*****
Long’s team, Gangrene & Sons, Teshton
The interior of Gangrene and Sons was a disaster-in-progress. The hulking barkeep hadn’t had time to retrieve a suitable weapon, so he was forced to make do with the tavern’s tables and chairs, sweeping them off the floor as if they weighed nothing and throwing them in Kittins’ path. The captain, meanwhile, waded through the wreckage like a child running through piles of dead leaves. The chaos, the violence seemed to delight him.
Long’s crew had run to all points of the room’s perimeter, not yet ready to flee, nor willing to raise a hand on either side of the fray.
Rem, for example, was terribly torn. On the one hand, he resented Cindor with the kind of passion only a great actor (or an especially deluded one) can muster. He hated the Shaper for disbanding his acting company and making a glorified slave of him. On the other hand, if Rem stepped in on Kittins’ side and the captain failed to kill Cindor, Rem would surely suffer for it. It was the kind of quandary only a stage manager could solve.
Spirk, naturally, hated to see either of the combatants hurt; he just wished they’d sit down and talk out their differences over a mug of…something. Ron stood helplessly nearby, still hoping that someone would introduce him to the rest of the group and tell him which side he was supposed to be rooting for.
Yendor didn’t particularly care one way or the other, as long as he didn’t lose his remaining eye.
Long seemed to be the only one still thinking. The moment the barkeep moved on Kittins, Long dodged over to Bailis and dragged the poor man into a corner. A few seconds’ examination told him that none of the colonel’s wounds were fatal, though some unquestionably required an A’Shea’s attention. The only thing Long could think to do was to act as a shield for the colonel until the brawl ended and either the barkeep or Kittins had been killed. Of course, there was no guarantee that the survivor would be satisfied with the one death – he might well come after the rest of Long’s crew out of sheer spite.
“Can you crawl?” Long whispered to Bailis.
The man groaned. “If needs must.”
“Needs fucking must,” Long said. “Unless you fancy dying today.” The next closest man was Yendor. Long called out to him over the noise of battle. “Follow me and tell Rem to do likewise.”
“Follow?” Yendor seemed slightly disoriented, but eventually turned and shouted the same directions to Rem.
Long didn’t wait around to see whether Rem understood or had passed the instructions on to Spirk and his companion. Kittins and the barkeep were making such a racket, it was like to make Mahnus himself deaf, so there’d never be a better time to sneak away. “Come!” He barked at Bailis.
The colonel coagulated into a coherent heap and dragged himself in Long’s wake. As Long crawled along, ducking detritus as he went, he marveled at the duration of the fight, was surprised that neither man had thus far managed to end it. Before he knew it, he’d escaped through the door. Once outside, he helped Bailis to his feet and the two men moved off another hundred paces.
“We’ll want a head start if one o’ those crazy bastards decides to come after us,” Long explained.
In short order, Yendor, Rem, Spirk and his nameless companion emerged from the tavern as well and wisely decided to join the captain and colonel at their safer distance.
“Now what?” Rem asked. “We wait and see who wins?”
Long shook his head. “What’s the point? No matter who wins, we’ll always be on the other side, no?”
“So…what should we do?” said Spirk.
“I still need your help, friends. I still gotta find my wife and daughter.”
“Findin’s better ‘n killin’,” Yendor observed.
“But what about Captain Kittins?”
“You saw the man, saw what he’s become. I don’t know what he was like when you first met him, but he’s barely human now. More of a monster, really. And if he wants to go chasing some wild conspiracy all the way up to Her Majesty, well, you really wanna be part o’ that?” Long had addressed the question to Spirk, but he made sure he looked at each of the other men, in turn.
“Seems to me the safety of your child is more important, right now,” Rem said.
Long could see the other men agreed. “I can’t thank you enough, lads.”
“Well,” Yendor drawled, “you could try.”
~THIRTEEN~
Vykers, the Obelisk
Those closest to the blast were catapulted twenty-to-thirty feet away, with the lucky ones landing in the lake. Those farthest away were merely knocked off their feet. Close or far, though, injuries abounded, and two or three unfortunates died.
Vykers survived, oblivious as he was for a while to that fact. When the thunderstorm in his head subsided, he perceived that he was on his back, with his arms and legs splayed in all directions. And yet, he felt surprisingly well. Taking a brief inventory, he was momentarily shocked to see that his massive belt had broken open and the two ends had fallen on either side of his body. When he understood the significance of what he was seeing, he whooped for joy and scrambled to his feet as fast as he could.
He was whole again! The Queen – Alheria – had healed him at last! The evil, sucking wound that had plagued his every breath since he’d received it was gone. In its absence, Vykers became aware of the deep burning of Arune at work. But either he’d gotten used to the sensation after all these years, or she was expending less energy. Whatever the case, the Reaper was truly, finally himself again, and the rest of the world had better take notice. He certainly wanted the assembled armies to take notice, but, at the moment, they were preoccupied, recovering from the blast.
“So, you see, I keep my promises.”
Alheria. She stood atop the tiny hill, as if she’d never moved. But even in spite of that and everything else he’d just experienced, it was hard to see the old crone as a goddess. “I suppose it’s a fair trade,” Vykers admitted. “Have you seen my sword about?”
“Ah,” Alheria sighed. “Your sword. It’s gone. Your sword and the obelisk destroyed each other, which is, ultimately, what set me free.”
Gone? He’d had the sword for more than three years. He’d been through the countless hells to acquire it, had some memorable battles with it – it had even helped keep him alive in the early days of his illness. And now it was gone? Unthinkable. “That’s all you wanted from me then, is it?”
“Don’t pout, Reaper. No one but you could have wielded it. That must count for something. And, anyway, what does the great and newly recovered Tarmun Vykers need with a magic sword? Time was, you had disdain for such things.”
“Time was, it was just me against the world. Now, I get called upon to save it every few years.”
“Well, you’ll have to do so without your sword next time around.”
Vykers squinted at the Queen. “Now what? Back to your throne room?”
“For a while,” Alheria said. “Hoosh!” She yelled. “Where’s my Fool?”
“Here, Highness!” came the too-jovial voice of the Fool.
“Have you got my hand?”
“But o’ course!” the Fool said, extending the object in question with a flourish.
To Vykers’ amazement, the old Queen took the hand and reattached it to her wrist, as if it were merely a bracelet that had fallen off. When she caught the Reaper’s look of astonishment, she said “I am a goddess, after all. What were you expecting?” As he was unable to articulate his thoughts, Alheria changed the subject. “Fool, it is time for you and me to leave!”
“Just the Fool? Why? What about the rest of us?” Vykers demanded.
“I have shared too much with you, Vykers. A fact I’m sure to regret sooner or later. But if, after a good, long trip home, you insist on further answers, you know where to find me.” With that, Alheria extended her left arm to Hoosh, wrapped it around his shoulders and disappeared in a flash of light.
“That bitch!” Vykers roared.
“For once, I agree with you,” the Historian said as he sidled up. “It is a perilously long way back to the boat, even for someone of my experience.”
Then Vykers remembered Aoife, and his mood brightened again. “No sense in hanging around this damned place. Let’s grab the Frog and start home.”
“And what of your prisoners?”
“Can’t we just…leave ‘em here?”
“They would most likely be killed. No, if we try to leave them, they will follow. They are yours now, and their only hope of survival is with you.”
The Reaper dropped his head back, pointed his chin at the sky and exhaled forcefully, clearly aggravated with this turn of events. “Baggage!” said he. “Very well, then, let us bring the baggage and depart.”
The armies gave Vykers a hero’s send-off; even the Emperor’s men cheered lustily as the Reaper rode through their ranks and back the way he had come. He had bested their champions and conversed with a god. His actions and appearance resonated in the memories of the spectators, arousing things only dimly remembered…
*****
Kittins, Gangrene & Sons, Teshton
They’d all slunk off like rats. It figured, really. He’d never thought much of that Long Pete fellow, and this was the clincher. They left him to his fate with that mountain of a barkeep, and Kittins had survived nonetheless. Of course, if he hadn’t been in possession of Croonbasket’s charm, that might not have been the case. The barkeep had broken Kittins’ jaw, a number of his ribs and his left arm. The captain must have stabbed and slashed the big fella thirty times or more before he finally succumbed. He’d have made a good basher, sure. Maybe a great one. Hells, for all Kittins knew, he’d been a great basher in somebody else’s unit and they’d never really sized one another up until today. And now the barkeep was dead.
What to do, though, about Long’s boys?
Kittins limped around the bar, poured himself a huge flagon of something and drank deeply. It hurt like the hells, with his jaw the way it was, but he didn’t give a damn. He scrounged around a bit and found some cheese and sausage that went well with his drink, though he had to chew with only one side of his mouth. The way he felt, he was lucky to get anything past his lips.
But he knew he would heal, and heal much faster than he’d any right to.
Two flagons later, he ransacked the barkeep’s strongbox, took every shim he could find – might as well make man’s death look like the result of a robbery instead of a murder – and lurched out the front door, wheezing faintly.
He reckoned he’d have to deal with Long and his crew when he’d finished with Cindor. They’d heard him speak against the Shaper and knew what he intended; therefore, they were as good as witnesses to the attempt. If he did want Her Majesty after him one day, he’d have to make sure of Long and the others.
The bigger, more immediate question was how he’d handle Cindor. It was one thing to decide to kill him, but another entirely to actually pull it off. Getting close to the wizard would be all but impossible; sticking a sword in his belly might well prove beyond impossible. Well, Kittins had no other mission in life. Whatever he’d once wanted to be or accomplish had gone by the wayside. All that mattered now was revenge. If pressed, he probably couldn’t even articulate why he wanted it; he only knew that he did. Various people had helped, intentionally or otherwise, to shape him into the villain he’d so clearly become. Kittins only wanted to show them what they’d accomplished for their efforts.
*****
Vykers, On the Road Home
Often, the journey home seems shorter than the journey away, but it didn’t feel that way to Vykers. Not this time. With every passing league, he thought more and more on Aoife, wondered whether there was any chance of a future with her, worried she might have gone home without him.
He wanted her to see him whole again, to feel his strength and his passion, to know him free of pain. Most of all, he just wanted her.
Both the Historian and the Frog had tried to initiate conversations with Vykers, but he couldn’t remember a thing they’d said – or anything he might’ve said in return. At some point, he looked back and saw them chatting with one another, riding side-by-side, but at the head of the pack of slaves. At first, Vykers had wanted the slaves bound, but matters stood as the Historian suggested they might: the slaves were now men without a country, no longer welcome in their homelands. But that was the way of things in war; Vykers wasn’t about to apologize for defeating them, nor did he feel any particular obligation towards them. When he got back home, he’d keep them or sell them. He might even free them. It was all one to him.
Days passed. They felt like years. Decades. Vykers endured, as he always did. Behind him, the Historian and the Frog quietly continued to manage the larger group. Occasionally, at the evening’s fire, Vykers thought he spied a hungry, dangerous look in the Frog’s eyes as the former boy studied the slaves. But the Reaper had never known the other chimeras to covet human flesh, and he couldn’t believe the Frog did, either. And it didn’t make sense that the Frog would try anything in Vykers’ presence. Anyway, he told himself, Aoife would straighten the kid out, if anyone could.
Thinking of Aoife naturally caused all other issues to fade into the background. It had been too long since Vykers had been with a woman and even longer since he’d been with one he cared for. Fleetingly, he wondered why Arune hadn’t weighed in on his feeling for the A’Shea, the revelation that the Queen was Alheria, or the still-astonishing fact that she’d healed him of his seemingly eternal wound.
Hey, Burn, He said.
Yes? Arune responded after a lengthy silence.
What’s going on with you? All kinds of amazing shit happening, and you got nothin’ to say? That ain’t like you.
I think we’ll be able to go our separate ways, soon…if you’re still willing.
Willing? You’re damn right I’m still willing, He said a little too quickly.
It’ll take a great deal of gold…
Ha! The Reaper laughed. I got more gold stashed away than you’ve ever seen before!
It is…strange, not having to struggle constantly to keep your wound from worsening.
I’ll bet it’s a relief. I know I’m relieved. I could almost have kissed that old bitch.
Now, it was Arune’s turn to chuckle. Old, yes. Much, much older than we imagined, eh?
And it don’t make sense, to be honest. What’s a god – or goddess – want with a mortal throne? What’s Lunessfor to her? She oughta give it over to me, is what she oughta do.
Of course, Reaper. It is all about you, after all.
What, Vykers asked, are you feelin’ left out? I’ll make you my personal Shaper!
Do you think you’re truly the ruling sort? Seems to me, you’re better at destroying.
She had a point. Still, he didn’t like her tone. You tryin’ to pick a fight with me? What’s this all about, anyway?
Nothing, Reaper, nothing, Arune answered. I’m sorry I said anything.
Whichever of the gods it was who had first decided to make women Shapers must have been mad, Vykers thought. Separately, the two were almost impossible to deal with; combined, they made up without question the most irrational force in the world.
Hang on, Shaper. I meant to ask you: what did you think of Alheria’s story about killin’ Mahnus? D’you really figure he’s dead?
But Arune had retreated to wherever it was she went when her feelings were hurt. Fortunately for Vykers, he had plenty of other things to occupy his mind while he waited her out.
One afternoon around mid-day, the Frog spotted the A’Shea’s grove, her oasis, on the horizon. Vykers took off like a shot, spurring Shalea into a full gallop, completely unconcerned for the horse’s health. Fortunately, Shalea was, as promised, an exceptional beast, and a lengthy bolt for the trees was nothing to her.
Aoife heard the sound of Vykers’ mount and came to the edge of the tree line to await his arrival. When he finally reached her, he was taken aback
by her appearance. She looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks.
Vykers jumped from Shalea’s back and strode to Aoife’s side. “Aoife,” he said, “are you unwell?”
The A’Shea smiled self-consciously. “It’s the grove. I don’t think these trees care for me.” Before Vykers could comment, Aoife continued. “But you! Look at you, Tarmun! You’re healed!”
In an instant, they were in each other’s arms, laughing and savoring the intimacy.
“Yes,” Vykers replied. “Amazing, ain’t it?” And then he paused. “You’d better brace yourself, Aoife,” he warned.
A look of profound concern came to her face.
“I know Alheria means a lot to you A’Shea…” Vykers began. “Well, I just saved her life, I guess you’d say.”
As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2) Page 47
