The Lost Reavers

by Mike Truk

  “H-how?” asked the smuggler, voice shaking. “That’s… nobody can…”

  Hugh cut his blade in a double circle about him, thwipping blood clear of its silvery length. “You’re right,” he said, moving toward the man. “No one man can do what I did.”

  Such was the Mink’s shock that he didn’t even raise his weapon. His eyes grew wider as Hugh trod across the leaden sands, approaching with the inevitability of the Hanged God himself.

  “But I’m not one man,” said Hugh, and faster than thought, slashed a horizontal sweep that removed the upper half of the Mink’s head, shearing through skull and brain with surgical precision, so that everything above his bulging eyes vanished in a spray of black mist.

  The Mink stood still, as if unaware of his own demise. Mouth working. Throat bobbing as he swallowed.

  Hugh, disgust finally rising within him, pressed the tip of his blade to the man’s chest, and gave a gentle push.

  The Mink toppled over backward onto the beach, and lay still.

  Chapter Two

  The corpses were arrayed about Hugh like some childhood game gone terribly wrong. Blood flowed in rivulets down the sloping beach, soaking into the wet sand some but mostly joining into every larger serpentine shape until they melded with the rushing Zienko. Silence from above, from the courtyard. Hugh didn’t look up. Didn’t look anywhere. Kept his gaze down, focused on the blood, watching it ebb in ever slower pulses from the Mink’s head. A great wash of glistening black against the bone-white sand. Kept his gaze fixated, because he didn’t want to look up and see the six other men on the sand with him.

  The six men he’d summoned.

  Going to ignore us, is he?

  It had been three years since Hugh had heard Foughtash’s rough rumble, deep and cavernous like a bear growling from the depths of its cave. The man himself but a shadow in the corner of his vision, massive with his twin axes in hand.

  The sound of one hawking and spitting. Could ghosts spit? Were they ghosts? Hugh had no idea.

  Summoned us for, what? Black Evec’s rasp. Who we done helped you kill, boy? Tell me they were worthy foes. Go on. Lie to my fucking face.

  One of the shadow shapes moved, crouched by a fallen foe. Ruffians looks like. Birandillo the bard’s rich baritone. Bandits, perhaps?

  Hugh closed his eyes. How he’d loved to hear Birandillo’s voice raised in song, singing the epics of the original Lost Reavers, the hallowed tales of their arrival in the land that would one day become Mendev, the land they would help the first emperor forge.

  Hugh? Chavaun. Cold, distant, and that Hugh couldn’t take, couldn’t stomach at all.

  He looked up to face the specters full-on.

  Looming Foughtash. Lithe, lethal Evassier, off to one side, blades gleaming on the bandoliers that crossed his chest. Birandillo, his poet’s face as sensitive and melancholy as ever. Black Evec, hands on his hips, battered hat pushed back on his head, face lined and carved as if by the very winds. And where - there. Furthest from the group, Sweet Severin, the killer cherub, the youth with the face of a child who’d been sentenced to hang before they claimed him as one of their own.

  Chavaun stepped to the fore. Good, earnest Chavaun. Memories flooded Hugh. A lifetime together in Stasiek castle, stealing baked goods from the kitchen, then training in the yard, riding forth, courting women, the first time they’d gotten hammered, how Chavaun had been the only one strong enough to put Ripper out of his misery when he’d been stepped on by a frightened horse -

  Chavaun, his honest face broad and good and three years dead.

  Horror arose within Hugh’s breast. His thoughts fled. He could only stand there and gaze upon his former boon companion. Three years since he’d seen them last, and then when he’d summoned them in a moment of desperation, only to swear he’d never do so again.

  Hugh.

  “I’m…” Hugh could do little more than whisper. “I’m so sorry, Chavaun. I… I swore to never call you again.”

  A laugh from Black Evec. Oathbreaker. And for what? Why’d you summon us, boy? To kill men who’d come to collect? Collect on the debts you’ve accrued for gambling and whoring and drinking?

  The words were like heated irons being plunged into his flesh. He looked down and away.

  Black Evec didn’t let up. He never had, in life. Wasn’t about to start now. Why’d he summoned Evec out of all the others? He could have called on Blind Igocha, or Terey -

  I don’t get it, said Black Evec, stepping up alongside Chavaun. His leer was fearsome. You’ve been trying to kill yourself in the most pathetic way possible. Find the Hanged God at the bottom of a bottle or between a whore’s legs. Why fight back now when you were offered a good death?

  The others were staring at him. Their faces shadowed. Hugh felt his gorge rise. “Leave me alone.”

  Leave you alone? Black Evec laughed raucously. That’s fucking rich!

  Massive Foughtash stepped closer, axes hanging loose in each hand. Release us, Hugh. Release us from this slavery.

  “I… I don’t know how,” said Hugh, backing away.

  Release us! Foughtash’s scream shook the blue-black skies. The giant lurched forward, and Hugh stumbled back, tripped over his own feet, crashed down onto the sand. Release us, you craven bastard. Let us go, let us go!

  “You think I don’t want that?” Fury, rage, despair. “You think I want you fucking tethered to me like bleating goats? I don’t bloody know how!”

  “Hugh?” A quiet voice, timid almost, from off to the side. Elena. The only person to have descended the stairs, her form slender in the dark, hugging herself tightly. “Are you… who are you shouting at?”

  Hugh pressed his palm to his eyes, grimaced, but when he dropped his hand the specters were gone. No footprints in the sand, no voices in the wind. Alone again. For now.

  “I… nothing, Elena. Foolishness on my part.” Almost he could see Black Evec’s mocking grin. He rose to his feet.

  Elena was staring about herself. At the bodies that lay tumbled across the sands. “Are you… are you hurt?”

  Reflexively Hugh glanced down at himself. Enough blood had splattered onto him to cause his clothing to hug his form. “I’m unhurt,” he said, tone wondering, realizing it was true even as he said it.

  “Unhurt?” Elena stepped up to him, pale hand reaching out as if to touch his chest only to be pulled back. “But… there were ten of them… how…?”

  Hugh took her hand, closed his own long fingers around her own, careful to not crush her with his grip. “Elena. Please. Believe me when I say I can’t talk about it. That I never want to talk about it. That I need…”

  She stared up at him, wide-eyed, mesmerized. “Need what, Hugh?”

  “Wine.” The certainty was irrevocable. Black Evec be damned. “More wine than you can imagine. Now.”

  She blinked. “Of course. Yes. Immediately. And these bodies…?”

  Hugh looked around. “They can rot here for all I care.” He stopped, pinched the brow of his nose. “No. That’ll only draw more attention. Damn it.” He glanced up at the courtyard for the first time, the crowd gathered at the railing. They were all talking amongst themselves. What rumors would spread from here? Damn it.

  “The guards at the gate. I’ll speak with them. Have them take care of it,” he said.

  “Strange, that,” said Elena, following his gaze up to the courtyard high above. “Why’d they not come down to help…?”

  Hugh’s laugh was mirthless. “Risk their lives to save that of a spoiled lordling? Two against ten? No. Though I expect them to come rushing down any moment now to take control of the situation. I’d rather not be here when they arrive.”

  “Then - then let’s climb back up. Let the guard take care of… of all this.”

  “Yes. And Elena?”

  She looked up at him nervously. “Yes, Sir Hugh?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Oh.” She pulled a lock of pale hair down over her scarred cheek. “Th
ink nothing of it.”

  “But I do.” He strode across the spit of sand, up to the base of the stairs. “And I don’t forget those who have helped me.”

  Hugh wasn’t sure what to expect when he climbed the stairs and stepped out into the courtyard once more, and for a moment the score of people gathered in the inn’s torchlight simply stared at him - but then Micko let out a whoop and cried out, “To Hugh, defender of the Rusałka Inn, beloved -”

  His next words were drowned by cheers. Hands reached forward to clap Hugh on the shoulders, pull him into the center, then out the other side to the front door of the inn, which stood wide open, Johan before it, hands on hips, shaking his head in wonder.

  “What manner of sorcery was that?” demanded the inn keeper, voice powerful enough to quell the crowd, which quietened, and became expectant.

  Hugh drew himself up. Felt his body as tempered and powerful as a freshly forged castle blade. Flexible and strong. With reserves deep enough to drown an ocean. You’ve no idea, old man, of what I’m capable.

  But out loud he simply said, “Luck. Fortuna smiles on fools, madmen, and children. I’ll leave it to you to decide which I am.”

  The crowd erupted into laughter, and he was pushed forward, Johan giving way, back into the smoky, ruddy common room, borne up to the bar like flotsam by a rising tide, to fetch up there and be trapped by the press all around him.

  “A drink for Hugh!” cried a voice, and it was taken up by a dozen others. The texture of those voices complex and defying easy categorization; fear and doubt, exhilaration and joy, disgust and gladness that Hugh was their friend and not their foe.

  Johan slammed a flagon on the board and filled it with foaming beer, shoved it forward and cried out, “Never in all my years have I seen such fighting, though nine years I marched under the duke’s late father’s banner.”

  “You never marched with the Lost Reavers,” called out Micko from his corner, where he was picking up his fiddle. “Never marched with the best of Mendev, did you, Johan?”

  The words were like blows across Hugh’s shoulders. He gripped the flagon and raised it high, putting it to his lips so he could drink, drink deep, drain the rich, malted beer in long, practiced pulls, throat working, beer overflowing and running down his beard, shouts rising in joy until they peaked as he slammed the flagon down on the bar hard enough to make every object that sat loose upon its surface bounce and rattle.

  “Another for Hugh!” cried someone by his side. “Another for the last of the Lost bloody Reavers!”

  Johan lifted his pitcher and poured, though his eyes remained locked on Hugh’s own. And in those eyes Hugh saw sober understanding. An awareness of just how much it was going to take tonight to put Hugh down. A year now Hugh had been squatting in Johan’s tower, and in that time they’d reached an understanding.

  But now, staring into the innkeeper’s eyes, Hugh saw the end of that era. A line had been crossed. The violence down on the white sands had changed things. Hugh’s time at the Rusałka Inn was drawing to a close.

  Hugh raised the flagon once more. How many would it take to drown the burning fire within his core? Twenty? Thirty of them?

  There was one way to find out.

  * * *

  Dawn was breaking. The eastern horizon was edging toward a soft, dove gray, the cirrus clouds high above the Zienko caught the first rays so that their edges were burnished gold. The air was cool. The last sounds of revelry had died away. Horses snorted and stamped from within the stable, looking for their morning feed. Chickens picked their way with ludicrous delicacy about the stable yard, strutting and peering at the cobbled ground.

  Men sat slumped against the wall beneath the pergola, framing the common room door. The smell of urine and vomit was sharp in the breeze, mixed with that of sour, spilt wine and the last of the smoke from the fireplace. The whisper of the river far below. The occasional groan filtering out through the windows.

  Hugh stood at the courtyard railing, gazing down at the spit of sand far below. The corpses lay where they’d fallen, but stealthy hands had already rifled through their pockets, depriving them of all worldly goods. Weapons had been collected. The barge itself remained, too obvious an item for casual theft, but no doubt its interior had been ransacked at some point during the night by more enterprising souls.

  Hugh pursed his lips. Pondered retiring to his tower room. To try and sleep away the morning, the afternoon, even. It would be the wise course of action. Last night, when he probed his memories of it, was a blur. He’d drunk enough at least to ruin his recollection. A memory of the card table at the back of the room. His borrowed pile of coin disappearing as he wagered foolishly, recklessly. Enough willing new friends to loan him more. Beer after beer, which had eventually turned into tumblers of dwarven whisky. That had almost done the job.

  But no.

  The fire within him had been banked for a few hours, but never fully extinguished. Even now it was regaining its vitality, burning away the last of the fumes, clearing his head.

  Why fight back now when you were offered a good death?

  Black Evec’s words. And he’d had no good answer. Pride, perhaps? The unconquerable will to dominate? A near bestial refusal to quit while he yet drew breath?

  Hugh hung his head. His hair had slipped its thong and fell about his face. He reeked of wine and smoke. Why hadn’t he allowed the Mink to cut him down? For that matter, why didn’t he cut his own throat now?

  That would surely end his torment, better than any barrel of dwarven spirits.

  No answer. Hugh stared mutely down at the corpses. The dark shapes that had once been men. Once been youths filled with dreams. Children, even, alive with laughter and daring.

  Nothing now but torn, butchered meat.

  Nausea roiled his gut.

  He could feel them. Just outside the corner of his vision. Watching him. Waiting. Judging him. Finding him lacking. Hugh of Stasiek, the rising star, youngest member of their august company besides Sweet Severin. The latest Lost Reaver, and doomed to be the last. Old frustration burned through him once more: why had that blasted Thavma spared him? He slammed his fist down on the wooden railing hard enough to crack the wood. And immediately felt the fool. Bent forward to sink his face into his hands. How much longer could he go on like this? Court oblivion in cards, women, and drink? Court the Hanged God, but too much the coward to take that final step into the Ashen Garden? How much longer could he live this half-life, this shadowed, tormented existence? Where would he go, when Johan told him to leave? Not back to Stasiek, to his older brother, to the castle, his old rooms.

  No.

  He’d leave the empire of Mendev altogether. Travel somewhere nobody had heard of the Lost Reavers, of the Goat’s Wood. Perhaps far to the shadowed west, to the distant coast, where the fabled city of Port Gloom was said to stand, or south to the equally fabulous Paruko. Or perhaps he’d ride east, to the Mendevian coast, and there pay for passage out into the Mirror Sea, to see what lay beyond it, to founder and sink beneath the waves most like, and there at long last find his final rest, a sweet slumber from which he’d never rouse -

  The sound of footsteps, the slosh of water. Hugh turned and saw Elena returning from the stable yard well, carrying a bucket in both hands.

  She’d been watching him, but averted her gaze at the last moment. Moved up to the inn door, was about to go within when he spoke up.

  “Elena. I’m leaving.”

  She stopped, stood still, then turned, bucket still hanging from both hands. “Leaving?”

  “I won’t wait for Johan to give me my marching orders. He’s a good man. I won’t put him in that position.”

  “He can’t tell you to leave,” she said. “You’re Lord Hugh of Stasiek. Your brother -”

  “Isn’t here, nor would he care if I were thrown out on my ear.” Hugh thought on Annaro, bejeweled and elegant, poised and masterful and deadly. “But regardless, my time here is done. Johan won’t want the kind of peop
le who’ll come here now because of me. Best I move on before the Rusałka becomes the center of that kind of attention.”

  Elena set the bucket down between her feet. How old was she? Seventeen? A little older? Hard to tell, given how well she kept her face covered. “Where will you go?”

  Hugh frowned and half-turned away. The urge to pity himself was strong. To say something that would invite concern. But he’d not fallen so low yet. “I’m not sure. It’s time I saw more of the world. Perhaps I’ll ride south. Head for the Ambrozi Range, see what’s on the other side.” The words came to him even as he spoke them. He smiled wryly. “See if there really is a city of gold high up amongst the peaks.”

  He thought she’d smile, or at least snort in amusement, but no. Instead, she looked down, blonde hair falling before her face, and clasped her hands together.

  “Elena?”

  “Take me with you.” Her voice little more than a whisper.

  He took a step forward, unsure he’d heard her correctly. “What?”

  “Take me with you. Please.” She looked up at him suddenly, eyes wide. “I can help. I’ll - I’ll make your camp each night, cook your food. I can sew, mend your clothes. Help pack your belongings, shop when you come to markets -”

  “Elena,” said Hugh, raising a hand. “What are you talking about?”

  “Please?” Tears appeared in her eyes. “I know it’s a ridiculous request, but I won’t get in your way, I won’t even speak if you’ve no wish to converse, but don’t leave me here, Hugh, please. Please?”

  “Take you with me?” Hugh tried to understand what she was suggesting. “Like - a servant? Or - ?”

  “A servant, sure.” She took a quick step forward. “You’re nobility. You need someone to help you with the boring, dirty tasks, don’t you? And if anything, that’s my specialty. I’ve spent my whole life cleaning, cooking, avoiding - well.” She looked away, pulled a lock of hair before her cheek. “But yes.”

  “Elena.” Hugh hesitated. How to even phrase his objections? “I’m not riding to a couple of days over to Ibchat. I aim to leave Mendev altogether. To avoid cities. To - I don’t know, see what lies beyond the edges of our maps. The Ambrozi Range, and whatever’s on the other side. That’s no place for a woman like you.”