“Seems I’m the only one who can,” Vykers joked.
“I wish you’d wear more armor.”
“’Fraid I’ll get hurt, are ya?”
Aoife didn’t laugh. “We could leave, you and I.”
He looked at her, was again amazed at her magnificence. “Would that were so,” he said. “But I committed to this, and I gotta see it through. That’s just how it is.”
“There will be other Queens,” Aoife retorted in frustration. “Other kings. But you…”
“Yes?” Vykers grinned.
She punched him in the shoulder. “Oh, it’s hopeless. I’m an A’Shea; you’re the Reaper. I’ve never heard of a more ridiculous and inappropriate pairing in my life!”
Vykers sat up even straighter. “You said we could leave…? I’m guessing you didn’t mean by horseback.”
“No,” Aoife confided, confused.
“So, you got some means of moving us, like a Shaper?”
“Not exactly like a Shaper, no. But I can get us home in a heartbeat. Because of this,” she indicated the grove around them.
“Huh. I’m not even gonna pretend to understand. What I wanna know, though, is can you get us all home?”
“All?”
“The rest of the party – the Frog, the Historian, the Queen, even that idiot Fool.”
Aoife sighed. She could see where this was going and didn’t like it. Still, she wouldn’t lie to the Reaper. “Yes. I would have to take several trips, but I could do it.”
Vykers stood, radiating a sense of urgency. “I need to get back to that lake bed. Did you patch me up well enough?”
“Would it stop you if I said no?”
“You know it wouldn’t!” Vykers laughed. Arune! Whatever you did, do it again. I got to finish this.
The Shaper was not happy. Sometimes, you’re too stubborn to get out of your own damn way!
“I’ll be back,” Vykers told Aoife. “And you know why?”
“Why?” Aoife asked, afraid to hope for a favorable answer and uncertain if such a thing was even possible.
“’Cause you’re worth livin’ for, Aoife.”
Before she could even break into a smile, Vykers disappeared, a faint pop the only sign of his passing.
*****
Long, House D’Escurzy
“So, when does the torture start? When do you begin to exact your revenge?” Janks demanded.
Long ignored the question. “Do you know the, uh, recipe for that elixir of yours, that truth-telling stuff?”
Janks took a second to consider the question and then responded, “If you mean to try it on me, I can save you the time and expense and simply answer your questions, your lordship.”
“You don’t drop the sarcasm, old friend, I may bring out the hot poker after all…”
“As you say.”
“But I’m willing to try it your way, as long as your answers satisfy.”
Janks walked to the cell door, smiled at Long through the bars. “I’ll do my best.”
“Good. Then you know what I want to know.”
“You say we’re old friends,” Janks agreed. “I got some old scars only you can explain.”
“Go on.”
“But I’ve got no memory o’ you.”
Long pondered this a while, then, “What do you remember? Can you tell me, say, what you were doin’ four years ago?”
Janks dropped his eyes to the floor, seemed to search its stones for an answer. “I’ve been wracking my brains about that for some time,” he confessed. “I can’t recall anything beyond the last two years.”
“Which means you can’t disprove my claim, then, eh?” Long prodded.
“But you said you’d killed me. Do I look dead to you?” Janks countered.
It was a conundrum, all right.
At that moment, a guard approached, accompanied by someone whose patina of sweat and dust suggested he’d just come from the road.
“Your lordship?” said the guard. “Messenger here wants a word, and it please you.”
Long gestured with his chin, indicating the two arrivals should follow him down the corridor, as it didn’t seem wise to receive this mysterious message in Janks’ hearing.
“Well?” he asked.
The messenger looked unhappy with the news he was about to deliver, and Long felt a pang of prescience. “I went to the town you mentioned and sought out the apple orchard, as instructed. There was no one at home.”
Long was about to dismiss the significance of that news when something in the messenger’s manner stopped him. The man continued, “I questioned the neighbors, and no one has seen your wife and child in weeks. They say…”
But Long was off and running, racing for the room in which he conducted business with all speed. After what seemed the longest run of his life, he arrived and yelled to the nearest guard, “Bring me Tane, Dendul and Jasper. Now, fast as you can!” The man departed without so much as a “Yes, milord!”
While he waited, Long panicked. It seemed the thing to do, given the circumstances and dearth of information. Funny that threats of torture and death had less impact than the possibility that something had befallen his wife and daughter.
The three D’Escurzys arrived almost simultaneously, and Long was gratified to see they were short of breath. He’d called, and they had come as quickly as possible.
“Your Lordship?” Jasper asked, his chest still heaving as it fought for more air.
“I need to leave for an unknown period of time. One of you will have to rule the House in my stead.”
Dendul, Jasper and Tane eyed one another skeptically. None of them volunteered for the job.
“Come on, now, men. It is your House, after all, and I’ve no time to waste.”
“But your Lordship,” Dendul protested, “It hasn’t been so peaceful ‘round here since Lord Titus was young – there’s no bickering, no jealousy, no discord of any kind.”
“That’s because half of you are dead, and the other half are still stunned from that event,” Long responded.
“That’s as may be,” Tane replied, “But it’s still a lot more pleasant around the House without a D’Escurzy in charge.”
“Look, men,” Long cut in, “I need one of you to take over for a bit. I am leaving within the hour!”
Something unspoken passed between the D’Escurzys and Dendul spoke up again. “We respectfully decline.”
Long was just shy of apoplexy. “You decline?” he shouted. “How in the infinite hells can you decline? It’s your Mahnus-be-damned House!” If he’d expected his outburst to change the men’s minds, he was sorely disappointed. They stood their ground and said nothing. Long groaned in exasperation. “Very well!” he said. “You have forced my hand. Don’t blame me for what follows.” He spun to the guard who’d fetched the three men and said, “Bring me the mad poet.”
“The mad poet?” Dendul repeated.
“The mad poet,” Long echoed. “Until such time as I return, Peppers is acting Lord of House D’Escurzy.”
“Well,” said Tane, “It won’t be the first time we been ruled by a lunatic.”
*****
Vykers, the Lake Bed
Hoosh about shat himself when Vykers reappeared directly behind him in the tent, a fact that would have made the unplanned excursion entirely worthwhile even had there been no other benefits. But, of course, there had been. The Reaper felt rejuvenated and ready to continue his trek towards the obelisk. And he was strangely hopeful now, too, eager to be done with this business so he could return to Aoife’s side.
It was the Frog who voiced the obvious question, “Where’d you go?”
Vykers stretched, smiled. “I had a few words with our A’Shea…”
The Historian raised an eyebrow at this.
“And she tells me she’s got a way to get us all home as soon as we’re done with this little errand.”
“That doesn’t seem likely,” the Historian said.
“Lot o�
� things don’t seem likely, but I’d expect an eight hundred year old man’d know better.”
“Point taken.”
“Maybe we should talk about what we’re going to do when we leave this tent…” Hoosh ventured. Vykers winked at him and strode through the flaps into the afternoon sun.
“Where’s this feast we were promised?” he called jovially.
“You’re in rare spirits,” the Historian observed, hard on his heels.
“And why not? There’s a good chance we’ll reach Her Majesty and whatever’s going on with that obelisk before nightfall. I want to finish this and go home.”
At the sound of his voice, the Ntambi warriors emerged from their own tents and, in short order, arranged a great meal in the larger tent of their former leader. Vykers ate and drank his fill, feeling better than he had in days and amused himself watching his awkward companions try to negotiate the subtleties of the occasion. It wasn’t quite the sort of fare that the Ahklatian or the Frog favored, and though the Fool would eat anything, he seemed terribly out of place amongst the ebony-skinned warriors.
Hoosh, not unaware of Vykers’ amusement, attempted to turn the tables. “What are ye planning t’do with all o’ your captives?”
The Reaper brushed the question off. “One of ‘em’s half dead and the other two ain’t worth much.”
“But what of the three new ones?”
That was news. “Three new ones?”
“Yes. Apparently it’s the custom here that the youngest or weakest member of each army is sent along with the victor in each conflict, in order to learn…well, Mahnus knows what you have to teach, but they’re supposed to learn from you!”
Vykers extended his claws and gripped the Fool’s wrist. “Keep goading me, chuckles. See where it gets you.” He then turned to the Historian and asked, “Is this true?”
“Only too. Every army we’ve passed through has sent someone along, except for the red knights. You’d already taken a man, and they’re content you should have him.”
“Even these fellows, here?”
“Yes. The boy they’ve given us is out by the horses, with the other captives.”
Vykers set down the slab of goat he’d been gnawing at and sighed. “I can’t be draggin’ prisoners across the hells and back. And I can’t ask Aoife to bring them home with us.”
None of the Reaper’s companions missed his use of the A’Shea’s name instead of her title. They’d have shared knowing looks if they thought they could get away with it.
“Still,” said the Historian, “They are yours now. It is up to you what you do with them. Before you rush out and slaughter them, however, I would urge you to spare them. They possess knowledge of these lands and their peoples that no one back home can equal.”
“Fine. We’ll keep ‘em,” Vykers muttered dismissively. “But I’ll leave it to you,” he said and then indicated the Fool, “And the motley menace, there, to tend to ‘em.”
“Motley menace?” Hoosh giggled. “Tis a wonderful thing when an ass breaks wind of a jest!”
Word play. How Vykers hated it. “Let’s just finish this meal, thank our hosts and move on. Lotta fighting still to do before moonrise.”
Back outside the dead leader’s pavilion, the Reaper surveyed his new trophies – along with the original two he’d captured on the beach – and shook his head. What a strange assortment they were!
Climbing into the saddle of his new horse, Shalea, he got a better view of what lay ahead. “We’re getting closer, but we’ve a ways to go, yet.” Then, to Arune, Anything else you can tell me?
You’ve got eight more armies to get through.
Normally, Vykers would have greeted such news with excitement. Now, he was itching to be done with the task and get back to Aoife and home. Secretly, Arune shared his impatience.
I assume these fights are gonna get harder.
Oh, you can count on that.
What is it, Shapers, A’Shea and all that?
And a few…beings…I don’t even recognize. Who knows? One of them may even be the Tarmun Vykers of this land!
Good. Then I’ll enjoy killing him. “Let’s go!” Vykers yelled to his comrades and spurred his horse forward to the next line of fortifications.
*****
At the next gate, Vykers encountered the first of those ‘beings’ Arune had mentioned. It was roughly man-shaped and man-sized, but looked like it had been cobbled together out of disparate parts, like the chimeras had been, only in a much clumsier, cruder manner. And some of the parts looked human -- here an arm, there an eye, etc. Vykers was about to ask for the Frog’s thoughts when his friend burst from the little group and sprang upon the opposing creature, which began squealing like a stuck pig. Soon, the two creatures were rolling across ground together, kicking up dust devils and making it difficult for bystanders to determine which was winning. In addition, both were so alien in shape and nature, it was hard to tell a scream of rage from a cry of pain. There was no mistaking the significance of blood, though, which soon dampened the lake bed floor and reduced the amount of dust in the air. With a loud cry, the Frog catapulted, spiraling, through the air and landed on his side several yards from his foe. Without missing a beat, he leapt up and bounded back into the fray, snarling like an entire pack of wolves. There was a great thud as the two monsters met again, straining and grappling for purchase and dominance. Just when Vykers was beginning to think he ought to get involved, there was a horrendous ripping noise and the Frog hoisted his enemy’s head high into the air, sans body. The latest army, members of which had gathered on the gate’s far side to witness the battle, faded backwards into their encampment, shaken by what they’d seen. The Frog ignored them, opting instead to sniff the corpse of his victim. Shortly thereafter, he began to eat in earnest and everyone on Vykers’ side backed away as well. It was not a spectacle most men could endure without losing the contents of their stomachs.
After a good half hour had passed, a heavily armored man appeared on the gate’s other side and demanded…something. The Historian was too far away for the stranger’s language to make much sense, but Vykers suspected it was the same old “Who dares attack the camp of the mighty so-and-so” drivel he’d heard his whole life. Who dares? The Reaper.
Again, Vykers slid off his horse, drew his sword and walked towards the bellowing stranger. As he got closer, Vykers could see the man held a military flail in his left hand. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen – much less faced – one of those in combat. They were powerful weapons, capable of enormous damage. But they were also unwieldy and lacked the speed and mobility of a good sword. And Vykers’ was an excellent sword, an unparalleled sword.
Vykers waited for the Historian and his arcane aura to catch up before bellowing back at the man. “My men and I are going to pass through your camp. You can either step aside and allow it, or die trying to prevent it. The choice is yours.”
As expected, the other man chose the latter, which was often the case when belligerent shouting was met in kind. The Reaper stalked to within a sword’s length of his latest adversary and sneered at him; if the man meant to attack, let him do so. He appeared a canny veteran, however, and would not be so easily goaded into action. Instead, the fellow sneered back at Vykers, making a careful study of the Reaper’s stance, his build, and his weapon. The man could study ‘til doomsday for all Vykers cared. He raised his sword, hoping to compel a response. The other man – ‘Flail,’ as Vykers came to think of him – came on with the animus of a hurricane and proved a far bigger challenge than the Reaper had anticipated.
Flail aimed most of his blows at Vykers’ legs, attempting to lame or perhaps topple him altogether. It was almost as if Vykers didn’t exist above the waist, and he was not accustomed to expending most of his energy protecting his knees and ankles. It was an intriguing strategy, but the Reaper had no interest in letting it play out. He began leaping over Flail’s efforts and counter-attacking with blows aimed at the man’s hea
d, hoping to force him to raise his weapon into a more manageable posture. The first time he did, Vykers returned the favor and struck at his legs. Flail was not amused. He tottered backwards a few steps and reset his stance. Vykers could tell he was frustrated, but savvy enough to remain calm. A younger, less experienced opponent would have attempted to bring this dance to a hasty conclusion by sheer force of will, and, in doing so, ensured his own demise. This man was no fool. Still, Vykers began to grow bored of the encounter; he’d seen what Flail had to offer and wanted to move on to the next engagement. He put all of his energy into a feigned lunge at the fellow’s head, and when Flail raised his weapon to ward off the expected attack, Vykers sheared him in half at the waist, right through armor and bone as if they were no different from flesh. The Reaper’s sword exulted.
As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2) Page 41
