As expected, the creatures sprang at his back the moment he crossed into the unlit expanse between pools. Eoman tried to bat them away with his free hand, but the damnable things were too fast. Again, he roared, frightening the smaller ones into retreat whilst he pressed onwards. They swirled around him like snowflakes in a whirlwind – black snowflakes, malevolent snowflakes. Eoman kept slapping at them with one hand and cleaving with the other. To his frustration, killing them only seemed to increase their numbers. He could feel their teeth and claws digging into his flesh between the layers of leather and fur. They struggled for purchase in his beard and hair. A slow tide of panic began rising in the giant’s chest. It’s only ten strides to the next bit of light! He told himself. Only ten! The darklings were determined he’d never get there, and the biggest of them gathered across his intended path. Eoman was a giant, though, and king of the giants, at that. Gritting his teeth and hefting his axe in both hands, he charged into the mass, yelling at the top of his voice.
The axe carved up the night, slicing and crushing Eoman’s path to freedom. And still the fell creatures came on. The giant wouldn’t allow his thoughts to wander into the treacherous land of What If, but there was a tension in his gut, notwithstanding. And then, confusion. Tiny motes of light floated, fluttered and zipped into the melee, eliciting squeals of fear and rage from the darklings. Soon, the air about Eoman was so full of the things that it appeared to be hailing luminescence.
Will-o-wisps. He’d only ever seen them from a distance, and never in such numbers. Now, he was astonished and nearly transfixed. Yet, his work was not done. He had to finish the last of the bigger darklings on his own, or his path would never be clear.
Deep, boisterous laughter rang out from the woods on his right, and, busy as he was, Eoman glanced over to search out its source. Then he was laughing, too. His old friend Karrakan strode from the shadows, radiating a light all his own.
“Heard ye wailin’ fer miles. Not very dignified behavior fer a king!”
Eoman guffawed at the comment, putting a boot on the last of the darklings. “And you took yer time gettin’ here, too, I’m sure.”
Karrakan pulled on his beard and japed, “From the awful sounds ye were makin’, I thought sure ‘twas a bear being mounted by an oursine!”
“And that were true, you’d’ve come faster, I’ve no doubt, you old lecher!”
The two comrades’ laughter shook snow from the trees and banished any lingering shadows.
“But it’s good to see you again, old friend,” Eoman beamed, not-so-lightly cuffing Karrakan’s shoulder.
“I’ll bet,” Karrakan replied. “Looked like you were having a time of it with those little beasties.”
Eoman snorted. “Bah! I’d have ta’en ‘em all down in time. But what brings you to these parts?”
“Are you daft You won’t find me in yer civilized lands! ? You know I’m a bleedin’ shaman. And what’s your excuse fer wanderin’ so far north?”
Eoman’s smile evaporated and his levity went with it. “I’m huntin’ giant killers, ‘Kan. Human giant killers.”
The shaman stroked his beard, frowned. “Human giant killers,” he repeated soberly. “What’d they do? Who’d they kill?”
“No one you’d know, I think. She was a child last time I saw her in the free lands.” He went on to describe what he’d found in the woods so far to the south and experienced his horror and anger all over again. Soon, Karrakan shared these sensations.
“I’m a-comin’ with ye,” said he.
“And I’m glad of it,” Eoman responded. “Might be we’ll need an army of our folk when we get where we’re going.”
“Then it’s an army we’ll gather,” his friend resolved.
*****
Vykers, In Lunessfor
It was strange how events seemed to repeat themselves. He’d been walking through the market again when Vykers was accosted by a fat man. He’d intended to ignore the sot this time, when something about the man’s face caught his attention and worried it like a dog with a bone. He’d seen the man before; he was sure of it. He got about ten paces further when it came to him: this was the bastard who’d pissed on him when he’d been dumped in the forest years ago without hands or feet. A cold fury eclipsed his normally grim visage, and he turned to stare at the man.
“What’s that?” the Reaper prompted.
The drunk chuckled, “I’m offerin’ ta take ya fer a ride, little pony. Ride o’ yer lifetime!”
Vykers gazed impassively at him. The drunk sat at the base of a wall, his legs splayed out into the street. Clearly, his fortunes had declined since Vykers had seen him last. But they were about to get a whole lot worse.
“That a fact?” Vykers asked, trying and failing to sound enticing. The mere effort almost made him puke.
“Little piece like you?” said the man. “I could diddle you ‘til Winter’s Wane.”
“Oh,” Vykers replied, “you’re gonna have to prove that!”
The drunk leered. “You got someplace we can go?”
“I know a place, yeah. If you can walk that far.”
“For a bit o’ dimple? You’d be s’prised how far I c’n walk.”
Vykers smiled. “Follow me, then.”
It was a difficult task, maintaining the drunk’s interest over the long walk to the charnel house. The fellow was so inebriated that the Reaper had to constantly remind him Igraine was there. Yet, she was either more attractive than Vykers supposed, or it had been so long since the fat man had been with a woman that he was willing to put up with anything, even Vykers’ rather awkward and insincere flirting. Whatever the case, they reached Vykers’ destination at last.
“Wait here a moment,” he instructed his companion.
Slipping into the building, Vykers headed straight for the storage closet and knocked on the door. “It’s me,” he said, “the girl who came in through the hole the other day.”
Without pause, the door opened, and Vykers stepped into the tiny space. “I need some help,” he explained. “And I’m willing to pay for it.”
A short while later, Vykers was on the other side of the door when a new knock came. He went to the door and opened it a crack.
“I bought what you asked for,” a child’s voice announced. “Heavier ‘n Mahnus’ balls, though.”
“Good,” said Vykers. “Leave it outside the door. Now,” he continued, “I need one other thing…”
“Yes?”
“I need you to leave this place and never return.”
“But…” the small voice protested.
Vykers tossed a few Nobles through the door and onto the darkened floor, beyond.
“These real?” the little voice said after a few seconds.
“They’re real, alright.”
“Can I work for you, then?” the still-unseen child asked hopefully.
“No. Last kid I took under my wing turned into a monster. A real monster,” Vykers clarified.
“What should I do, then?”
“There’s enough coin there to buy your way into a boarding school. That’s my suggestion, but you do what you must.”
There followed an extended silence, and then the child said, “Are ya sure I…”
“Yes,” came Vykers’ curt reply, whereupon he slammed the door and locked it.
The fat man howled himself awake, his groin a fiery cauldron of pain. A second jolt of pain in his prick brought his attention to the young woman standing in front of him. Suddenly, fear overtook his pain, froze his bowels and stole the breath from his lungs. He remembered following the girl into the room, and then…and then…she’d struck him, hit him over the head with something heavy. His head still ached from the blow. And now, here he was. He tried to move, but found he could not. The girl had tied his hands to the dusty shelving at his back. A breeze around his legs informed him, if he had not realized it already, that his captor had stripped him of his breeches, as well.
“Here, now,” he began ne
rvously. “I like it a bit rough, meself, but this…”
The girl turned and shoved something into a small fire she had burning in the corner. “This is nothin’ compared to what’s comin’,” she said.
“Well, I changed my mind, I have!” the man protested.
“And I ain’t,” she answered.
“But I never touched you, after all. No harm done, eh?”
The girl’s grin was terrifying. “Not yet.”
“But why?” the fat man whimpered. “Why?” he demanded a second time with greater conviction.
Again, the girl grinned. “Come now,” she cooed. “I imagine a big man like you can handle just about anything. I imagine you’re almost as strong as the Reaper himself.”
The absurdity of the comment made the man laugh, despite his panic. “The Reaper? He ain’t s’ strong. Fact, I beat ‘im once.”
The girl nodded, went to the fire, and retrieved a dagger with a red hot blade. The blood raced from the drunk’s face.
“That’s what I was hopin’ you’d say,” the girl purred.
The fat man closed his eyes in a desperate bid to deny his predicament. It was no use. An awful, searing sensation blazed through his groin, accompanied by the sickening smell of burnt meat. Knowing it was himself he smelt, the drunk vomited, whereupon the girl struck him repeatedly across the face with an open hand, until he regained some composure.
“What…what’ve you done to me?” the fat man sobbed bitterly.
“Do you remember when you dumped the Reaper on the forest floor?” the girl asked unexpectedly. “They’d cut off his hands ‘n feet, and he was sick as a dog and weaker ‘n a newborn. You remember what you did?”
Amazed and bewildered at this seemingly trivial line of questioning, the fat man answered, “I kicked ‘im, aye. What o’ that?”
“You kicked ‘im, true enough. And you pissed on his head, too.”
“So what if I did?” the drunk asked defensively. “I never done nothin’ to you! I never touched you. Never hurt you!”
The girl said nothing, just stared into her captive’s eyes as if she would bore a hole in his skull.
“Who are you, anyway?” the man whined.
“Who am I?” the girl giggled. “I’m the last person to see you alive.” She seemed to let that sink in a moment and then continued. “I’ve tied off your little pecker. Don’t suppose you can see that over your gut, but it’s true. With two leather strips I cut from your jerkin, I tied it off as tight as I could without cuttin’ right through the damned thing. Then I burned the end of it, just to make sure you’ll never piss again. And now…” she trailed off as she lifted a couple of enormous water skins off the floor, “now, you’re gonna start drinking this water ‘til you explode. You’re gonna die just wishin’ you could piss…”
*****
A Creature, the Forest
There was pain and only pain, a pulsing, throbbing agony that defined existence, from its molten center to the very boundaries of perception. Time therefore had no meaning, until that pain was joined by a terrible cold, a grasping, invasive cold that would not be ignored. These twin horrors of pain and cold danced, fairly frolicked in their supremacy. Then darkness made itself known and, in doing so, slightly weakened the grip of pain and cold, as the entity that experienced these things began to wonder: what is darkness? Whence comes it? Before an answer could be found, hunger and thirst barged to the fore, demanding their own share of attention. The word ‘misery’ occurred to the entity. Why am I beset? Finally, suffocation screamed its arrival, demanding action from its bedeviled host, and the entity, the thing, fought to find air. After some struggle, an extremity – a hand – achieved freedom. The rest of the thing followed suit, until it dragged itself from the frozen, broken ground and rolled itself over onto the open forest floor. Suffocation fled, as if it had never existed. Darkness receded, though it would not be banished completely. Pain, cold, hunger and thirst remained to mock the creature. Exhaustion arrived, to chase them away.
The poor thing slept.
Of all its devils, cold was the one that demanded the creature awaken and act. Slowly, in fresh agony, the wretched thing complied, strove to stand. Along the way, it was startled to discover the darkness had gone: its enemies were dwindling in number, then. It could breathe and it could see; it had only to contend with pain, cold, hunger and thirst. Somewhere in the distance, it could hear the sounds of a stream rippling against an unseen shore. Thirst would shortly be vanquished, too.
Working its way towards the stream, the creature was struck by a new revelation: I am female, I am a she. If there was more to know about herself, it eluded her. She staggered around and past trees – trees! – and eventually managed to reach the stream, where memory ambushed her again. I have been here before, she thought. I have…there was…But she could not piece any more together, to her enduring frustration.
There was ice in the stream, and though its waters chased away the creature’s thirst, it only magnified the cold she felt. I can live with pain and hunger, but if I do not find warmth, I will die. She looked down at her hands and wrists, which were covered with frightful scars and seemed horribly discolored. I have been hurt. She attempted to get a look at herself in the stream’s calmer waters and failed, for her image would not come together. Hesitantly, she reached up and pawed through her matted hair to her ruined scalp, where great craters and gashes had crusted over. When she retracted her hand, it came away with strands of dirty red hair.
Who am I? She thought. What am I?
*****
Long & Company, In Camp
Before they could formulate a plan for dealing with Gorivar, Long and his crew needed to scout the Shaper’s defenses, determine the number and nature of his men and identify the likeliest avenue of escape if things went south.
Naturally, Spirk was the obvious choice for this task.
“Why me?” he whined.
“You know damned well,” Long replied. “You’re the only one here can walk up to that woodsman’s cabin without bein’ seen. That’s your special talent, lad, and don’t deny it!”
Spirk Nessno was not a narcissist. Neither was he given to delusions of grandeur – not since a night long ago when he’d been beaten for thinking too much of himself. But he had to allow that maybe, just maybe-kinda-perhaps, he had a gift for walking wherever he’d a mind to.
“Alright,” he said. “What am I lookin’ for?”
“We wanna know how many men guard the place at night. On the outside.”
“And where they’re located,” Yendor cut in.
Long nodded. “Right. How many near the front door, how many on the sides. And if you see anything else…”
“Like what?”
“Dogs, special weapons, whatever…let us know about ‘em. I don’t wanna go over there and get mauled by an animal you didn’t tell us about…”
“I wouldn’t forget that…” the young man protested. “But when should I go?”
Long wasted no time in answering. “Nightfall. I’m sure they won’t see you, but there’s nothin’ wrong with a little added surety.”
Spirk could not disagree.
*****
Vykers, In Lunessfor
The drunk’s death left a bad taste in Igraine’s mouth. Vykers was not a torturer and never had been. If he’d possessed his usual body, he’d have beaten the man to death and called it good. But Igraine would have broken her fists on the man’s skull long before Vykers managed to finish him, so he’d chosen other means. It was frustrating. Maddening, even. What had seemed like justice had turned out, in reality, to be nothing more than sadism, the act of a knave…or a long-abused woman to whom unattainable vengeance had suddenly become possible. Had the Reaper acted out of some sort of reverse Brouton’s Bind, some latent connection to Igraine’s former self that had demanded such actions? Was the girl secretly in charge, or had Vykers’ rage simply gotten the better of him? If the drunk hadn’t died of an apparent heart attac
k, the Reaper might have been in that dark closet still. He was so furious, he could have killed the man all over again.
But it did nothing to advance his plans, nothing to bring him closer to that one act of vengeance that truly mattered: settling the score with Arune. If that were all, it would have been more than enough. But Vykers felt he owed Her Majesty a measure of punishment as well. After all, she’d been manipulating him for years, and he always turned out the worse for it. He’d saved her kingdom and wound up an invalid, confined to a sickbed for what felt like eternity. Later, he’d likely saved her life – or whatever it was Gods endured – when she’d fallen victim to one of Mahnus’ traps and he’d had to free her. True, she’d cured him of the terrible, never-healing hole in his gut, but she might’ve done so right after he’d received it. That she had not until he forced the issue galled him still. And then to discover that the Queen had conjured four living replicas of him for the purpose of keeping him at bay?
What was Her Majesty after? Did she think these imposters could protect her from Vykers? More likely, their creation was meant to insult him in some way, perhaps even to goad him into doing something rash. Well, he wouldn’t give the old bitch the satisfaction. He would ignore her little toys unless and until he found a way to use them for his own ends.
The Reaper’s anger burnt away his guilt at torturing the drunk to death, incinerated even the memory of it, so that, once again, he wanted blood, was itching to mete out punishment, and consequences be damned.
It was in this mood that he arrived at the recently refurbished gates of House Blackbyrne. With Igraine’s small fists and lack of mass, Vykers had trouble generating the kind of booming knock needed to grab anyone’s attention beyond the wall, so he resorted to tossing stones over it.
“’Ere, you, stop that afore I put an arrow in yer gullet!” someone yelled from the gate’s far side.
“I’m here to speak with your Chief o’ Security, Kendell,” Vykers yelled back in Igraine’s voice.
“On ooze behalf?”
“On…on the Reaper’s. On Tarmun Vykers’ behalf.”
There was a prolonged silence, during which Vykers thought the speaker must’ve fallen asleep. Then, a small window opened in the gate’s right-hand side. The business end of a crossbow pressed up against the opening.
Corpse Cold (Immortal Treachery Book 3) Page 6
