’t give two shits. “Let’s see what you’re made of, you big bastards.” The men facing him might have thwarted his charge by kicking the footbridge into the trench below, but they did not, suggesting they weren’t overly concerned with Vykers or his companions. Which further enflamed the Reaper’s hunger for violence. He didn’t like to be taken lightly. He stormed across the bridge in three prodigious strides and brought his sword swooping in from the enemies’ left. They deftly dodged backwards, as he knew they would, allowing him enough room to get off the bridge and back onto solid ground. Both sentries exchanged looks of amused disbelief and pulled the clubs from their belts, all but in unison. From there, they assumed defensive stances, which made perfect sense, from Vykers’ perspective. With his back to the trench, all they had to do was gain a few feet in order to push him over the brink and onto the stakes below. It seemed an entirely reasonable plan, except for the fact the foe they faced was as far from entirely reasonable as anyone could possibly be. The Reaper fleetingly took in his adversaries’ exotic faces and then launched a withering series of blows no mortal man could hope to parry. The pair on the receiving end did marvelously well…for a time. They were lithe, strong and agile, and possessed far better reflexes and instincts than anyone else Vykers had faced on the old lake bed. Under other circumstances, he might have made an effort to learn more about them and their martial philosophies; as it was, he was in a hurry, burning to complete the task he’d been saddled with lo these many weeks. He pressed the attack, occasionally ducking or batting aside one or the other of the men’s Ntambi clubs – they were imposing weapons, but he held a magic sword. The contest lasted nowhere near as long as Vykers had hoped. In the end, he was actually able to kill both men with the same blow, decapitating the first man and shearing deep into the shoulder and chest of the second. With aggressive contempt, he swept their bodies into the trench behind him and turned to face whoever might step into the space they’d vacated. No one came.
Vykers paused to gather his breath and focus his senses on the camp ahead of him. A wall of men stood watching him, their faces, inscrutable. At his back, Vykers heard the sound of his comrades’ feet on the bridge, but no horses. He chose not to examine this curiosity, given the force before him.
“Who commands this army?” he challenged.
The wall parted and the largest, broadest Ntambi Vykers had seen stepped through the gap. The fellow had a tremendously large, bald head with an ornate tattoo in white upon its crown. His teeth were lacquered in an alternating pattern of black and red, so that he appeared to be missing half of them, while the others appeared drenched in blood. Vykers observed that this man’s club had two sharp, bladelike projections on either side that made the thing look even more vicious than the usual variety. He thought it would make an excellent keepsake.
“Who dares attack my soldiers?” the man asked.
Without turning, Vykers understood the Historian had to be right behind him, or he would never have understood the Ntambi leader’s question.
“I do. I am Tarmun Vykers, the Reaper. I mean to get to the obelisk by sundown, and I’ll kill any and every man who stands in my way.”
The Ntambi leader said nothing for a good length of time and then broke into a great, broad smile. “I love a good fight!” he proclaimed. “Come, engage me. For the courage you’ve shown, I promise not to kill you.”
You can’t both be right, Arune opined uninvited.
You know who’s right, Vykers answered.
The Ntambi leader walked fearlessly right up to Vykers and prepared to swing his club. Vykers slapped
him on the right ear so hard he burst the man’s eardrum and sent him to his knees, howling in pain. When his head came within a couple feet of the ground, the Reaper kicked him full force in the jaw, launching him onto his back not five paces from the rest of his men. Vykers brought his sword around and waited for the larger man to rise.
Not bad, for openers.
Vykers ignored her.
From his backside, the Ntambi leader let loose a thunderous belly laugh and rocked himself into a seated position. He shook his head violently to clear the fog and stumbled to his feet.
“Good, good!” he bellowed. “And now, my turn!”
It was surprising how fast he could move, given his bulk; it was all Vykers could do to get out of his way as he stampeded past without even raising his weapon. The Reaper adjusted his footing and circled to his right just enough to keep the other man directly in front of him. Now, the ebony-skinned warrior did bring his club into an attitude of attack, but it could also be turned to deflect an attack, as well, should Vykers decide to move first. He did not, though. It was up to the Ntambi warrior to land a blow now, if he could. That the other men in this camp did not rush to his defense suggested they viewed this fight as sacred, the only thing needed to resolve the conflict between their attacker, Vykers, and themselves. And this was something the Reaper could respect, for he’d have done the same himself – had, in fact, done the same himself – to spare the other members of his party. He moved his sword into a sort of hanging parry, a challenge to his opponent, presenting a possible opening…or a trap. The other man grinned at him and started dancing on his toes. The half circle of men at Vykers’ back began chanting something unintelligible. He thought to ask the Historian what it was, but decided against it. Unless it was magic, it wouldn’t have much impact on the outcome of the duel; if it was magic, Arune would have to deal with it. With a sudden roar, the Ntambi warrior leapt at Vykers and swung his club in a lethal arc aimed at the Reaper’s head. The man must have known Vykers would parry, so this was a test of strength. If the attacker proved stronger, he’d smash through Vykers’ defense and crush his skull. The Reaper considered a moment: accept this test or dodge aside and leave his opponent off-balance and bewildered? He took the warrior’s blow and the considerable weight behind it and let the fellow grind his club against Vykers’ sword. The Ntambi leader grimaced at him over the locked weapons, sweat now streaming down his face. The man tried to buckle Vykers’ knee with a kick, but the Reaper made the smallest adjustment to his stance and the blow missed. In the next breath, the fellow ducked, attempting to bring the lower end of his club under Vykers’ sword and score a strike to the face. Vykers somersaulted backwards and sprang to his feet several paces away, causing the Ntambi leader to tumble onto his face in the dirt. Again, the Reaper might have closed for the kill but declined. He relished unfamiliar opponents and unknown fighting styles and wanted to see what else his adversary might try. Too, he felt that only total domination of the Ntambi leader would keep the other warriors at bay. Yet, it was also important to preserve the leader’s dignity. Vykers would not toy with him; he would simply prolong the skirmish enough to learn what he wished to know.
But when the other man got to his feet, Vykers could tell by the look on his face that it was perhaps too late to preserve his dignity. In addition, the surrounding warriors had altered their chant, which seemed to infuriate the man even further. With a scream that was equal parts rage and humiliation, the Ntambi leader barged up to the Reaper and lambasted his defenses with a jaw-dropping series of powerful combinations meant to crush all resistance. Vykers danced, as he always did, and nearly escaped the worst of it when he caught a knee in his belt, right over the spot where its two cones plugged his wound. The pain was excruciating and drove Vykers to his haunches, barely able to breathe. Just when it seemed the other man might land a killing blow, a curious thing occurred: the Reaper’s mouth filled with the taste of honey, and strength returned to his limbs. With no time to spare, he spun sideways, evading a blow that would surely have pulverized his neck. Before he’d travelled completely out of reach, he lashed out with his sword and sliced through the tendons on the back of his rival’s feet, causing the larger man to dive forward in an agony of his own. Vykers rolled, gathered himself and worked his way to a standing position. His enemy thrashed about in the dust, in such pain that nothing outside his body even existed.
“Why don’t they send in an A’Shea?” Vykers called over to the Historian.
“According to their chanting, they now view him as an embarrassment. He’d be better off dead.”
The Reaper shrugged. Dead it was, then. He walked over to the still writhing form of his former foe and shoved his great sword between the man’s shoulder blades and into the dirt beneath, destroying his heart in an instant. Then, he wrenched his sword free and took the man’s head off with one mighty swing. He might have spared his opponent, but with the rest of the Ntambi army watching his every move, he believed any show of mercy would only invite further conflict. Without taking his eyes off the Ntambi, he strolled back across the footbridge to his horse, fetched a cloth from his pack, and wiped his blade clean. That done, he walked back again and stood facing the half circle of warriors who’d witnessed his victory, waiting for someone to step forward and speak with him. He was pleased to discover that the Frog, the Fool and the Historian had joined him.
“So,” he began, allowing the Historian to translate, “Will anyone else challenge my right to pass, or will you step aside and allow my companions and me to go?”
Now, someone stepped forward. This new speaker was shorter than his brothers, with the grizzled look of middle age, an amazing thing in a warrior. “It is customary amongst our people to feast with the victor of such a challenge,” the man said.
“Come to think of it,” Vykers responded, “a little meat and drink would be welcome about now.” He took a moment to gaze into the midday sky…and blacked out.
He awoke briefly whilst the Frog carried him into a nearby tent, but was unable to sustain consciousness. The next thing he knew, he was lying on his back, gazing up into a lattice-work of tree branches.
“Tarmun?” a familiar voice inquired.
The A’Shea’s sudden appearance and the presence of her hands upon his face felt so wonderful that he almost shouted for joy. And then he remembered himself: he was the Reaper. He had come to this Mahnus-forsaken land to find and rescue Her Majesty. Everything else was of secondary importance. But when his eyes found Aoife, he ceased to care about his mission.
“Where am I?”
“You’re in my grove…a grove, north of…wherever it is you’ve been,” Aoife replied.
“How’d I get here?”
How did you get here? Arune interjected sarcastically.
Ah. “Never mind,” Vykers told the A’Shea. “A better question is why you’re not still at sea.” Aoife looked bewitchingly beautiful, and Vykers wondered if he wasn’t under some sort of spell. He felt sure Arune and his sword would never allow it, and yet…
“I was…worried for you…you and the rest of the party, that is. No one should travel into a potential ambush without an A’Shea.”
“I gave you an order,” said Vykers, sternly.
“I remember,” said Aoife, not ungently. “But I answer to a higher power.”
“Ha!” Vykers scoffed. “And this ‘higher power’ compels you to follow me into the countless hells, does it?”
“Will you never stop arguing?” Aoife said in a raised voice. Impulsively, she kissed him, long and hard.
Gods! Vykers thought, You haven’t lived ‘til you’ve been kissed by a beautiful A’Shea. He felt all the usual energy, elation and lust, but there was also a profound sense of well-being and renewed vigor that astonished him. When at last Aoife tried to pull away, Vykers gripped her hair, softly but firmly, and continued to kiss her.
Arune’s soul sang in its own euphoria, not for Vykers, but for herself, for the sheer, unadulterated w
onder of intimate contact with the A’Shea. She experienced everything Vykers did, but there was somehow something extra, a sense of having finally found herself after a lifetime and more of searching.
Eventually, the Reaper needed to come up for air. Reluctantly, he released his captor/captive and relaxed onto the grass beneath his back. In seconds, he was asleep.
“What happened to me?” he asked Aoife after he’d awoken. He’d managed to negotiate himself into a sitting position, and the A’Shea sat by his side, holding his right hand, gazing at his fingers as if she’d never seen such things before.
“It’s considerably warmer here than at home. Too much exertion in this sun and not enough water can be fatal. In addition, your wound continues to drain your energies. You’ve got to slow down, or you’ll kill yourself.”
As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2) Page 40
