Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Newsletter Signup
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
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About the Author
Note from the Author
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Reaper’s Awakening: Book One of the Essence Chronicles
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CHAPTER ONE
The common room of the Bull’s Head was packed to nearly bursting, as was often the case once the sun had left the sky, and the men and women of the city put down their smith’s hammers and tailors scissors to grasp pints of ale and decks of cards.
At a glance, an outside observer would note dozens of people having what appeared to be the time of their lives. He would hear the drunken singing of men trying—and failing—to follow the melody of a harp played by a woman whose features were too sharp to be pretty. He would observe the serving women as they made their way around the room, their skirts flashing as they effortlessly avoided the drunken pawing of the tavern’s patrons, their humoring smiles never faltering.
Such a man, peering through the Head’s soot-stained windows might be forgiven for believing the slightly too-loud laughter of the men no more than a symptom of the drink, might even think the wooden, slightly forced nature of the servers’ smiles no more than was expected from women who spent their days avoiding the grasping hands of men who lost what little propriety they had as the night wore on and the mugs turned up. This oblivious stranger might, too, be excused from missing the hard looks in the eyes of those laughing men, or the way the prostitutes that hung on their shoulders paused from time to time in their feigned affections to glance at a certain table. To glance and to wonder.
On such a evening, with the harper’s notes sweet and smooth, the night air crisp and clean, and the ale of seemingly limitless supply, a man could be forgiven for believing it was all true, for believing those smiles, those laughs. He could be forgiven—but he would still be wrong. It was always thus, after a Drawing. Each peal of laughter, each intent turning up of a man’s ale, these things were no more than the sound of a youth whistling in the darkness to reassure themselves that they are alone, that no shadow stalks their footsteps.
Each swipe at the backside of a passing serving girl was equal to a scared child throwing the covers over their face, a thin shield against the creature lurking under their bed, but it was all they had. And each quick glance at a particular table, each stolen look at the brown-robed men sitting there, their hoods pulled down to hide their faces, held a question; would tonight be the night the whistling stopped? Would tonight be the night the laughter turned to screams?
Cameron sighed, no matter how many times he weathered the poorly-veiled looks of hate and fear, he never got used to it. The common room was packed, but that didn’t stop its occupants from leaving a large space around the table at which he and his companion sat, giving them a wide berth when they walked by. “They think we’re monsters,” he said, rolling his shoulders to try to relax some of the tension building there.
“Are they so very wrong?” His friend asked, raising his head to meet Cameron’s eyes. His skin, the color of stained mahogany, seemed to shine in the flickering orange light of the tavern’s lamps.
Cameron grunted, annoyed. They’d had this conversation a thousand times—he wouldn’t have it now. There was work to be done. “You’re sure we’re in the right place?” He asked, his eyes never resting as he kept track of everyone in the room.
His companion held up his hands in peace, his grin displaying a set of almost too-white teeth as he leaned back in his chair. “You really should learn to enjoy yourself, Cameron. And as for whether or not we’re in the right place … well, I suppose that depends on your perspective.”
Cameron sighed, refusing to get caught up in the small man’s games just now. He continued to study the room in silence, and, unlike the observer that might happen by, he was well aware of the fragility of the scene, like a play in which any man or woman might, at any time, forget their lines and send the whole thing crashing down. No amount of women’s face paint or men’s drunken posturing could fully cover the fear, the hate that lurked beneath those false smiles, fear for what they might lose, hate for those who would take it. Cameron knew the signs, he knew them well, for he was one of those tasked with the taking, and though he took no pleasure in it, it was his duty.
For some, the mo
ments before committing murder would have been fraught with nerves, with questions and explanations, self-made truths and justifications, but for Cameron it was none of these things, for he had been here before. One hundred and twelve. He did not remember their names, wouldn’t have been able to pick them out of a crowd or recite so much as a single fact about them—not that anyone would care even if he could. They were dead and gone, and he had forgotten them. The world had forgotten them, and that was the whole point.
He had no memories of them, no dreams of dead faces haunting his sleep. He had only the number and nothing more. He had no notches on his belt to mark their passing, no trophies or lists, but he carried the number with him, would always carry it with him, and if there were notches, then they were not scraped into the hard leather of his sword belt but etched into his mind, his soul.
“Is something the matter, Cameron? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were looking even more dour than usual, although that’s a lot like telling water it’s looking wetter than normal.”
Cameron grunted, shooting a warning glance at his partner, “I’m fine.”
Falen’s mouth twitched into its usual, annoying grin, the one that said he knew something everyone else didn’t. The problem was that, Falen being Falen, he almost always did. It was, after all, the reason he’d been chosen to be one of the Harvesters. It wasn’t just that Falen was intelligent—although he was—it was that Falen was able to view any situation, and its possibilities and outcomes, with a degree of accuracy that was almost supernatural. Having been Paired with him since they were children, Cameron had more reason than most to appreciate Falen’s gift. It made him a truly invaluable partner. It also, unfortunately, made him a pain in the ass. Not many men like the idea that someone else seems to know what they’ll do or say before they do themselves and, as far as Cameron was concerned, Falen’s greatest talent was managing to avoid getting a knife in the back on a daily basis.
“Of course you’re fine,” Falen said, “as fine as the weather.” He flicked a thumb behind him, indicating a window on the opposite wall of the inn through which Cameron could see rain coming down in torrents, “Just so long as you enjoy the novelty of swimming home.”
Cameron sighed. Falen was a good man and had saved his life on more than one occasion. Sometimes it helped to remind himself of that. After all, he owned several knives. “Is it time yet?”
Falen shrugged, “We could, I suppose. Of course, we’d have to explain to Marek why we went home without finishing the j—”
“I mean is it time?” Cameron interrupted through gritted teeth. Another infuriating thing about his friend was that a man could never tell whether his absent-mindedness was real or feigned.
“Oh, you mean that time,” Falen said. He shook his head, “Not quite yet. Soon, I believe.” He glanced around the room as if seeing it for the first time then looked back to Cameron, “You know, I think I’ve a need to use the privy.” He paused for a moment then nodded, “Yes, I’m sure of it.” He stood and stretched, smiling as if they were two friends out for a night of drinking and dicing instead of two men with a sacred duty that would result in the taking of a man’s life. “Watch my drink, won’t you?”
Cameron glanced meaningfully at the empty table then back at his friend, “You don’t have a drink.”
“Ah. Right. Well, order me an ale then, won’t you?”
Cameron grunted, “If anyone comes around. One could almost get the impression that the server is avoiding us.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Falen said with a wink, “I think he’ll come around.”
Cameron frowned, “The server for this section’s a woman, remember? You made an observation about her … gifts?”
Falen smiled his familiar, knowing smile, “Ah yes a woman, you say? You’re quite sure?”
Before Cameron could answer, the small man walked away in the direction of the privy, a bounce to his step as if he were going to see his lady love. Cameron watched his friend go with an annoyed frown. It was a good thing he was so smart. For a man of no more than a hundred and fifty pounds and who was almost a foot shorter than Cameron’s own six feet three inches, Falen had a way of making a man want to fight. Still, he was Cameron’s friend, had been his only friend, in fact, since they’d been picked as youths to become Harvesters. Whereas the daily training they’d been subjected to since childhood had served to build and harden Cameron’s muscles, it had, in Falen’s case, served to make the smaller man even leaner, the compacted muscles only serving to accentuate his small stature.
He began studying the room once more, pretending not to notice the furtive glances in his direction, pretending not to notice the hate he saw in those quick looks. He found himself remembering his first night at the Sanctuary, remembering standing outside when all the others had gone to sleep, exhausted from the day’s training. He had been standing, staring into the darkness, when Marek had appeared at his side, “What troubles you, boy?”
“I don’t want to hurt people,” he’d said with a child’s voice, a child’s simplistic view of the world, “I don’t want them to hate me.”
“Of course you don’t, lad. None of us do. People want to be saved, sure, but they want their saving nice and clean. Easy. Let an herb woman give them a tincture for their stomach ache, let a priest bless them and pray over them, and they’ll sing their praises even while they shit themselves to death. Let a surgeon cut off an infected leg to save their life, and the Divines know they’ll hate him for it. But they’ll live to hate him. That’s what we are, lad. We’re the surgeons. Cutting off an infected leg is a messy business, but it’s our business, and it’s an important one. Let ‘em hate us, if they need it. We’re the reason they’re breathing.”
True words, of course, but they’d been hard for a boy of eight to understand. In truth, they were hard for a man to understand. He glanced at the empty tables around where he and Falen had sat—the only empty ones in the inn. They’d chosen the corner and, for the innkeeper, at least, it was a good thing. The place would have been empty otherwise—no one sits close to a Harvester if he can help it, and the city had other taverns, after all. It was the same in the street, men and women hurrying to the other side of the road when he walked by, as if he were some rabid dog that would take a bite out of them if they drew too close. There was always the distance, the space between those whose business was killing and those whose business was living. “Say what you want about the surgeons,” he muttered, “at least they can get a damned ale.”
Even as he spoke, a man dressed in the simple white linens of a server pushed out of the crowd across the room carrying a silver tray upon which rested a frothing mug of ale. He kept his gaze low, unwilling to meet Cameron’s eyes, and he dipped his head as he came to stand beside the table, “Your ale, sir.”
Cameron frowned, “I didn’t order any ale.”
The man bobbed his head in acknowledgment, “Apologies, sir, but your friend thought that, perhaps, you could use a drink. He sent me over.”
Cameron sighed. The truth was, he could use a drink. He glanced at the man again, at his rough, calloused hands that trembled slightly where they gripped the tray. He smiled and grabbed the mug, sitting it on the table in front of him. “I thought I saw a woman watching this section.”
The man hesitated for a second then nodded, “Yes sir, she uh … isn’t feeling well.”
Cameron stared at the man, but he still refused to meet his gaze. “Well. I hope she feels better.”
The man smiled, bobbing his head, “Thank you, sir. I’m sure she will appreciate the sentiment.” He paused for a moment then, “A truly fine ale tonight, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
Cameron glanced again at the man’s hands. There was dirt under his fingernails. No major problem, but a strange thing to see in a man who made his pay by serving men and women food. And the callouses. What cause did a server have to get so many? “You know,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “I’m sure it
gets exhausting, running back and forth to bring other people their food and drink, eh?”
The man inclined his head politely and smiled uncertainly, “It can be trying at times, sir, but a man must eat, yes?”
Cameron leaned forward, studying the man intently, “And drink too, I suppose?”
The server bobbed his head again, “Of course, sir. I find that there are few things better than good ale after a long day’s work and—if you’ll forgive me for saying so—our establishment has some of the best in the city.”
“Oh?” Cameron asked, “How can you be certain? After all, it’s a big city, isn’t it?”
“It is,” the man agreed, “but mine is a point easily proven, sir. You need but try a single swallow.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Cameron leaned closer to the man, sliding the mug across the table as he did, “Tell you what. Why don’t you have some? I’m sure all of that running around must be thirsty work and, as you say, there are few things better after such a day than a good mug of ale.”
The man shook his head, wiping a hand across his sweaty forehead, “Oh, thank you, sir, but I really couldn’t’. The owner, you see, he wouldn’t—”
Cameron waved a hand dismissively, “Oh, I’m sure old Thom will forgive you a quick break, especially after you recommending this swill with a straight face.” He pushed the mug closer to the man, so that a bit of the ale sopped out onto the table top, and the server jerked as if it was a snake, “Ah, sir, I really don’t think—”
“I insist,” Cameron said, his voice losing any hint of the amiability it had possessed.
The server was sweating in earnest now, and he rubbed a white sleeve across his forehead, darting a quick glance at Cameron and then the mug. “Uh … that is, of course, sir. If you insist.” He reached for the mug, and just as his fingers were about to curl around the handle, he dropped the tray he held in his other hand. The silver tray clattered to the floor with a metallic ring, and the man reached into his tunic.
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