I remember my old sergeant, Hobnail, was fond o’ saying ‘I’m gettin’ too old for this shit.’ Vykers told Arune. I never understood him until now.
That’s your wound talking.
You’re telling me? I killed that bastard sorcerer too quickly. I shoulda taken years, decades to finish him.
You did what you had to do and probably saved fifty thousand men or more in doing it.
Right, Vykers thought irritably. ‘S been a while since any o’ you have given me any news about those magic fires, the obelisk or the Queen.
Okay. Here’s what I know: the obelisk radiates magic…
Surprise, surprise!
And the Queen is…stuck to it.
Stuck to it? You mean, chained or some such?
No: stuck to it, not bound by physical means.
Missing a hand probably makes it hard to escape, I’d wager.
I’m not sure she could extricate herself even then.
So, how’d she get stuck?
You’ll have to ask her.
She’s still alive.
She’s alive, alright, and angry as a hornet’s nest.
Vykers started laughing and didn’t stop until the pain in his gut silenced him. Now she knows how I feel, he said to Arune.
Vykers, Arune whispered, I don’t think we’re going to get to her before nightfall. I know that isn’t something you wanted to hear, but…
“Historian!” the Reaper called out. “Tell our hosts we’re staying the night, and we’d like a couple of tents.”
You took that easier than I expected.
I’m bone weary, Burner. Bone weary.
It wasn’t what the Shaper wanted to hear, but she’d been expecting it for some time nonetheless. No one could maintain Vykers’ pace for long, and many could never match it to begin with.
He was awakened by the sound of weeping, furtive weeping, and anything furtive was cause for concern. Vykers sat up in the dark, silent as a shadow and allowed himself a moment to remember where he was. The previous day, he’d beaten a series of champions, and the last had offered to host him and his party for the night. Huh. The legend of Tarmun Vykers grew, even when he was fixated on other things.
The weeping stopped.
“Frog?” Vykers whispered. “Let’s get some air.” Without waiting for a response, the Reaper stood, pushed aside the tent flap and stepped outside. He had an abiding fascination for stars and could sometimes spend hours looking at them; he looked up now and inhaled deeply, as if he could take all of the heavens into his lungs. He felt a presence at his side. “What’s bothering you?”
“Bellyache.”
“Huh. I thought you guys could eat anything.”
The Frog hunkered down, seemed to sink further into himself. “Me, too. But that thing I ate today…didn’t taste good. Didn’t feel right. Not like…Three did. And that other chimera.”
“I don’t think the fella you ate was made in the same way.”
Neither spoke for a while, and then Vykers said, “Anything else on your mind?”
“I’m a monster,” the Frog said.
And a boy, Vykers thought.
“I’m a monster, and I don’t think I’ll ever be normal again.”
What could he say to the lad to console him? Would the Frog care that many considered Vykers a monster? No, because, for all his violence, he still looked like a man. Should he lie to the boy and suggest that a cure might be found? No. A painful truth was better than an obvious lie. The Frog might even take such an attempt as an insult. “I ain’t had a lot o’ friends in my life,” Vykers confessed. “And old Number Three was one o’ the best. I still can’t figure out how they managed to kill him on that beach. I’ve never known a better fighter.”
“You’re a better fighter,” the Frog said.
“Lotta good that did Three on that beach, huh?”
“Well, but you got that famous wound, slows you down a bit.”
Vykers gently slapped himself on the belt. “I do,” he agreed. And then an idea came to him. “I do, Frog, but I guess I don’t regret gettin’ it.”
The Frog turned his homely, misshapen head towards Vykers, uncertain if he’d really heard what he thought he’d heard. “But…why?”
“’Cause I wouldn’t be standing here with you, for one thing.” He clapped a hand on the Frog’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t have come to this land, seen the things I’ve seen, including this mass o’ strange stars. You ever seen the like, Frog?”
The Frog allowed as he hadn’t.
“And I s’pose there’d be a lot fewer men in the Queen’s realm right now if I hadn’ta faced the End. I tell ya, it was a pleasure puttin’ that bastard in the dirt.” Vykers gazed at the Frog, made sure the boy noticed. “So, I guess what I’m sayin’ is, you can’t take back the bad things without losing the good that came after. Over the years, I’ve lost some people and things that meant a great deal to me…and I’ve found new ones that come to mean just as much to me.” In his peripheral vision, he saw the Frog nodding. Vykers changed the subject. “Big day, tomorrow, lad. We crack a few heads, save the Queen and go the hells back home. Let’s get some sleep.”
As before, Vykers didn’t wait for an answer, but reentered the tent and returned to his bedroll. He’d either done some good, or he hadn’t. Story of his fuckin’ life.
From horseback, the Reaper had a clear view of the obelisk and Her Majesty’s predicament. What he couldn’t yet figure was how she’d managed to survive. Had to be the obelisk, and if it was, maybe the thing might be of some use to Vykers.
He arrived at the next official gateway between armies, with a small army of his own now at his back, an army composed of his original companions, the slaves he’d won or been awarded in combat, and curious onlookers of higher rank from the armies he’d passed through. There was an energy in Vykers’ mob, a feeling of being witness or party to destiny, an excitement that impacted all five senses and hinted at the existence of others. Something unimaginable was in the offing; everyone knew it, but no one knew how.
With the Historian at his side, Vykers asked the lightly armored man who stood in his way “I’ve had no trouble getting this far. You really wanna waste your life tryin’ to stop my passage?”
The Historian translated, and then the latest champion spoke. “We are born to die, stranger – some sooner, some later, but no one escapes it. I pray you, reveal my fate so I may understand.”
The Reaper dismounted, pulled his sword again – an action he now did without thinking – and studied the man before him. His opponents in the lake bed had run the gamut from heavily armored to practically naked, from pale as snow to dark as obsidian, from short and stocky to tall and lithe. This man wore a mail shirt of bone and metal, with gauntlets and greaves of the same materials. His long black hair was braided down his back and oiled with a substance whose fragrance Vykers recognized but could not name. His bronzed arms and legs were wirey, with knotted ropes of muscle and numerous scars. In his hands, he held a steel pole, with a blade on one end and an apple-sized knob on the other.
“And if your fate is to die in these next few moments?”
“Then I will have done so at the hands of a worthy champion.”
Vykers attacked. His target slipped backwards, ducking out of the path of the Reaper’s first swing and bringing the knob end of his pole swooping around towards Vykers’ head. But Vykers’ opening move had been a feint; he abruptly chopped sideways with his blade, in order to intercept and perhaps break the other man’s weapon. And missed. The champion’s counterattack had been a feint, too. And so it went, as the combatants measured one another: back and forth, feint, attack, retreat, engage, and disengage. Just when Vykers was certain he had the upper hand, his opponent stepped back and, with a sharp click, pulled his pole apart into three sections, joined through their centers by a flexible chain. When he advanced again, he was able to whip either end at the Reaper like the tail of a scorpion. Vykers was not amused and decided
to end the encounter. He was conscious of a sea of eyes on his every move and well understood the importance, the necessity of a decisive victory. His sword quivered in anticipation of what was to come. His foe charged again, pin wheeling his weapon with dizzying speed to the oohs and ahs of the onlookers. Faster still was Vykers, who lashed out in an instant and sheered through the other man’s weapon, his armor, and his life. The only sound on the lake bed was that of the pole-fighter’s corpse tumbling in two separate directions onto the dirt. Nothing happened for several breaths, and then Vykers heard whispering on all sides. And his gut ached – gods, how it ached! He looked around, found his horse, and crossed over to it. He pretended to be retrieving his water skin, but in truth he needed something to lean against or he’d fall down and possibly lose the benefits of his recent victory.
Two more, warrior, two more, Arune told him.
Vykers misunderstood. Where?
I mean, two more armies, and we’ve broken through.
And none too soon. This fucking heat, on top o’ the hole in my belly, is really taking it out of me.
You hide it well.
Vykers took in the waves of spectators. ‘S not like I gotta choice. These fuckers’ll come crashing in on us if they get the slightest whiff o’ weakness. The Reaper found a rag in his saddlebags and wiped the blood from his blade. “Anybody else fancy dyin’ today?” he yelled out loud. He leaned harder into his horse while the Historian translated.
Nobody stepped forward.
*****
Long, His Farm
He’d ridden so hard and fast that he fell off his horse when he finally reached the orchard. There were apples on the trees – not ready for harvesting, yet, but the last time he’d been home, he’d seen only blossoms. He shouldn’t have had the strength to crawl, much less walk, towards his front door, but fear and desperation drove him. He turned the knob without knocking and stumbled into the room with such velocity, he tottered across the floor and collided with the wall, opposite. He then tumbled into a nearby chair to recuperate.
If he’d been expecting someone to come and investigate, he was sorely disappointed.
“Em?” Long called out, knowing he’d get no response, but hoping otherwise. “Em? Esmine?” Still, no response. Long closed his eyes and breathed in the aroma of home; it was stale and faint. Besides himself, the only thing present was absence; it hung in the air like smoke.
When he recovered his strength somewhat, Long pulled himself to his feet and walked through the cottage, paradoxically smaller now without Mardine’s massive form lumbering from room to room. How was that possible, Long wondered. How could any place be made smaller by removing its occupants? He suspected he knew the answer but balked at revealing it to himself for fear of falling apart.
Looking through his wife’s possessions, it was clear she’d taken her travelling gear and little else. She’d rushed out the door and…?
“Long Peter?” a small voice called from the doorway.
Long poked his head back into the front room. There, in the doorway, stood his neighbor’s wife, Leetsa, her frail old arms wrapped around Esmina’s cat. When Long laid eyes on the woman, he choked up with emotion. He rushed to welcome her into his home and then offered her a chair. “Leetsa, I’m so happy to see you!” he said, on the verge of tears. “Can you…can you tell me anything about my ladywife and daughter?”
Leetsa bowed her head in affirmation, but shyly, too, as if she were afraid of sharing what he wanted to know. “Aye, Peter, somewhat.”
He didn’t want to rush the sweet old woman, but Long needed to act, and in order to act, he needed information. “And?”
“She came by the farm some time ago…”
“How long ago?”
“Days and days, it must be.”
“A fortnight?”
“Aye,” Leetsa nodded sadly. “And then some.”
“What did she say?”
The old woman could scarce meet Long’s gaze. “That your babe had been kidnapped by your thrall and her…man, I guess you’d call ‘im.”
Long was too agitated to stand still, now, and began pacing in circles around the little room. “Did she know the man’s name?”
Leetsa shook her head, no.
“But the thrall…she must’ve have had a name, yes?”
“Nelby,” Leetsa replied.
“Nelby,” Long repeated. He needed to remember that name, and worried, too, that he’d never forget it. “And why,” Long asked, “did Mardine come to you instead of the constable?”
“Ooh, she did, by and by. But she needed someone to look after your apples. That was most important, she said.”
Of course she did. That was so like his wife: even in times of chaos and confusion, she kept her head about her.
“Cargon’s been over every day. Sometimes, he hires a boy or two to help out. Only…”
“Only?”
“Mardine promised the lot to my husband, if he’d keep the orchard in shape ‘til you returned.”
How could he be angry? Long would have done the same in Mardine’s position. The important thing was finding their daughter. “And then Mardine went looking for this Nelby, I’m guessing?”
“Ooh, indeed she did! She went into town and gave ‘em all hells is what I hear. Even crippled a thrall.”
“Did she?” Long asked, astonished. “Had he been involved?”
“There’s no tellin’,” said Leetsa. “Most think he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“And then what happened?”
“You’ll have to ask the shopkeeper, Dyx, or the constable. I know she went roarin’ out o’ town, but I don’t know the whys and wherefores of it.”
For reasons he didn’t quite understand, Long gave the old woman a quick kiss on the forehead and said, “A thousand thanks, Leetsa. I reckon I’m off to find Dyx.” And then, impulsively, “And tell old Cargon, if I’m not back by harvest time, the orchard’s his for good and all.”
Before Leetsa could begin to protest (as she surely would), Long was halfway across the orchard. Behind him, the cat meowed, though whether in reprimand or entreaty, Long couldn’t begin to guess.
*****
Yendor, House Amberly
Yendor had been transferred to a private room – a turn of events that was perhaps not as fortuitous as it seemed, given the horrifying revelations of the previous day…or whenever it had been. His mind remained too muddled to maintain an accurate sense of time or it might have been he’d suffered too much trauma. The one thing he felt fairly sure of was that being sober was not demonstrably better than being drunk. He may have done foolish, even horrible things whilst intoxicated, but he only seemed to suffer from his actions once he’d sobered up, therefore, it stood to reason…
The door to his room swung open on hinges that needed oiling. An alarmingly tall man in ring mail came in, followed by a younger fellow of normal height. The tall man walked to within striking distance, but the second man remained just inside the room. It was he who spoke first.
“Good morning.”
Was it morning? “Morning,” Yendor mumbled sullenly.
“How’s the eye?”
“Gone.”
“Still,” the man said, “you’ve got the one, haven’t you?”
This small talk was equal parts maddening and frightening. “I’m ‘fraid you got me at a disadvantage.”
The other man grinned. “By the short and curlies, I believe the saying goes.”
Yendor didn’t like the sound of that.
“My name is Lennard. I’m Lord of House Amberly,” the man said. “And you are Yendor Plotz, decorated war hero and infamous drunk.” Yendor must have gone pale or something, because Lord Lennard hastened to add, “You babble in your sleep. Did you know that? Normally, I’d wager that’s an unhealthy habit, but as it saved us the trouble of having to torture the information out of you, it appears to have served you this time.”
Yendor rolled slowly on
to his side, so he could get a better view of his latest tormentor. Lennard was remarkably young to be Lord of a House. Sooth to say, it was doubtful the young man could grow a beard given a year’s time. Yendor was about to comment on this when the door opened again, and a sheepish look came to His Lordship’s eyes.
“Middiks!” an imperious female voice called out, “Leave us.”
The bruiser immediately turned and walked from Yendor’s bedside and exited the room. There followed a moment of near silence, quiet, save for the clicking of heels on the floor, and then His Lordship was joined by a sturdy woman of middle years and opulent taste in clothing.
As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2) Page 43
