The next stage of his plan required Vykers to visit House Blackbyrne and have a few words with its Chief of Security. Given the lateness of the day, however, the Reaper reluctantly admitted he’d have to wait until the morrow.
Fetching his whetstone from the table near his cot, Vykers decided to sharpen his dagger again, whilst he went over everything he’d learned about the Dead ‘Un: he’d only been seen at night, only went after those who’d done wrong, seemed impervious to damage, and so on. Nobody knew his real name. Nobody knew where he lived. Vykers figured him for a vigilante, but, having seen him in action, had to admit there was something uncanny about the man. Initially, he’d wanted to hire this Dead ‘Un for added protection. Now, though, the Reaper felt an overpowering curiosity about the stranger and an unexpected sense of kinship. The Dead ‘Un was capable of great destruction, and the Reaper was in a very destructive mood of late.
A knock at his door interrupted his musings, irritating him further. “What is it?” he called, none too gently.
“Dinner, your Ladyship,” came the sarcastic reply.
That was Ethel, Vykers didn’t doubt. The only woman in the whole place he found even remotely attractive. Oh, she was no Aoife, to be sure. If he still had his wedding tackle, though, he’d put it to good use. It was the A’Shea who’d ended things after all, not Vykers. He didn’t owe her anything.
“Be down shortly,” he said to the door.
“We can hardly wait,” Ethel replied.
They weren’t fond of Igraine, were the others. But they were fond of the young woman’s money, which, Vykers supposed, explained why they allowed him/her to stay, when she so clearly was not of their ilk. If Vykers was ever able to find and hire the kind of help he was looking for, he’d have to move to larger quarters, elsewhere.
One thing at a time.
*****
Kittins, In Lunessfor
“You seem to have cowed South Shore,” the Shaper said matter-of-factly. “The Constable tells me it’s gone from being one of our most dangerous, crime-ridden districts to one of our safest. Imagine that.”
Kittins said nothing.
“This changes nothing between us, however. That Her Majesty was correct in this instance does not mean she’ll have a long-term use for you. And when she runs out of ideas, you’ll have run out of time.”
This was too much. “You talk as if you know what’s coming. Be damned sure about it, ‘cause I won’t waste time talkin’ when I get my chance.”
The Shaper nodded, sat down leisurely, almost theatrically, in his plush chair by the fire. “You have visions of gutting me like a pig, I’m sure. I, on the other hand, have a wide range of choices. I could drop you in the middle of the southern ocean, slowly immerse you in molten iron, have you staked to a vituvian ants’ nest, inflict you with the rots…or all of the above. In truth, I’m only limited by my imagination…and I can be quite imaginative.”
“You certainly love to hear yourself talk.”
Cindor pulled a small, tight smirk. “Enough chatter, then. Her Majesty has another – and, I hope, final – chore for you.”
Again, Kittins said nothing, but offered a heavy-lidded stare.
“There’s an alchemist in South Shore who’s gotten too powerful for the Queen’s liking. His name’s D’Marei. We would like him…gone.”
Kittins raised an eyebrow. “We?”
“I serve Her Majesty, and she would like him gone.”
“And I’m guessing this alchemist has his own private army or some such?”
Smirk. “Something like that, yes.”
“So, a suicide mission,” Kittins said grimly. He took a final look around the room, seeming to scrutinize everything, and then added, “I’ll see you again. Soon.” That said, he left.
Now, the Shaper looked about, trying to guess what Kittins had been after. The little gargoyle above the door said nothing.
*****
Aoife, Arune, the North
Regaining Aoife’s trust had required more patience than Arune could have predicted, but the Shaper felt she was getting there, day by day. Of course, it had all started with Vykers’ obligatory apology. Then, Arune had bided her time, aiding the A’Shea with any number of small chores around the ramshackle cabin. A winter storm rolled in and helped immensely, as there was no question of Vykers departing in such weather, and there was little to do but talk. Aoife had not been inclined to share anything of her younger days, and though it frustrated the ever-curious Arune, it was also something of a relief, for now she no longer feared having to share Vykers’ past with the A’Shea. If she’d been pressed, she would have had to fabricate the Reaper’s childhood, because, despite the years she’d spent inside the man’s head, he was as impenetrable as Aoife. In time, though, the A’Shea succumbed to the Reaper’s presence and allowed him back into her bed.
It was the greatest period of happiness in Arune’s life. She loved the A’Shea, as the saying goes, “this side idolatry,” and there were many occasions when Aoife was otherwise engaged on which Arune pondered which of her lover’s traits she adored most. Sometimes, the Shaper categorized these traits as either physical or spiritual in nature. Other times, she lumped them all together, unable or unwilling to separate them. Some days, she was intoxicated by Aoife’s external beauty – the luster of her eyes, the soft white perfection of her skin, the luxuriance of her hair, the mysterious, somewhat fey scent of her – and other days, she spent hours pondering the woman’s inner self, her soul, which seemed to Arune a thing unparalleled in all existence.
But the greatest revelation had been the sexual intimacy. She’d experienced it once as a guest in Vykers’ body, and only one other time before that, with a boy in her hometown. It had been awkward and utterly unenjoyable. At the time, she’d walked away bewildered as to the reasons for its popularity. She was bewildered no more, however. Arune was not attracted to men, but to women, and not just any woman, but the most beautiful, the most breathtaking and exceptional woman in the world. In the midst of the act, the vulnerable, yearning, hungry look in Aoife’s eyes provoked such rapture, such emotional ecstasy in Arune that she would happily have remained conjoined with Aoife forever. Oh, there were times the Shaper had brief bouts of insecurity, certainly. But having lived inside Vykers on the one occasion he’d made love to the A’Shea, Arune felt reasonably comfortable that Aoife could not tell the difference. And why should she? Arune had a greater passion for the A’Shea than even Vykers.
It was, all things considered, the happiest Arune had ever been.
Had she been older, possessed of more experience or not quite so smitten, the Shaper might have realized such euphoria cannot last forever. The first shadow caught her unawares.
“I believe the End-of-All-Things has returned,” Aoife said one evening as she mended a hole in her cloak.
It was said so casually, so a propos of nothing, that Arune wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. “What’s that?”
The A’Shea turned her gaze Vykers’ way and searched his eyes. “The End. I believe he’s come back.”
A chasm seemed to open beneath Arune’s feet, and she watched in helpless horror as bits of her world fell into it. Suddenly, the cabin felt too small. “What?” Arune repeated stupidly.
Aoife set her cloak aside and stood. “I was thinking on him a while ago and a voice came to me and declared him alive.”
Arune could breathe again. “A voice? What voice? Whose voice?”
Aoife shook her head, confused. “I thought…” She reconsidered. “It can only have come from one of two sources: the Queen, Alheria, or your Shaper. I thought you would have known, if…” This last seemed to dangle into infinity before she spoke again. “So, that leaves Alheria.”
“After what…what we went through in rescuing Her Majesty, do you really think she can be trusted? And then again, perhaps you imagined this voice?” Arune offered almost jokingly, in an attempt to cover up her near-gaffe.
Disappointment st
ole over the A’Shea’s features faster than snow spread over the ground outside. She plunked herself back down in her seat, retrieved her cloak, and acted as if the subject had never come up.
Too late, Arune recognized her mistake and tried to make amends. “What I mean is, if it was Alheria, why wouldn’t she provide more information? I’ve never known the old windbag to be so terse.”
“I don’t want to talk about it further.”
Now Arune stood, crossed over to the A’Shea. “Look, I’m sorry. I thought you were making a joke, having a laugh at my expense…”
“A joke?” The A’Shea’s voice cracked. “Do you think me a drunkard or a fool that I would make light of such a subject? Do you know me so little?”
“I misunderstood. I…don’t spend a lot of time around other people. Forgive me.”
But Aoife would say no more.
The Reaper – the real Reaper – would have handled things differently, Arune knew. Absent other ideas, she wrapped herself up and went out into the storm.
They slept in the same bed that night, but it would be an exaggeration to say they shared it.
In the morning, Arune woke to see Aoife packing things into a bedroll.
“It’s a blizzard out there,” the Shaper protested.
“I have to get to Lunessfor. I need to speak with Her Majesty,” Aoife replied, frost in her voice. “And if the great Tarmun Vykers won’t take me seriously, I’m fairly sure Alheria will.”
Arune became angry. “Of course I take you seriously! It’s just that I killed the End. He’s dead and gone. If you’d met him, you’d know he’s…”
The look Aoife shot back would’ve killed a score of lesser men. “If I’d met him?” The A’Shea seemed on the verge of saying more, then didn’t. “Goodbye, Reaper.”
With all her magic and Vykers’ strength, Arune couldn’t stop Aoife from leaving her. She’d betrayed her one friend in order to win the A’Shea’s heart, and now she had neither.
The chasm engulfed her.
*****
Long & Company, in Camp
The hunter’s cabin was the central structure in the camp and its only permanent one. With its own fireplace and smoke room, it seemed a palace compared to the conglomeration of wagons and tents that spiraled away from it in all directions. It was, therefore, the natural place for an invading tyrant to install himself.
If Long and his crew were surprised to see a gang widening the cabin’s door with axes, they were less so when they at last laid eyes on Gorivar. The man must have been born obese. That and a lifetime of filling his face during every waking moment could hardly have accounted for the ton of flesh the men saw before them. He was so large, even the huntsman’s solid, four-poster bed was too small a chair for Gorivar’s bulk, which was covered in moles, warts and festering bedsores. Worst of all, he gave off a stench that made Long’s former aroma seem like perfume by comparison.
“What are these?” Gorivar asked in a thick lowlands accent when Long and company came into view.
Apart from the servant shoveling something from a bowl down Gorivar’s throat and the men hacking away at the door, there was no one around to answer.
Long spoke up. “We were told we owe you money. I’d like to know how that’s possible.”
Gorivar chuffed, choked a little bit on his meal. “Would you?” he asked enthusiastically. “Would you? ‘Cuz if you don’t pay up, I’ll put out your friend there’s other eye!” He then roared with laughter at the hilarity of his comment.
Yendor didn’t find it funny.
“And how,” said Rem, “do you plan to do that?”
Whereupon the actor flew up to the ceiling, dropped, rose, dropped, rose, and then dropped a final time, breathing heavily and wondering if he’d broken anything.
“You might’ve warned us,” Long muttered to Spirk under his breath.
“’Ow was I to know?” the young man responded aloud.
“So, you’re a Shaper,” the captain said to the behemoth.
Gorivar grinned idiotically. “Might be. Might not. Now drop your money on the hearth, there, or I take your friend’s eye.”
Everyone began reaching into his pockets when Long stopped them. “I’ll take care of this,” he said as he walked over to the fireplace and placed the coins where he’d been directed.
Gorivar chuckled, the fat of his face wiggling like gelatin. “And remember, it’s the same due every day.”
“Your man said weekly,” Long objected.
“Now it’s daily.”
The captain felt a tug on his arm and looked down to see Yendor’s hand on his sleeve. “Let’s go,” his friend said softly.
“Yes, let’s,” Rem agreed.
“What in Mahnus’ name do we do now?” Yendor demanded when the group got back to its own campsite. “Snow’s still too deep to leave.”
“And why couldn’t you warn us?” Rem challenged Spirk.
Ever the loyal friend, Ron put his hand on Spirk’s shoulder as a show of support.
Spirk looked about to cry. “’Cuz I’m not a Shaper?”
“Well, what are you, then?” Rem pressed.
“He’s your friend,” said Ron. “Ain’t that enough?”
Long cut in, “Let’s stop this squabbling, eh? Stop it. You’re only helpin’ that fat man by fighting each other.”
“What I’d like to know,” said Yendor, “is how they got ‘im inside in the first place, and how ‘e travels. Bastard must weigh more’n a draft horse.”
“Magic?” said Spirk.
Ron hunched down and started rebuilding their communal fire. Yendor was about to tell him how pointless that was, when he realized the snowfall had let up in pace and intensity. “Might be we’re through the worst o’ this storm,” he said, pointing his chin at the clouds.
The rest of the gang dusted off their accustomed seats and huddled around the smoking kindling. Suddenly, the wood burst into flames with an explosive whoosh, sending everyone tumbling backwards.
“Wha…?” someone asked.
“Maybe I am a Shaper,” Spirk confessed sheepishly.
Amidst general laughter, Yendor pressed the issue. “Then why couldn’t you tell us anything about that Gorivar?”
Spirk winced but held firm. “Maybe he’s not a Shaper, like he said.”
“But if he ain’t a Shaper,” Yendor mused, “what in the endless hells is he?”
This set off a lengthy bout of conjecture all around. Only Long remained quiet and calm – a fact no one but Rem seemed to notice. “You’re not worried?”
The captain offered a rueful smile. “Friend, I got bigger worries than some bloated two-penny tyrant. And I’ve faced meaner bastards, if it comes to that. We just need to settle down and think this through. Could be, we’ll come out on top.”
*****
Eoman, In the Woods
There are worse things in the forest at night than wolves, worse than oursine, worse than Svarren, worse than any of them. There are the dark, forsaken, hungry things, things without name or purpose but which nevertheless embody malice, things with an abiding hatred for any and all who would live beyond shadows.
These were the only things Eoman Harkin Hainan feared as he forged his way through waist-deep snow, chasing pools of moonlight across the forest. For moonlight was anathema to the creatures stalking him, a secret men had forgotten, but giantkind had not. In the moonlight, he was safe.
Normally, even a giant wouldn’t take such a risk, but Eoman had heard tell of a caravan that had come through the area a few days past, rumbling northwards as if being chased, despite the inclement weather. That was mighty suspicious to the giant, and he felt that if this caravan was just two or three days ahead, he might catch it with a bit more effort.
The things in the darkness followed along and grew in numbers, chittering, hissing and calling out to him in the old languages, waiting for Eoman to make a mistake, to sink too deeply into the snow, to exhaust himself, to stumble. Eoman, in
turn, rumbled an ancient charm of protection.
Tu amaii ea-ho deneska,
Di amaii lobuulo tai,
Fisk amaii denoura paa-na,
Bu amaii ea-ho dusai.
Several of the darklings exploded like chestnuts in a fire; a few others ran shrieking into the undergrowth. Many remained, too many for Eoman to handle in a pitched battle, if it came to that. Pulling his axe from his belt, the giant took a few mighty swings, hoping to intimidate those following him. It was not an especially effective gambit. He squinted up the road and estimated the things would be on him before he could reach the next patch of light. Next, he glanced at the moon, whose path did not favor him, either. Soon, she would drift off deeper into the woods, taking his little island of safety with her, and deeper into these woods was the last place Eoman wanted to go. Besides, running from light to light was the only thing keeping him close to warm. If he didn’t keep moving – and at a good pace – he’d freeze to death by dawn.
Sometimes, his temper got the best of him. He hoped his reckless pursuit of Mardine’s killers hadn’t gotten him killed, as well. Nothing to be done about it now, but fight. As Eoman’s pool of light continued to shift and dwindle, the darklings became daring and assayed the giant’s back and flanks. He spun viciously, sweeping his weapon one way and then the next in a scything motion. Some of the creatures fell immediately, but it was not nearly enough. With each breath, each heartbeat, more coalesced out of the tenebrous trees, and Eoman soon understood that he fought some aspect of the night itself. Daggers of pain sank into one calf. Looking down, the giant spied a beastie fixed to his leg by its needlelike teeth. Passing his axe into his left hand, he grabbed the creature with his right and crushed its neck. Quick as he could, he tossed the body at some of its brothers and let out a bestial roar. There aren’t many things of any disposition that will stand fast in the face of such a furor, and the darklings were no exception, falling back and regrouping amongst the shadows. They’d be at him again soon enough, Eoman knew, so he turned and sprinted for the next patch of moonlight, continuing to bellow as he went.
Corpse Cold (Immortal Treachery Book 3) Page 5
