“Don’t really care, to be honest.”
“Because this room belongs to my Aunt Dorshia. She’s meddlesome, presumptuous and, as you can see, has rather poor taste in décor.” His Lordship slid a dagger out of his sleeve. “I can’t think of a better place to spill blood, frankly.”
In unison, the bodyguards took a step closer to their master.
“What were you just saying about treachery? I reckoned right about you,” Kittins said.
Darley smirked. “Did you now?”
“But you’ve vastly underestimated me, even after everything you seen.”
His Lordship stopped smirking. “I’ll allow you did well at Radcliffe, but there you were armed and armored. Here, you’re facing six of my best men and me, barehanded. Who do you think you are, the Reaper?”
Kittins was on him so fast, His Lordship barely had time to raise his dagger before the captain grabbed him by the throat and dragged his body between himself and the guards, effectively blunting their attack. Once he got over the shock, Darley did plunge his dagger into Kittins’ side…to no avail. The big man never so much as flinched in response, and no blood came from the wound. His Lordship found it increasingly hard to breath, so he focused his jabs at Kittins’ head. The captain released his right hand temporarily and punched Darley in the face as hard as he could, stunning His Lordship and stalling his attack. One of the guards tried to sneak past on Darley’s left, so Kittins placed his hand back on Darley’s throat and wrenched his body towards the oncoming guard, who, not wanting to injure his master, wisely backed off. Now, His Lordship began to turn an awful shade of purple, and his deep set eyes, to bulge from their sockets. Kittins squeezed harder. The guards were yelling something at him – threats or the like – but it was all white noise. The only thing Kittins was fully aware of was his unspeakable rancor for the man he held between his fists. Darley regained his wits and again tried to stab at Kittins’ face, missing instead and scoring a deep gouge on his assailant’s arm. Along with his dagger strikes, Darley kicked at the bigger man’s legs over and over, hoping, somehow, to force the man off him. Kittins had had enough. He put every last bit of strength he possessed into crushing His Lordship’s windpipe and was gratified to feel a gruesome but welcome collapsing sensation under his fingers. He stared into Darley’s eyes and saw that the man knew he was dying, knew Kittins had killed him. There was such rage in His Lordship’s expression, such impotent rage, that Kittins was almost overcome with laughter. It was a surprisingly slow death, and Kittins took it all in, despite the efforts of Darley’s men to punish him. He felt blows to his back, shoulders and even head, but none managed to pry his attention from His Lordship’s final moments.
Only when Darley had finally expired did Kittins wonder why the other men in the room had abandoned their attack. When he looked up, they were gone – not for reinforcements, he suspected, but because they’d hated the old bastard as much as he. Well, he’d done the Gaults a favor, then. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
He examined the wounds he’d sustained in the fight and saw for the first time that they weren’t bleeding; moreover, there were far more than he remembered receiving. Darley’s men had hacked away while his back was turned, and still there was no blood. The hair on Kittins arms and the nape of his neck stood on end, and a terrible dread came over him. He lifted the witch’s charm off his chest, intending to tear it from its leather thong and cast it away, but found he could not. He was not afraid to die; rather, he was afraid what he’d learn if he tried to let death take him. Nonsense! He told himself. Superstition! And yet he could not remove the charm.
He stood, considered his options. If the witch’s charm was protecting him in some way, Darley’s bodyguard had probably gone to fetch the House Shaper. Kittins didn’t want to be around for that. He pondered inflicting more damage on the House but decided against it. If he was going to leave under his own power, he needed to do so now. His time spent in service to the estate served him well, though, and he was able to recall a servants’ entrance not too far off that would likely have lighter security than the front gate. There were other ways out of House Gault, but most involved travelling through areas where Kittins was sure to attract too much attention. Best to head for the servants’ entrance and hope for the best. No, fuck the best: Kittins was leaving and anyone who stood in his way was worm’s meat.
As it turned out, there were a few guards stationed at the door after all, including Wrensl Deda. The instant he set eyes on Kittins, he dropped his sword and bolted outside, obligingly-if-inadvertently clearing a path for the captain. Kittins walked right past the other guards and out of the House. Wrensl was nowhere to be seen.
For a minute or so, Kittins was at a loss as to where he should go next, what he should do. Then he realized he needed to know more about the charm he wore. If he had no future, he’d as soon learn that now as later.
*****
Vykers, the Lake Bed
“Figured I’d see these bastards again,” Vykers said.
The final army standing between him and his goal was one of those belonging to his Exalted Magnificence, Emperor Mendis Staurachia, the Eleventh. Resplendent in their midnight blue armor with stars, they looked better rested, better fed and much better trained than any of the other armies Vykers had passed through on his way to the obelisk. This army’s spokesman was not a soldier but a Shaper.
“I see you have two of our own in your retinue. They are captives, no?”
“Trophies,” said Vykers.
The Historian translated, as always, and the foreign Shaper frowned disapprovingly in response.
“And who are you, that you dare take prisoners from the armies of his Exalted Magnificence?”
“I’m the fuckin’ Reaper. Now, stop asking idiot questions and send me your champion. I mean to reach that obelisk within the hour.”
The Shaper’s face assumed an extremely snide expression. “The who? The Reaper? I don’t believe we’ve ever heard of any reaper.”
“Well, pay attention, asshole. You’re gonna wanna tell my story to your grandchildren…if anyone’s stupid enough to share a bed with you.”
It’s a fair bet the Shaper had never been spoken to like that in his life; nevertheless, he continued to act as if he held the upper hand in dealing with Vykers. “I’ve no doubt,” he warbled, “you made quite an impression on the rabble back there.” He pointed to the outlying armies. “But we in the blue serve his Exalted Magnificence, for whom nothing but perfection will serve. Let us see, warrior, how you fare against the juggernaut.”
The what? Vykers looked over at the Historian, whose face was a mask of concern. Great.
“You’d better hope I lose,” Vykers said to the enemy Shaper, “’Cause if I don’t, I’m takin’ you for my slave.” He was gratified to see the wizard’s smirk disappear.
What am I dealin’ with, here? The Reaper asked Arune.
It’s…it’s…
A loud thudding sound came from within the enemy’s ranks.
Hard to describe, Arune answered.
Vykers was about to say “try,” but figured he’d see soon enough. When he finally did, he wasn’t immediately impressed. It’s a giant in a suit of armor, he told Arune.
No, she corrected. It’s a living, solid mass of steel that’s been shaped to look like a suit of armor.
Oh. His face must have betrayed him, because the enemy Shaper was smirking again.
The juggernaut stomped in Vykers’ direction. It carried a huge mace in its right hand, but its left was empty – a mistake, to Vykers’ way of thinking, but he wasn’t about to point that out.
If there’s nothin’ but more steel inside that shell, then how’m I s’posed to kill it?
I’m not sure you can, Arune confessed.
Thanks. And I imagine it won’t get tired, either, huh?
Probably not.
What’s makin’ it move, though?
Shapers. Not this one here, though I suspect
he’s got some influence on it.
Fuckin’ Shapers, Vykers spat, completely aware of the irony.
Well, Arune replied, ignoring the insult, we already knew the Emperor’s Shapers were powerful, based on their ability to jump entire groups of knights.
Fuck the Emperor, too. Vykers pulled his sword and stalked towards the juggernaut. Normally, his weapon would have been howling for blood; now, it was curiously agitated in a way Vykers had never experienced before.
“All right, you big metal bastard, let’s see what you’ve got!”
*****
Enter the King
Eoman Harkin Hainin was a king, though most of his subjects didn’t know it until he told them so. And this was because, at the time of the Awakening, his kinfolk fled from humankind as if men had been infected with a plague, which, for all Eoman knew, they had. Thus, giants disappeared into the wild places, the mountains, the forests, the swamps and the canyons, wherever humans were not. The king’s job, then, was to travel the world and to find his people, to remind them of who they were and who’d they’d been, in hopes of one day reuniting them. At least, that Eoman’s perception.
When he came upon the arm, he knew at once it was the arm of a giantess, and anger bloomed within his chest. As he moved across the clearing, he found other parts, all savagely hacked from their owner, and his anger grew. This was not the work of Svarren, but of men, men with blades and fire. At last, he found the head belonging to the murdered giantess. Despite his fury, he wept. Her hair had been red, and he had known her once, when she’d been but a child: Mardine.
Eoman tore a small tree out of the ground at the clearing’s edge and beat the ground with it, over and over, until he exhausted himself. His rage reduced to a more-manageable degree, he returned to Mardine’s head and gently lifted it into his arms. He then gathered the rest of her body into a pile and set about digging a great hole at the base of a suitable tree. Once this was done, he put the giantess’ remains in the ground and refilled the hole. Next, he drew his axe and topped the tree at eye level, which for Eoman was about fourteen feet. He stripped the bark from the stump, and into the fresh wood underneath he carved the runes of grieving, adding also a few lines about Mardine’s beauty, and Eoman’s oath of vengeance. Finally, he carefully scorched the trunk, from the top of the roots to the cut. This was the practice of his people, and their king observed it when and wherever necessary, though it never alleviated his sorrow, never brought him peace.
He did not know why these unknown men had killed Mardine, nor did he care. They had committed an atrocity against his people and must now be put down like mad dogs. He scoured the clearing and surrounding woods and found the shallow graves of several humans. One, he unearthed in order to learn what he could of the men he was looking for, the rest he desecrated with urine.
There was a large fire pit near one edge of the clearing, and Eoman examined it for a good long while, trying to determine how many had gathered there and how long ago that had been. He also saw ruts made by wagon wheels; these ran from the south to the northwest. He deemed it likely his quarry were fleeing civilization in the south – perhaps they’d been outlaws or some such – so northwest was the direction in which they’d gone.
He would follow them and make them suffer.
*****
Vykers, the Lake Bed
The thing was, as Vykers suspected, immune to damage, fatigue and even intimidation. It pursued him around the enemy’s camp like a dog chasing a rat, whilst the Reaper struggled to figure out how he could destroy it.
He tried to out-quick the juggernaut, but it was just as fast. He tried to beguile it with agility it could never match, but it was every bit as agile. He knew he couldn’t overpower it, and the juggernaut proved it almost from the start. Even his magic sword scarcely left a scratch on the thing’s surface. The Reaper wasn’t prone to despair, but he was rapidly coming to the conclusion he could not win.
He danced across the lake bed, kicking up dust, parrying the juggernaut’s every mighty blow. Can’t you and the Historian attack their Shapers and rob this thing of its magic? He asked Arune.
It doesn’t work like that, Vykers. They brought it to life – some time ago, I believe – and…it’s just alive.
That’s helpful, Vykers snorted, as he fended off another thunderous blow.
Are you worried?
Hell yes, I’m worried!
The Emperor’s troops were a civilized lot; still, they whistled their approval whenever the juggernaut managed a solid hit on Vykers’ sword or struck the man off balance. The Reaper’s ever-growing entourage was silent, troubled and wondering how their man could possibly prevail. Vykers was wondering the same, himself. For a time, he thought perhaps the answer lay in the juggernaut’s joints. Surely, they were thinner, weaker than the usual torso or mid-limb targets. But they were not.
And the worst part was, Vykers’ wound was giving him grief and he was tiring fast.
*****
Kittins, with Croonbasket
“What have you done to me, witch?” Kittins demanded without preamble.
Croonbasket didn’t seem remotely surprised by the captain’s sudden appearance or his angry demeanor. “I knew what you was thinkin’, poor Tom. You had killin’ on yer mind, and I knew, too, that ye wouldn’t survive ‘out a little help from old Croonbasket.”
“At what cost?”
Now, she lowered her eyes, turned partially away, embarrassed or ashamed.
“What are you hiding, you Mahnus-cursed hag? What’s the price for my survival?”
“You can’t never remove that charm, Tom,” the witch admitted.
“I bloody well can!” Kittins countered.
“Not if ye don’t wanna die on the spot.”
Kittins was silent.
Croonbasket went on. “Every wound you’ve ta’en since ye put that on will start to bleed and throb somethin’ awful. And then you’ll die in truth.”
“But if I don’t take this off…” Kittins responded, following the logic.
“Yer enemies can stab you all they like; it’ll all be for naught.”
“And these wounds I’ve got now, they’ll heal?”
“They have done!” the witch giggled. “They are! Look, see!”
She was right: the gash in his arm, the horrible rent in his side, the chunks taken out of his back were all rapidly closing. The tension bled out of Kittins’ face and body, and he realized he was hungry. Ravenous, in fact. “What have you got to eat?” He asked the witch. “Some of that infernal stew?”
“Ah!” She laughed. “Poor Tom loves my cookin’, he does! Yes, yes, I’ve got stew. Stew and black bread for ye.”
“I’ve no doubt it’s black,” Kittins retorted. “Black as your heart.”
“And yours,” Croonbasket quipped. “And yours.”
And there was truth in that. Kittins had become an evil bastard, full of spleen over the last several weeks. He’d wanted to become an educated man, but the only things he’d learned had been new ways to hurt people. Now, he saw that his new condition allowed him to continue doing it. And the world was full of people who needed hurting in the worst possible way, beginning with Colonel Bailis.
*****
Vykers, the Lake Bed
He was down on one knee, where he’d fallen when the juggernaut had shoved him away with its free hand. Not so stupid, after all. Vykers took the occasion to breathe; soon, his adversary would be on him again.
“Longest fuckin’ fight o’ my life,” Vykers muttered to himself. He raised his sword to parry the juggernaut’s latest strike without a second to spare. The sword screamed in frustration. “You think you’re frustrated?” He grumbled. Over the grappling weapons, Vykers studied the juggernaut’s face, which was remarkably lifelike. At the moment, it was sneering at him. “A man with an army o’ these could conquer the world ten times over,” Vykers whispered.
Experimentally, he ducked under the juggernaut’s next blow and came up b
ehind it, where he jumped into the air and struck it atop its head with the pommel of his sword. The thing spun around and tried to take out Vykers’ head with its mace.
The Reaper continued his dialogue with himself. “Great. That doesn’t work, either.” He looked down and noticed that his wound was weeping from underneath his belt. For the first time. “Shit.” He dove at the juggernaut’s legs, hoping to trip it and send it crashing to the ground, but its mass was too much to be budged by such an effort. “Fuck am I s’posed to do, here?”
The juggernaut lashed out with its mace, backhanded, and grazed Vykers’ shoulder, sending him sprawling into the dust.
“It shant be long now!” the enemy’s Shaper called out.
For once in his life, Vykers wondered if it might not be true. The juggernaut stormed over to where Vykers lay, but the Reaper rolled out of the way and used the momentum to reach his feet. He was moving slower and slower, with less and less grace, but he was still moving. To his right, the sun glinted off the salt lake, and Vykers thought that if he couldn’t drink the stuff, then at least he could cool his skin. He began a strategic retreat towards the water.
As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2) Page 45
