“No. Not this way.”
Those four little words pulled Vykers up short. The goblin, in front, had also stopped and was slowly backing towards him.
“What?”
“Shhh shhh shhh,” the goblin whispered. “Back the way we came and quickly.”
Vykers reached out a hand – Igraine’s hand – and pushed Turley to one side, so he could see for himself what the problem was. The goblin stumbled and slid down the wall, struggling as he went to make as little noise as possible. Up ahead, a large group of goblins blocked the passageway. The only mercy was that they were facing away from Turley and Igraine. For the moment.
The Reaper was always itching for a fight, but he let Turley gently pull him away anyhow. There were too many unknowns, after all. How many goblins had there been up ahead? What had they been looking at? What lay beyond them?
“I know another way,” the goblin breathed once he’d led Igraine safely away.
“You’d better,” said Igraine.
Turley winced at the anger in Igraine’s voice, but bowed his head and resumed limping along.
“What was going on back there, anyway?”
Turley seemed to sink into himself just the slightest bit as he mumbled, “Moorsit.”
“What?”
“Moorsit,” Turley echoed. “They gather to expel weak ones. Or one.”
“You mean you.”
“Yes.”
This last was said so softly, so quietly, that Vykers might have imagined it, had he not also seen the defeated slump to his companion’s shoulders. “So, they’re tired of waiting for you to kill yourself. What now?” he asked the little goblin.
A shrug. “I die, I suppose.”
“Oh no,” Igraine objected. “If anyone’s gonna kill you, it’s me.”
Turley cast an odd, sideways glance at Igraine. “That is a comfort, mistress.”
“None o’ your bastard kin are gonna kill you, is what I mean.”
Turley offered a rueful little laugh. “I don’t see how you can stop them.”
Again, Vykers lost his patience and shoved the goblin into the wall, turning his face around until he and Igraine were nearly nose-to-nose. “You got no idea who I am, Turley. And you don’t wanna know, either.”
The goblin withered under the malice in Igraine’s eyes and turned his own towards the floor. “As you say, mistress.”
Even the word ‘mistress’ grated on Vykers’ nerves, but there was nothing he could do about it. “Let’s find that other route you mentioned,” Igraine said at last. “I’m tired of all o’ this chit chat.”
They walked for a while, and then Turley slowed to another stop. “The path ahead is…challenging,” he warned.
Vykers adjusted Igraine’s stance. “What’s that mean?”
“First, we go past Her Majesty’s throne room. Her powerful magics seep through our spy holes into the passageway. It’s possible the Queen will discover your presence.”
Igraine smirked. “No, she won’t. I’ve taken steps to prevent that. And if even she does, I’d like to see her catch me!”
“I see,” the goblin said dubiously.
“But you said ‘first.’ What else we gotta worry about?”
A look of profound anxiety came to Turley’s face. “There is a dark, an evil thing in the wall beyond the throne room. Something Her Majesty has stashed for safekeeping. Most find the tunnel too painful to approach.”
Immediately, the dark, evil thing was all Vykers cared about. “What is this thing?”
“None of us knows. None of us would dare get close enough to find out.”
“You said the tunnel’s painful…?”
“As if the very air were poisoned.”
“Show me.”
*****
Rem, Inside the Castle
It was just like the Queen’s Shaper to keep Rem waiting. Cindor had yanked him away from his friends, deposited him in his chambers, and left him to rot from just after sun up to well after sundown. Mahnus knew what the rush was all about, if the Shaper couldn’t even be bothered to greet him when he arrived. Rem would like to have taken a nap – the Shaper’s chair looked comfortable enough, if the actor could work up the courage to sit in it. But the rest of the room’s contents were too odd to be ignored for the length of time sleep demanded. No, Rem would no more shut his eyes to the Shaper’s weird menagerie of critters and trinkets than drink from a tavern’s jakes. And so he paced, stood, leaned, and even found the courage to sit upon the floor. Just when he got more or less comfortable, the Shaper materialized behind him, nearly frightening the actor to death.
“What are you doing down there?” Cindor demanded.
“Waiting for you.”
“Is that so? I would have thought the chair a more suitable place for that, but I’m glad you avoided it. I understand you actors have the most regrettable hygiene. “
Rem stood up, dusted the seat of his trousers off. “You were misinformed, milord. A duchess could eat off my naked bum. In fact, one has. But you were saying?”
Cindor stepped out of the shadows, and Rem noticed his new scars for the first time.
“Have you always been so cavalier, I wonder? And will you continue to be through what’s coming?”
Rem swallowed, as subtly as possible. “Why? What’s coming?”
The Shaper snapped his fingers and a small flame burst into existence beneath a tea kettle across the room. Cindor brushed past without responding immediately, almost as if he hadn’t heard Rem’s question. Rem would be damned, though, before he’d give in to the wizard’s gamesmanship. He watched without further comment as Cindor brewed himself (but not Rem) a cup of tea and then ensconced himself in his chair.
“Excellent,” he sighed. “No trace of actor musk.”
It almost seemed as if the Shaper liked him on some level. Almost. Still, Rem refused to take the bait. “You mentioned something coming.”
Cindor looked startled to find Rem still standing nearby. “Ah! Yes, what’s coming is…you’re going.”
Rem was not amused. “You brought me all the way here from the north to tell me I’m going.”
“Yes. To the north.”
Rem cackled, incredulous. “You brought me from the north to send me to the north.” Oh, the things he would like to have said.
The Shaper blew softly upon the surface of his tea. “If that is how you choose to perceive it. The fact is, Her Majesty has dispatched your old comrade-in-arms, Captain Kittins, to investigate some rumors about the Reaper’s activities up north.”
Rem threw wide his arms. “So? What’s that to do with me?”
Cindor spoke a single syllable and Rem became paralyzed. “Listen, and I’ll tell you,” he said sternly. “You know more of this Kittins than I. The Queen may trust him, but I do not. I would like you to follow him. Act as my eyes and ears on this journey. If anything untoward occurs, I can be there in an instant.”
Oh, yes, there was a lot Rem would like to have said, but he was reduced to glaring at the magician.
“Hmmm,” the Shaper intoned. “I think I almost like you like this. Silent, I mean. You should consider having your tongue removed.”
Rem glared.
“In any event, where was I? Ah yes, you’re following the captain. It shouldn’t be difficult, as big and ugly as he is – and he’s gotten a good deal uglier since you saw him last, I’ll wager. He’ll be headed northeast, and I’m certain he’ll leave many jaws agape as he passes. Should you have any trouble in finding him, however, remember this: he’s chasing rumors of the Reaper. Find the source of those rumors, and you’ll find the captain.” The Shaper concluded by tossing a small purse on a workbench nearby and removing whatever hex he’d put upon the actor. “That’s for provisions, and there,” Cindor pointed, “is the door.”
*****
The Giants, In the Forest
The captive Svarra hissed and spat like a cat. Or maybe a snake. Or perhaps some damnable combination of cat and snake. Eoman ke
pt his big right foot planted squarely on the beast’s chest, whilst he held his axe under its chin. The warning was clear enough: move, and you’re dead. The creature looked up at both giants with strange, filmy eyes. Eoman would’ve thought it blind, but it gave every sign of seeing him quite clearly.
“You speak the old tongue?” Eoman demanded.
The Svarra hissed.
The king of giants turned to his companion. “Just our luck we’d catch an especially stupid one.”
“Maybe that’s why we caught him,” Karrakan suggested.
Eoman scowled. “I’m for tearin’ his head off and making a fetish out of it.”
“Get off!” the Svarra shouted.
The giants exchanged looks.
“Queen’s tongue?” Karrakan asked, arching an eyebrow in surprise.
“Figures, really,” Eoman replied, disgusted. Switching over to the human’s language, he readdressed the Svarra. “What are you doing out here?”
If the creature was caught off guard by his captors’ sudden change of language, he didn’t show it. “Hunting.”
Eoman leaned on his right leg, putting still more pressure onto the Svarra’s chest. “Hunting? This wood is fouled with the tracks of your kind. You’re not hunting.”
The Svarra snarled and howled, but said nothing worthwhile.
The king of giants nodded at his companion. “Give him something to howl about.”
A spark shot from Karrakan’s staff and into the Svarra’s jaw, causing the creature to twitch and writhe as if it were being eaten alive by ants. And, yes, it howled in earnest now.
“You’re not worried the noise will attract its fellows?” Karrakan asked.
“I’ll be disappointed if it doesn’t,” Eoman grinned.
The two giants spent another half hour interrogating their prisoner, and, finally, Eoman stomped down with his full weight, collapsing the Svarra’s chest and sending a cascade of blood out of its mouth and nose.
“That was messy,” Karrakan sighed unhappily.
“What? You think he deserved better?”
“No. I just think it’s going to get a lot messier before we’re done.”
“I’m only sorry none of his mates showed up. We didn’t learn much from this one.”
Karrakan looked down at the corpse. “Might be that tells us more than you think.”
Eoman looked askance at his friend. “Oh?”
“Either his secret’s worth dying to protect…or there is no secret.”
“Svarren don’t migrate in such big numbers unless they’re about something,” Eoman insisted.
“Then their secret is worth dying to protect.”
“Let’s see how many of ‘em feel that way…”
A half day’s hike brought them within sight of a large group of Svarren, forging across a half-frozen river in the waning light of afternoon.
“Damned fool time o’ day to be fording a river.”
“Well, that’s Long Teeth for you.”
“How many, you reckon?”
Karrakan squinted into the distance. “Forty, fifty.”
“Can you and your little…sparkles…do anything to slow their crossing?” Eoman asked, gesturing towards the river.
Karrakan beamed in reply. Then he whirled his staff ‘round and ‘round over his head before finally flicking the end towards the river. An improbable wave of will-o-wisps spewed from the staff and streaked at the Svarren, who bellowed and roared in surprise. That surprise rapidly became fear, however, when the ice around their legs began to thicken and spread. In no time, several Svarren became trapped, frozen in place from the waist down. Seeing this, a few of their comrades tried in vain to pull them free, only managing to ensnare themselves as well. Others made a break for the far shore, or attempted to retrace their steps and regain the near. It mattered little, though, as the ice had plans of its own and clutched at the savages with a will that would not be denied.
Eoman’s smile was wider than Karrakan had seen it since they’d reunited. “Can you freeze the whole river enough to support our weight? I’d like to go out there and break some heads.”
It was a cruel request, Karrakan knew, but he’d never known the Svarren who was worthy of mercy. “No trouble at all!” he boasted and made it so.
The king of giants trod almost gleefully onto the ice, hefted his axe, and limbered up his arms. “Now,” he yelled in the Queen’s tongue, “which one o’ you ugly bastards wants to tell me what you’re up to?”
Even immobilized and helpless, the Svarren were not prone to cooperate.
“I was hopin’ you’d feel that way,” Eoman grinned. Then he swung his axe.
*****
The False Reaper, In Camp
The False Reaper lay on his back on a bearskin rug in the middle of his tent. His eyes were closed, and though there was no one else nearby, he was not alone, for he was haunted, tormented by the spirits of those he’d been in previous lives. In his mind, he stood amongst them in a darkened space. A room? A tent? A cave? Hard to say and unimportant in the grand scheme of things. What mattered was the never ending contest of wills the boy endured.
For a moment, he shut out his companions’ voices and studied their faces. In the foreground, the End-of-All-Things stood shrieking at him in his typically self-centered manner. His pale hair and paler eyes somehow blazed in the darkness with a fire that burned cold instead of hot. Across from him, to the boy’s left, a more intriguing being murmured ominous somethings in the young man’s ear. This creature had a face better suited to a tortoise than a man. Only holes existed where ears and nose should have been. For eyes, the creature had drops of pitch so black that not even light reflected off them. Beyond the tortoise-man, loomed a woman so short, she would barely have reached the boy’s chest, had she been closer. Shaggy hair cascaded over a heavy brow, giving the woman a primitive aspect. There were others: a dark-skinned man with white hair, a tall, gaunt woman. Farther into the gloom, more figures paced or wandered in and out of view as they felt the need to make their views known. In all, the boy counted nine other iterations of himself. Or perhaps he and eight of the others were iterations of the first being, whichever one that had been. It mattered little to the false Reaper. It was his turn to rule.
“You had your chances, and look where you’ve ended up!” the boy admonished. “Why should I pay the least attention to your thoughts on anything?”
“Because,” the End sneered, “you would not exist but for us!”
The boy laughed at this. “And if I did not, I’d never know or care.”
“Still,” the Tortoise whispered, “you risk joining us sooner than you’d like if you ignore us altogether.”
“Failure for you is failure for all of us,” the little rough-featured woman added.
“And success?”
“The same.”
“I think not,” the boy replied. “I am not such a fool as to face the combined forces of Alheria and the Reaper. And I will not face them on a field of their choosing! When we engage, it shall be upon my terms.”
The End cackled. “Oh, bravely spoken, little one! Bravely spoken! And yet, what have you accomplished thus far that I have not made possible?”
“And I!” the tortoise intoned.
“And all of us,” the small woman concluded. “And this is why we must act together.”
The boy resisted. “Must?”
“You think you understand our previous failings?” the white-haired man challenged. “Each of us failed because we insisted on doing things our own way, making our own stamp upon the world. Had we consulted our…forebears…”
“So, it’s all down to hubris, is it? Too much pride. Is that it?” the boy cut in, irritated.
The faces of the other nine stared back at him, momentarily nonplussed by the vehemence in the boy’s voice.
“Understand something,” the white-haired man said at last. “There is no guarantee of reincarnation. Despite your immediate predecessor’s claims,
we might have been lost forever had not your servant, Omeyo, decided to salvage the End-of-All-Things’ brains and heart. We might have seeped right into the soil.”
“But I planned…” the End objected.
“Shut up!” the white-haired man roared. “As the boy says, you’ve had your turn, Anders, and you squandered it!” The man then turned his full attention back on the boy. “All that matters now is that you understand the precariousness of your – or our – position. Take care, be mindful, leave nothing to chance.”
That, at least, seemed like sound advice to the boy.
He forced himself awake, temporarily silencing the voices of his other iterations, and considered what he’d learned. At least one of his former selves was no fool, might in fact even be useful as a sort of advisor.
The false Reaper sat up.
The next time he fought Tarmun Vykers, the outcome would be much, much different.
*****
Arune, In Teshton
She must have made some kind of mistake. She’d known where Aoife had started her journey, as well as where she’d been going. Arune assumed – quite naturally – that the A’Shea would pass through any town between those two points. She’d been wrong. She’d waited in Teshton. And waited. And waited. Finally, she rented a better, more secure room and sent out Questing Eyes and Ears.
But she’d found nothing.
And this made the Shaper paranoid. How could anyone with as powerful a presence as the A’Shea simply disappear? Was Aoife intentionally hiding her actions from Vykers, or had she been waylaid by an unknown party?
A disturbing possibility presented itself: what if Vykers-the-girl had somehow run into Aoife by accident and decided to reveal herself as the real Tarmun Vykers? It seemed unlikely, far-fetched, even. Nonetheless, Arune could not shake the feeling that this was exactly what had transpired.
Again, she sent out Questing Eyes and Ears. This time, however, she searched for any sign or mention of a young woman with violent tendencies, animosity towards the Reaper, or professed hatred for an absent Shaper named Arune. It wasn’t like Vykers to lie down and accept the lot he’d been given. No; small as he was now, weak as he was, he’d fight to get his life back. And, barring that, he’d fight for revenge. He would never give up until he had it.
Corpse Cold (Immortal Treachery Book 3) Page 16
