All four men pulled to a stop, shared a look, and grinned at one another.
“T’aint dancin’ we got in mind,” a third man offered. “You don’t wanna get hurt, you’ll do as we say.”
As the man spoke, Vykers examined his stance, as well as that of his comrades. The Reaper noted which hands held weapons and the type and length of each. He observed other weapons in belts, or partially hidden under jerkins or heavy fleece vests. He studied the conditions of his would-be muggers’ boots, and he spied frost in the shadows at the base of the walls on either side of the street. Finally, he sized up and understood the space available for movement between and around his foes. All this, in seconds. Even without his original body, he felt more than ready for violence.
The men likewise sized up Igraine and couldn’t imagine why this sweet little slip of a thing hadn’t turned tail and run off yet.
“Come on, then!” the girl spat in challenge.
They came.
The man in front lunged at Igraine, flailing at her knife with his heavily gloved left hand whilst his right groped for her hair. The men behind him spread out, hoping to prevent the girl from slipping past on either side.
Vykers had no trouble ducking under the first man’s arms and spinning into his gut, where he planted Igraine’s blade halfway to its hilt. Halfway? Vykers thought in angry disappointment. Hate being this weak! Meanwhile, the target of Vykers’ wrath groaned in pain and doubly so when Igraine yanked her blade back out and whirled on to the next victim.
The next man was smarter, holding his short sword at arm’s length, trying to keep Igraine from doing to him what she’d done to his friend. A third man grabbed the first and lugged him over to a wall, where he collapsed and lay mewling pitifully. And these are men? Vykers sneered. The fourth man moved as carefully as possible to get behind Igraine. Vykers let him. Baiting the fellow into charging, Igraine stepped aside at the last possible moment and smirked as his momentum carried him right into the path of his sneaky companion, resulting in a brief but not-quite-brief-enough tangle of arms, legs and weapons. In the moment of their confusion, Igraine again swooped in and slashed at the backs of legs, gashing through tendons in knees and ankles. Both men went down, howling.
The remaining man, having forsaken his wounded friend, turned towards the uproar and immediately assumed a defensive posture. He was a lean, bandy-legged fellow with a riot of freckles and a wild mop of brown hair. To Vykers’ surprise, he was smiling. “Well, that was a right tits-up, eh?” he said merrily. “For us, I mean. Not you.”
Vykers was less inclined to kill a man with a sense of humor, though he couldn’t have said why under torture.
“I’m of a mind,” the smiling man continued, “to mosey back the way I come and forget these last few moments ever ‘appened.”
Igraine rose to her full height, lowered her blade just the tiniest bit. “Another day, I’d’ve never let you. But today…” The Reaper was not inclined to be merciful, but he had other, more pressing business on his mind.
Smiles nodded, slowly pulled a pipe from his pocket, slid it between his teeth and sheathed his weapon. “Think I’ll go and find a light,” he said amiably. “You have a good ‘un.”
Vykers waited until the man had gone before he turned his attention to the wounded. The man with the belly wound was likely doomed, unless an A’Shea came by unexpectedly. The other two idiots would live, but they’d never be able to run again. The Reaper didn’t care. They’d been more than happy, the four of them, to attack a lone girl. Lame as they now were, it was entirely possible these predators would soon become prey. The thought of it made Vykers grin.
After his brief but eventful delay, the Reaper resumed his journey. Upon reaching the end of the street, however, two new figures rounded the corner on his right. Both were familiar. The shabby red knight locked eyes with Igraine and mumbled something to his companion, a towering Ntambi warrior. They stopped in their tracks and watched as Igraine moved past. Once she’d turned the corner herself, Vykers picked up the pace in order to put as much distance between himself and his former trophies as possible. Perhaps a minute later, he heard boots slapping the cobblestones behind him, as both men endeavored to catch up. They’d seen the damage he’d done to the gang up the street and – what? – wanted to question him? Why? Vykers simply did not have the time or the patience for such games. He put on another burst of speed and disappeared into the warren of streets beyond the next intersection. He would find the brothel later; for now, he needed only to remain free of his former slaves.
*****
Kittins, In Lunessfor
At sunset, Kittins returned to the alchemist’s shop, only to find it again on the wrong side of the street. He was dead certain it had been on his right the previous evening, and now it was on his left. What kind of fresh fuckery was this? He stood, watching the sun’s last light disappear on the west end of the street. Satisfied, he turned and pounded a heavy fist on the alchemist’s door, which creaked open at the blow. Kittins’ sword was out of its scabbard faster ‘n a bat swoops down on a moth. He used the point to push the door open wider. As expected, the shop’s interior was dark. An equal absence of sound greeted the big man’s ears, no matter how long he held his breath and listened. He stepped in through the door and felt gooseflesh come to his arms and legs. Something…Once his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw a pair of legs on the floor, jutting out from behind the counter. The alchemist, he recalled, had promised to produce his own corpse…was this the result? Proceeding around the counter, the rest of the body and the answer to Kittins’ question revealed themselves: the alchemist was dead.
Or was he?
Kittins himself was evidence of the uncanny. Why should he suppose otherwise from a man who dealt in it by profession? Bending down, he discovered the alchemist’s head had been separated from his neck, though little blood had spilled forth onto his clothing or the floor beneath him. Suspicious, Kittins dragged both body and head out onto the doorstep, where the light was better. That there might be witnesses to his actions bothered him not at all, and he wanted to make sure the head’s half of the neck and the body’s half were of a piece. He was soon satisfied that they were, which begged the question: why separate them? There were easier ways to kill a man than lopping his head off – a quick thrust to the heart, for example, would serve just as well. And surely the alchemist hadn’t beheaded himself…? He must’ve hired someone. That made no sense, either, since the previous night, Kittins had come for the very same purpose. Why not let Kittins do it, after all?
A voice from inside the shop called out, “Take my head and go. We’ll speak again one day.”
What in the infinite hells? Kittins turned from the body, stood, and the door slammed shut. As taken aback as he was by this strange turn of events, he knew better than to try the door. It would be locked and warded against any attempt at entry.
He bent down again and grasped the head by an ear, pulling it up into the crook of his right arm. He let loose with a dry, ironic laugh. The people of Lunessfor were in for a treat tonight if they chanced to catch sight of the Dead One stalking by with a severed head in one arm. There’d be many a wench huddling closer to her man this night, and no mistake.
It was Cindor’s reaction, however, that most interested Kittins. The Queen’s Shaper had sent him on what might as well have been a suicide mission and yet the captain would return victorious, without having sustained any injuries or exerting himself in the least. If that didn’t stick in Cindor’s craw, he had even colder blood than Kittins imagined.
On that thought, it started to snow. Kittins pressed on, hoping to get back into the castle before too much accumulated. In the first days of his new service to Her Majesty, he’d been forced to go through the castle’s main gates. Eventually, the Queen and her Shaper realized that Kittins’ activities required greater discretion, so he was directed to an out-of-the-way but still heavily guarded entrance where his comings and goings were far l
ess likely to arouse interest. Fortuitously, this entrance was a good deal closer to Kittins’ current position than the main gate, and he expected to be indoors shortly. If there was one kind of weather the big man couldn’t abide, it was snow. Fucking snow. Drown him in a pouring rain, roast him in the desert, but keep him out of the fucking snow. Somewhere off in the night, a loud, low boom sounded. Kittins didn’t even flinch. Whatever it was, someone else could worry about it. Kittins had a Shaper to antagonize.
The castle guards were well-chosen and well-trained. If they felt any shock or surprise at seeing the captain approach with a head under one arm, they gave not the least sign of it. They knew damned well who the Dead ‘Un was, yet they remained as taciturn as mummified corpses. Kittins waved the head at them by way of identification, and they turned slightly to let him pass.
Once inside the castle, Kittins trudged down its long, poorly lit hallways on his way to the Shaper’s wing. He couldn’t wait to see the look on that bastard’s face when he sauntered in and tossed the alchemist’s head at him.
But he would have to: the Shaper’s door was locked and, Kittins surmised, probably warded as well. He considered leaving the head on the floor outside Cindor’s rooms, but he knew that, as his only proof of success in his assignment, the thing was too valuable. It would be just like the duplicitous Shaper to take it and pretend he’d never seen it.
Kittins hoisted the head to eye level, gave it a good once over. He supposed he’d have to keep it in his rooms until the Shaper summoned him. There were a couple of things he didn’t like about this arrangement, but he’d have to live with them. He’d been through worse. And the unexpected free time would give him the chance to think more on Cindor’s demise. Resigned, Kittins stomped off to his own chambers. One way or another, he’d bring his days as the Shaper’s lackey to an end.
*****
The Boy & Omeyo, In Camp
He was asleep, and then he was awake. Confused, Omeyo sat up, looked about himself. The boy stood not three paces distant, watching him with avid interest.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
Omeyo dared not take another moment to assess. “Awake, Master. Wide awake.”
“Good,” the boy responded. “I might’ve tried the trusted boot-to-the-backside, but as I need to keep working on my Shaping, magic seemed a better choice.”
“I am grateful.”
“I am sure you are. It was not done with your comfort in mind, however.”
Of that, Omeyo was likewise sure.
“Now tell me, old man, what you observe about your surroundings?”
Omeyo saw the change in an instant. “The Svarren are gone,” Omeyo almost sobbed in relief. “Excepting…your sergeants,” he said. He almost called them “Tooth and Nail.” But he knew the boy would not be amused, and he seemed in a good mood. Best to keep him so.
“And do you know why?”
This one was trickier. Answer poorly and things could get ugly quickly. “You’ve made a decision about…the Reaper.”
The boy nodded, pleased. Beaming, in fact. “No wonder I’ve kept you alive so long,” he said. “I have indeed reached a decision: we are going to war.”
Omeyo was surely wide awake now. He’d always known this was coming, but he didn’t much understand it.
“I can see you’re at a loss. It has to do with my new name, you see.”
The old general recognized his cue when he heard it. “Your new name?” he asked like a dutiful sycophant. “And how shall we address you henceforth?”
“Call me ‘The Reaper,” the boy commanded, an unmistakable glint of pride in his eyes.
“The Reaper? But won’t…”
“Precisely!” the boy roared, his voice a mixture of triumph and rage. “When Tarmun Vykers hears of the atrocities committed in his name, he will, of course, be compelled to come defend that name and stop those crimes. And we shall be waiting for him.”
Omeyo felt his bowels turn to ice. If the Reaper had not killed him the first time they’d clashed in battle, he assuredly would this time – especially now that there were two Reapers.
The boy laughed. It was a hard, crackling sound devoid of joy. “Your expressions run the gamut from uneasy to terrified. Do you know no other emotions? Do you not look forward to crushing Tarmun Vykers once and for all?”
“Forgive me, Master, I…”
“Reaper. I am the Reaper,” the boy reminded Omeyo, his voice echoing throughout the cave.
“Yes, Reaper,” Omeyo fawned. “I only…where is your host?”
The boy sat down on a pile of pelts, his makeshift throne. “That’s the beauty of it! The Svarren have a grudge against Tarmun Vykers. They feel they’ve been ill-used by him. They tell me they were sucked into a couple of his conflicts, without warning or reason. Their shamans feel the Reaper used magic to cozen them into servitude and pointless death. And now it seems they want revenge!” The boy let this sink in for a few seconds and then concluded, “I shall give it to them. This latest Skargreit was my successful attempt to unite the countless Svarren tribes. Soon, the Reaper and his Svarren companions shall sweep down on the villages of men and our savage friends shall glut and gorge themselves on human flesh. Tarmun Vykers cannot help but respond.”
There was nothing else to be said, but “It is an excellent plan…Reaper.”
The boy nodded his agreement. “Gather your things, Omeyo. You shall soon be a general again.”
*****
Aoife, On the Road
The farther she got from Vykers, the more convinced she became that he’d changed in some fundamental way, that he’d undergone some strange metamorphosis and instead of emerging as a brighter, sharper version of himself, he’d turned into a slug, a dull, shapeless thing of slime. Aoife told herself this feeling was an overreaction on her part, that she’d merely been disappointed, after all they’d been through together, in the Reaper’s lack of respect for her. In many ways, he seemed a better man, seemed more patient, seemed more humble. And that was the problem: Tarmun Vykers – the real Tarmun Vykers – was a wildfire, and wildfires are neither patient nor humble, but exist only to destroy.
The A’Shea felt a twinge of self-loathing that she’d ever found such a creature attractive. It went against everything she believed and everything she yet aspired to be or achieve. Thus, she wanted, needed to get as far from Vykers’ pernicious influence as possible until she was safe within the walls of Her Majesty’s castle in Lunessfor. To accomplish this, she had to reach one of her groves and make use of the Here-There. Strong and resourceful Vykers might be, but he and his Shaper could never follow Aoife through the Here-There. It was a magic only she and the fey were privy to.
And so she forged onwards, pressing ever south and east. It was bitter cold in the forest, both night and day, but the A’Shea didn’t care. She’d become almost a thing of the woods, herself, and even in the open fields or on the moors, she was able to make herself comfortable in ways that defied the skills of her sisters.
Comfortable, aye, but driven. For apart from her misgivings about the Reaper, there was also the constant, gnawing worry that her brother had somehow returned. Rather than let this fear feed upon her, however, Aoife resolved to feed upon it instead, to let it fuel her push for Lunessfor, imbue her with the strength of conviction she’d need to convince Her Majesty to act. The truth of it, she felt, was plain: the world could not endure another End-of-All-Things.
Aoife reckoned she could reach the Queen in a week – six days if luck was with her, eight or nine if the weather proved uncooperative. Nine days seemed like eternity.
*****
Spirk, Long & Company, In Camp
“You what, now?” Yendor demanded incredulously. “You say you killed the guards?”
“Not all of ‘em,” Spirk snapped defensively. “Just a couple or so.”
It’s amazing, really, how much skepticism a person can convey with only one eye. Yendor, for example, was emoting as if born to the stag
e, much to Rem’s chagrin. “Or so?” Yendor boomed. “Now, what’s that mean?”
Spirk quailed at the older man’s outburst. “Well,” he stammered, “it means I’m not s’ sure if I killed a full two or not.”
“Explain,” Long commanded.
Spirk explained.
When he’d finished explaining an hour later, the group was as confused as they’d been at the start.
“You say you froze these men with a magic icicle?” Rem asked.
Spirk nodded.
“If he says that’s what ‘e done, that’s what ‘e done,” Ron insisted. “None o’ you seen ‘im at House D’Escurzy.”
It was meant to bolster his friend’s spirits, but Spirk turned pale at the reminder.
“But if he killed them,” Rem went on, “then Gorivar and the rest of his men will be looking for trouble.”
“Not necessarily,” Long cut in. “What’s suspicious about a couple o’ drunken guards freezing to death in a snow storm?”
Eyebrows shot up all around the group, as if directed by magic.
“It’s a fair point,” Yendor conceded.
Long noticed that Spirk did not seem mollified by this possibility, but he didn’t have time or the interest to coddle the young man any further. “Let’s talk about how we’re gonna handle this Gorivar,” he said.
After much discussion, the group decided to kill or disable as many of Gorivar’s men as possible. Once they’d dealt with those outside the cabin, they hoped to lure more out into the night. If they got lucky, there’d be no one left inside to defend Gorivar, but the bastard himself. If, on the other hand, Gorivar and his last few men barricaded themselves within, Long felt confident he and his crew would emerge as victors in the resultant siege. A thing like Gorivar couldn’t last long without constant feeding: either he’d starve, he’d eat his men, or they’d eat him. Surprisingly, none of those prospects bothered Long in the least.
It was well past midnight when they set out for Gorivar’s cabin. As expected, they put Spirk in the lead to scout the way ahead. Rather than split up, they figured their best chance of success lay in attacking whomever they encountered as a solid five. Long was comfortable with five on two, three or even four. If it came down to one man apiece, though…Best not to think about it.
Corpse Cold (Immortal Treachery Book 3) Page 9
