“Used to dream of. Having a son or five.”
“And now you’re afraid the ladies will run in terror at your visage?”
Kittins would have laughed if he’d been able. “They’ve been doing that. Since the End. But now…”
“You’re a monster, yes. No face to speak of, the rest of you an horrendous mass of scars…”
The sound of wheezing in the far bed let Kittins know that his suffering was Cindor’s delight. Her Majesty gestured at the Shaper, and he went silent.
“What’s the point in this?” Kittins demanded, nodding in Cindor’s direction.
“I should have thought it obvious,” Her Majesty responded. “It’s a test. And the mere fact you’re asking doesn’t bode well.”
But Kittins had lost interest at the word “test.” He’d lost all patience with others’ plans for him, too. Sooner or later, he had to escape Her Majesty’s influence. Only then could he resume his quest for vengeance.
*****
The False Reaper, On the Attack
They came out of the hills just before dawn, silent as snowfall – a challenge for Svarren, but one whose rewards promised to exceed all precedent, if the Master could be believed. And because of their silence, they managed to reach the first homes before the town’s dogs caught wind of them and set to baying their primordial alarm.
The little town’s militia scarcely had time to arm itself ere the savages were through the outer circle of homes and into the more populous center. Before many of the townsfolk even had the opportunity to rub the sleep from their eyes, they were granted permanent sleep.
The Svarren burnt, smashed, devoured and ravaged, all whilst repeating the name of Tarmun Vykers over and over in odd, reverential tones. It was not long ‘til they’d butchered everyone in town, save for a single family. As the sun rose, a father, mother and two daughters found themselves in the snow-covered fields behind their cottage, completely surrounded by a sea of Svarren. The little family pulled together as tightly as possible. The mother and her eldest daughter closed their eyes, not wanting to see their deaths approaching. The father and his youngest daughter, however, kept their eyes wide – he, in order to fend off the first attacker, at least, and she, in simple defiance. A voice at the back of the Svarren spoke a single word and the creatures parted, allowing the speaker passage to the doomed family.
A figure in crude armor appeared, strolling almost casually into the center of gathering.
“Who are you?” the father demanded with a slight quaver in his voice.
“Ah!” the armored figure replied, “There are four of you. Excellent.”
“Who are you?” the youngest daughter repeated boldly. She would not live to see her next meal, perhaps, but she’d done her father proud.
The stranger advanced and put out a hand, as if to touch the girl’s hair, and she batted it away. Her father gasped. The mass of Svarren fell silent, and this time, the stranger’s hand moved so fast it was barely visible. He grabbed the girl by her hair and pulled her close to his faceplate. “There are worse things than death, girl.” He manipulated her head so that she could see the Svarren surrounding her.
“Please don’t,” the girl’s father said as forcibly as he dared.
“Or perhaps I should give the other two to my Svarren and make the little one watch…” the stranger mused aloud.
“I’d rather you killed us all,” the mother said at last.
“You’d rather?” the stranger laughed. “You’d rather, would you?” He turned to the Svarren, now practically drooling upon the little family. “Our captives would prefer we killed them! Isn’t that wonderful?”
If there’s any sound more frightening than the bloodthirsty howling of Svarren, it has to be their laughter. The family seemed to shrink under the weight of it, as if they would melt into the snow beneath their feet.
“Your desires,” the stranger snapped, “are of no interest to me.” He waved his hand, and the Svarren ceased laughing. “You asked who I am,” he said to the father. “I am the Reaper.” He was gratified to see confusion and yet more fear on the man’s face. “Your little girl, here, will travel south and tell anyone she finds that I have mustered an army and intend to claim my kingdom at long last. Your other daughter, the coward, will go north with the same message. Their dam shall go west with the same, and you, east. You’ll likely never meet again, but with any luck, one or more of you may survive.” So saying, he turned back to his Svarren and said “Give me four teams of five, to ensure these good folks do as I’ve commanded. Run them until they drop.”
In no time, the little family, each of its members weeping, was ushered out of the False Reaper’s sight, though not out of his awareness. “Let us make camp here whilst we scout our next target. Your brethren,” he announced to the Svarren, “need to know where to find us. They’ll have an easier time of it if we if we’re not spread all over the countryside.”
Tooth and Nail nodded their agreement.
Omeyo, however, bit his tongue. It seemed he was destined to keep making the same mistakes over and over, landing himself in the same predicaments. Again, he was part of a gathering hoard, led by a monster that meant to take on the greatest warrior the world had ever known. Omeyo anticipated a similar result, though he very much doubted he’d survive this second go-round.
*****
Vykers, In Lunessfor
With the sunrise, construction began in Camis’ yard, and Vykers’ latest plan was in motion at last. He was pleased with the efficiency of those he’d hired, for although the prospect of wasted money bothered him not at all, he was positively itching to get inside the castle, and wasted time would have been unendurable.
In less than an hour, the solid framework of a gazebo-like structure rose around the execution block. Shortly thereafter, walls of thick canvas enclosed the space, making the whole thing look like a multi-tiered cake. By noon, artists had arrived and begun painting the canvas. Curious locals wandered by occasionally and were told the structure was meant in celebration of winter and that there would be dancing girls and fireworks after the sun went down. An officious looking fellow came by and demanded to see building permits. Fortunately, Vykers had anticipated such an occurrence and hired a big bruiser to handle both intimidation and bribes. The official went away with a handful of Merchants and his dignity in tatters.
By late afternoon, the structure was complete. The bruiser stood guard while Vykers awaited his “dancing girls,” some additional muscle, and the fireworks master. A sizeable crowd had gathered along the yard’s periphery, but the Reaper was not concerned. By and large, people were fools for spectacle.
Just as the first flakes of snow began to fall, the dancers arrived – a mob of scantily clad whores whose only nod to the weather was a bit of fur here and there. Behind them came five large, burly fellows that Vykers had hired away from their regular jobs as blacksmiths, stone masons, and the like. Bringing up the rear, as if they’d all travelled together, was the fireworks master. Being something of a celebrity, his appearance set off a round of cheers amongst the spectators that quelled the catcalls offered the whores. As planned, the Bruiser lifted a flap on the structure’s exterior and the fireworks master and the whores crept inside. Nobody seemed to notice that Igraine had joined in with the women. Moments later, the girls reappeared on the structure’s topside, on the first and second levels. Then the fireworks master opened a hatch on the third level and climbed into view, setting his large case of surprises by his side. Finally, the muscle went through the flap, which was then closed and guarded by the Bruiser. At the edges of the crowd, previously unnoticed musicians began to play a boisterous tune, which set the girls to dancing, much to the crowd’s delight. Atop the structure, the fireworks master set off his first explosion.
Vykers didn’t see it, though, because he’d remained inside, on the ground level, directing the muscle into position to slide the executioner’s block aside. He’d intended to wait until the fireworks had
reached their loudest point, but the crowd made so much noise that waiting wasn’t necessary. With a gesture, he set the men in motion, grasping and heaving the big block inch-by-inch to one side. It seemed to take an eternity, during which time, the interior of Vykers’ structure was intermittently bathed in weird shadows, cast by the fireworks exploding beyond the dancers, just overhead. The Reaper worried that the fireworks master would run out of supplies before the secret entrance to the castle was exposed, but he needn’t have. A cool draft wafted up from below, carrying with it an odor of dust.
If the muscle were surprised at this turn of events, they kept their thoughts to themselves. They’d been hired to move something heavy…and shut up about it. Igraine had threated Vykers’ ire if they disobeyed this order. That was usually enough to guarantee silence.
“Pull this stone back into place once I’ve gone down,” Vykers instructed. “The man who showed you in has your pay and further instructions.” Vykers pulled a torch from a bundle he’d laid by earlier, sparked it to flame and took the rest under Igraine’s arm. He made a final survey of the men he’d hired, looking each in the eye, and then cautiously stepped to the edge of the hole. A well-fashioned if dusty stairway descended into blackness. “Now, that’s my kind of hole!” Vykers breathed, thinking of his experience in the tunnels of Morden’s Cairn.
About ten steps down, he heard the stone begin to slide back to its former position. He felt no need to look up and confirm this, since the stairwell grew darker by the second and the occasional flashes of fireworks completely disappeared. Up top, he knew the show would go on for another quarter hour or so, after which his builders would disassemble everything and keep the materials as part of their payment. Only the muscle he’d hired knew of the structure’s true purpose, and they’d never defy the Reaper.
Vykers moved down the passageway, all of his senses on alert for anything unexpected – sounds, odors, flashes of movement. The dust beneath his feet – his ridiculous, tiny feet – was undisturbed as far as the light from his torch revealed it. No one had come this way in ages. Consequently, Vykers relaxed, confident that he was unlikely to encounter anyone. Although he usually wielded a sword in battle, he’d always been something of a blunt instrument himself. Now, his success and continued survival depended on stealth and guile, two qualities he’d never tried overmuch to cultivate. Almost, he laughed. It was never too late to learn, it seemed.
Hundreds of steps later, he came to a crossroads of sorts, a square-ish chamber from which other passages led off in unknown directions. Vykers cursed. Which should he take? He moved to the middle of the chamber and considered the entrance of each tunnel. A few looked as if they’d never been used. An equal number appeared quite popular. One, however, stood out as the path most likely to lead into the castle, by virtue of the myriad scuff and scrape marks along its floor and the relative lack of debris. Of all the options, this passage had clearly seen the most use, which meant that it came from or went to the most important destination. With a satisfied smirk, Vykers entered.
After an hour’s walk, though, the Reaper’s confidence in his choice began to wane.
Why am I always choosin’ the wrong fuckin’ tunnel? He asked of the Shaper who was no longer around to hear his complaints. “And the wrong fuckin’ friends,” he said to himself.
Abruptly, he came to a tee in the passage. “Dammit.” He’d chosen left when he should have gone right in Morden’s Cairn. He chose left again. Ten minutes down this latest passage, he came across footprints.
They weren’t human.
*****
The Giantess, On a Farmstead
There was no point in delaying any further.
She rushed at the house and smashed through the door like a boulder thrown from a catapult. In the moment it took her to come to a stop and gain her bearings, she discovered she’d trampled one of the cottage’s occupants into the floor. If he was not yet dead, he was well on his way.
Someone – a man – screamed from across the room, and she looked over just in time to see a sword swooping towards her face. She flung her left arm at it, in hopes of batting it away, but the weapon dug into her flesh, halfway between wrist and elbow. Jerking her arm away, she pulled the sword from her assailant’s hands and made ready to bash the man’s face in with her right fist.
And then she spotted the girl.
Tiny, she was – wouldn’t have come up to the giant’s knees. The child stood in the corner, still clutching her bedclothes, eyes as wide as full moons. There was such fear in those eyes that the giantess felt a pang of…something. Shame? Memory? Whatever it was, it stole her breath, burned worse than the sword still lodged in her arm. With a roar of confusion and frustration, the Wretch yanked the sword free and tossed it aside.
Her attacker retreated a couple of steps and cast about for something else with which to continue his assault.
The giant used the opportunity to storm back through the hole she’d created and dash off into the brightening dawn. At her back, she heard voices – the dying man and the child had not been alone in their home. The giantess continued to run, racing past the barn and making for the woods as fast as her legs would carry her. She felt a sharp blow to her shoulder and without knowing why, understood she’d been hit by an arrow. Unless she eluded pursuit, there would be more and more, until she fell.
Twigs and branches snapped endlessly under her feet; trees flashed by like memories. The sounds of pursuit grew fainter, but the giantess knew she was running from more than corporal jeopardy: the sight of that little girl had awakened something in her mind that threatened far worse than physical harm, that promised more-lasting damage.
The giantess pushed it aside, focusing only on her next step. Arrows continued to fly around and past her. Another one slammed into her lower back. The unseen archer, it seemed, was not to be shaken as easily as his companions. The giantess risked a glance over her shoulder…and tumbled headlong down a steep, almost cliff-like incline, smashing into trees, bushes and boulders as she fell. Finally, the hillside disappeared altogether, leaving her in panicked freefall towards the forest floor far below. She had a moment to wonder how much the impact would hurt, and then she found out.
She was warm. A soft, amber-colored light crept through her cracked eyelids, and the scent of food both tantalized and tortured her nose. If she’d harbored any illusions that things could not get more bewildering, they were quickly dispelled when she opened her eyes all the way.
She lay in a bed, an enormous bed that was nearly giant-sized, with several blankets spread over her aching body. A wondrous pillow supported her head. On a small table to her left sat a pitcher, accompanied by a mug. The light came from an ornate oil lamp on another table to her right. There were windows farther to her right, but they were shuttered against the night.
Was it night already?
The walls of the room were decorated with an intricate woodland mural that stretched from floor to ceiling. Will-o-wisps and faeries danced amongst the mural’s trees and undergrowth. The foot of the bed faced the room’s only door, which was slightly ajar.
The giantess considered calling out, but wasn’t prepared to encounter anyone or anything else at the moment. Her head hurt like the infinite hells – and wasn’t that a curious phrase? Where had it come from, and what did it mean? Her joints throbbed, her left leg was a blaze of agony, and her ribs complained with every breath. But the arrows she’d been stuck with had been removed, so the news was not all bad.
The giantess dozed off, only to be awakened by the sound of the bedroom door creaking open. Apprehensively, she gazed over her blankets to learn the identity of her savior and wondered if she wasn’t in fact still dreaming.
At the foot of her bed stood a matronly, well-groomed and fashionably dressed Svarren woman.
*****
Aoife, On the Road
The last few days of travel would have to be done on foot, or, if she was lucky, on a pony or atop someone’s wagon, bec
ause Aoife’s Here-There could only carry her from grove to grove. And then, only those she’d birthed. Lunessfor and its environs were beyond her magic.
But walking gave her time to think, or, more accurately, to dwell upon the questions that had been plaguing her for leagues. Chief among them was: who had spoken to her of the End’s survival? The voice had been brief, “He lives.” She’d barely had time to register the message, much less note its character. Had it been Vykers’ Shaper? Was it impossible that it might have been Alheria? And could the A’Shea completely rule out hallucination? As much as that prospect disturbed her, it was nothing compared to the thought that the voice had come from Anders, himself.
No matter. Her sisters, the other A’Shea, would help her sort this mess out. Oh, they were wary of her, and some held barely veiled resentment towards her, but when it came to the End-of-All-Things, everyone in the kingdom was on the same side – or had been.
As much as Aoife wanted to share her fears with the Queen, she was also looking forward to a long, hot bath. She’d become impressively self-sufficient over the last few years and could spend months on her own in the deepest wilderness without the least discomfort. But a hot bath was one of life’s great indulgences, and she yearned for one the way a drunk years for his next drink.
Ah, but the Queen. What if Her Majesty refused to see Aoife? Or saw her, but dismissed her concerns? No one alive knew Anders like Aoife, just as no one alive knew they were siblings. That secret might be her trump card, if the A’Shea played it correctly; it might also be her doom if anyone supposed that she and the End shared more than blood. Or they might simply convict her of guilt by association. But of course she hadn’t associated with him since she was a girl, and he…well, he’d been different, then.
Shadows stole across Aoife’s path. Somehow, dusk had snuck up on the A’Shea, catching her all but unawares. I’ve got to pay more attention to the world outside my head, she scolded herself. The cry of a lone wolf somewhere off to her left seemed to underscore the point. And I’ve got to make camp. She was not afraid of the wolf, or even a pack of them. She was as much a thing of the forest now as they were. For all that, she hoped to pass the night without incident.
Corpse Cold (Immortal Treachery Book 3) Page 12
