Reaper's Awakening

by Jacob Peppers

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Cameron was just starting to think he’d been a fool for coming when a man walked up to him and sat a beer on the counter. He hadn’t heard the man approach due to the fight a couple of fools were engaged in and the shouts of approval from the crowd that had gathered around them. He studied the stranger who looked normal enough, a man perhaps in his mid-forties or early fifties, though his face had enough scratches on it—from shaving, it seemed—that Cameron wondered if the man was using a damned arrow head for the job.

  The stranger tried a smile, rubbing a hand along one of the fresher scratches and motioning to the beer, “I feel it only right that I warn you before you drink, there ain’t a thing in this city that’ll kill you quicker. That is, short of Harvest—” he cut off midsentence, slapping a hand to his forehead. “Eh … sorry.”

  For Cameron’s part, he hadn’t noticed the second part of the man’s sentence. He was thinking of another time, not so long ago, and another beer that certainly would kill you. “What I mean to say is,” the man went on, “is that if that beer’s not poison, it ain’t for lack of tryin.”

  Cameron frowned deeply at that. Was this man telling him that his drink was poisoned? And was there something familiar about that face? He thought maybe he’d seen it somewhere before but nothing came to him, so he told himself he must be imagining it. “And you are?”

  The man must have caught something of Cameron’s thoughts in his expression because he rubbed a hand over his now sweaty forehead, “The name’s Bernard, but folks just call me Nicks on account of,” he motioned vaguely to his face, “well. Anyway. How about yourself?”

  Cameron frowned, “Why?”

  Nicks coughed, “Uh, no reason just uh … passing the time, is all. Anyway, you came so there’s that.”

  Cameron didn’t respond and the man began to fidget nervously, wiping a hand across his inexplicably bloody lip. “So uh … you wanting to go or what?”

  “Go?”

  Nicks took a deep breath. Damn it all this was not how he’d seen this going. Pit, he owed Blinks a silver just for the man showing at all. “Yeah to meet … well, I was told to get you is all. Was told you wanted some answers, so I was to bring you so you could have a talk.”

  “A talk. With who?”

  The man met Cameron’s eyes full on for the first time since he’d approached, “I think you know who.”

  Cameron raised an eyebrow. He’d wondered about this on his way here, wondered who could supposedly give him answers about a man whose very existence was only remembered because of the teachings of the Harvesters. It seemed obvious enough. “Memory.”

  The man glanced around him before turning back and giving a single, almost imperceptible nod. Cameron’s heart sped up in his chest. Here it was; a chance for him to meet the man behind the rebellion, a chance to put an end to it once and for all. But first, he would get his answers. If—that was—the whole thing didn’t end up being some sort of test set up by Marek and the Church. “How do you want to do this?”

  “I don’t,” the man muttered, but he went on as if he hadn’t spoken, a touch of annoyance in his tone, “Well, we’ll have to wait just a minute for my companion to uh … finish up.”

  Cameron frowned glancing around the inn, “A companion but you aren’t together?”

  Nicks sighed, “Well, we mostly are, Divines help me. Anyway,” he glanced back at the crowd gathered around the drunken brawl, “he gets distracted sometimes. Shouldn’t be long now tho—”

  “Nicks!” The man calling himself Nicks winced as a tall, barrel-chested man with arms as thick as most men’s thighs appeared out of the crowd. Cameron’s first impression of the newcomer made him think of some warrior god out of legend, covered in the blood of his enemies. Upon closer inspection however, there was a vacant, confused look to the man’s gaze that was completely at odds with the rest of his appearance.

  “Yeah,” Nicks said in an embarrassed but somehow fond tone, “that’d be him.”

  As the man, if he is a man and not some kind of damned giant, approached, Cameron noticed that his knuckles and hands were coated in blood. He grinned drunkenly at Cameron then leaned close to him, studying him carefully, “Nicks. Hey, Nicks, is this him?”

  “Sir,” Nicks said, trying for as much dignity as he could find, “This is my companion, known to folks as Blinks.”

  Blinks grinned, clapping the Harvester on the back as if they were old friends, “Nice it is to meet ya. So, tell me, what would you call a fly that ain’t got no wings?”

  Cameron frowned, glancing at Nicks and noticing the man staring at the ceiling once more, muttering as if in prayer. Then he turned back, “I uh … I’m sure I don’t know.”

  “Who gives a flying shit!” The man shouted. Then he slapped Nicks on the back and roared with laughter as if it was the funniest joke he’d ever heard. The older man, for his part, seemed to take it as nothing out of the ordinary even as he stumbled and had to catch himself on the bar to keep from falling at the force of the man’s blow.

  Once he regained his balance, Nicks withdrew several strips of cloth from his pocket and handed them to the bigger man who began wrapping them around his hands and knuckles with the unthinking efficiency of a commonly practiced ritual.

  Cameron raised an eyebrow, “Do this often?”

  Blinks shrugged, “Some folks can be so rude.”

  Cameron glanced at Nicks, standing with one hand covering his eyes, a look of anguish on what was visible of his face, and decided then that he liked these two men. Whatever happened, whatever he ended up having to do, he hoped he wouldn’t be forced to kill them. “Yes,” he said, unable to keep the grin from his face, “yes, I suppose they can be.”

  “Well,” Nicks grunted, “are we ready?”

  Cameron’s smile vanished as he thought of who he was going to meet, and he nodded.

  “Alright,” Nicks said, “then I suppose you know I’ll have to take that sticker from ya.”

  Cameron frowned and that, and Nicks helped up his hands, “We don’t mean you any harm, sir, that I can promise ya—only a thrice-damned fool would tangle with a Harvester if he had a choice, and the Reaper most of all. It’s just … well, sir, I can’t let you meet Memory with a weapon in hand now can I? Sure, we all reckon you come in good faith, but we wouldn’t want you to be tempted either, you know.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Cameron muttered, thinking. He’d expected something like this, of course, but found himself tempted to walk away anyway. Harvesters were trained in hand to hand combat as well as with weapons, but he didn’t like the idea of going to a place only they knew, with the Divines only knew how many fighting men, and having no weapon of his own. Sure, he liked these men but so what? Marek himself had liked his father but that hadn’t stopped him from nearly getting split in half, had it?

  Still, Perdeus had trusted them enough to send Cameron and besides … it was the only way to get the answers he wanted, the answers he needed. So, with a grunt, he unstrapped his sword and handed it to Nicks, immediately feeling naked as the man took it.

  “Thanks for that,” the older man said, “I know how hard it’d be for me to do the same, were I in your spot. All I can say is that I promise whatever happens, one day we may end up against each other but that day ain’t today. Tonight we’ll see no harm comes to you. Ain’t that right, Blinks?”

  The big man nodded, “If’n someone tried to hurt you after we’ve told you they wouldn’t, well, that’d be rude.” He turned and frowned back at where he’d been fighting the two men, “Like spilling a man’s beer, say.”

  His eyes narrowed, and he started back toward the crowd, but Nicks reached out and grabbed his arm. “Damnit, Blinks, not now.”

  The big man nodded sullenly, his eyes down like a child that’s been called out, “Right, sorry, Nicks.” He leaned forward to Cameron, speaking confidentially, “I don’t like rude people.”

  “No,” Cameron said, fighting back a gri
n, “I can see you don’t.”

  “Well,” Blinks said, “we going or ain’t we?”

  Nicks sighed and produced a black blindfold from his pocket and looked at Cameron, “Alright, here’s what we’re gonna do.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Memory put down the report she’d been reading and sighed, rubbing at her eyes. She’d spent hours skimming through papers just like this one, yet hadn’t seemed to have made a dent in the stack that towered on her desk, grown high enough that it threatened to topple with every move she made. Not that there seemed to be much need to read them anyway. Whatever the topic of the particular request or report: food, medicine, fresh blankets, fresh clothes, the message was much the same. They were out, and if by some miracle they weren’t out, they soon would be. Sometimes, it seemed to her that their lives now consisted of a race between what would kill them all first. Starvation, sickness, or the Harvesters and the Church.

  There, in the privacy of the small section of the tunnels that had been curtained off for her private use, she allowed herself a moment of doubt, allowed her head to slip into her hands and her heart to grow heavy in her chest. She wasn’t sure she believed in the Divines at all—so much of what the Church had told her, what it had told all of them, had been a lie—yet she found herself praying just the same. Please. We need help. We can’t go on like this. We just can’t.

  She sat like that for a minute, maybe two, then took a deep breath and rose from the rickety, crooked table that served as her desk. Her back ached, and she stretched, luxuriating for a moment in the small pleasure of the thing. Then she reached into her pocket where she always kept her most prized possession, a silver necklace, the type that would sell for a pittance to any street vendor, but was priceless in her eyes, for it had belonged to her sister.

  As always, holding the humble chain in her hand, feeling its reliable, familiar weight and shape, banished the self-doubt, and although it did not solve the many problems she and those with her faced, it made those problems at least seem solvable. “I will not fail,” she whispered, a single tear of remembrance tracing its way down her face. “We will not fail.”

  She took a deep breath and wiped the moisture from her face as she tucked the necklace back into her pocket. She took a moment to put on the expression of confidence, of assurance, that the others needed, no, that they deserved. For hadn’t those with her trusted her with everything? Their well-being? Their lives? Their children’s lives? She felt the mantle of leadership settle upon her shoulders, a familiar weight, now, yet heavy all the same. Then she peeled the curtain aside and went to her people.

  As always, the air of the large cavern was moist and chilled, leaving a clammy, slightly greasy feeling on her skin. She looked over what had been their home for the last several months. Small makeshift tents composed of stones, sticks, and rags and blankets too worn or frayed to serve their original purpose littered the cavern floor. Many, those with families, most often, slept underneath these even now, and although the tents, such as they were, did little to keep the chilling mist from its incessant creeping into a man or woman’s muscles and joints, they were better than nothing. Others had not even these small luxuries but slept on packed-dirt of the ground with nothing but the clothes on their backs. More blankets, she reminded herself.

  Here and there she could make out the quiet whispers of friends or families who had not yet turned in for the night. For it was night, although the cavern and its intersecting tunnels made it impossible to tell for certain, she’d found that nearly a year spent in the caverns had trained her body to better know the passing of time without that passing’s most obvious signs. Here and there, she heard people coughing or sneezing. Some of the coughs were innocuous enough—an indication of a slight cold no more—but amid those, too, were the wet, hacking sounds of the truly sick. More medicine, she reminded herself. I’ll need to talk to Myra, get an exact list of what she needs. Myra had been an assistant to one of the city’s more renowned healers before joining the resistance and although she wasn’t a doctor herself, Memory thought her joining their cause a great boon. The woman was intelligent and kind, and if she lacked in any knowledge a true healer might possess, Memory had yet to see it. Which was a good thing, for Memory feared they would need much of that knowledge in the days to come.

  As if summoned by her thoughts, Myra appeared from one of the side caverns carrying a cup of water in both hands before easing down onto her knees by one of the makeshift tents. She spoke soft words that Memory could not hear and a young girl’s small head poked itself out of the tent. The girl took a small drink of the proffered cup, having to pause to cough—a weak, rasping noise that Memory didn’t like the sound of at all. Nor did she like the way the girl’s skin seemed stretched too tight on her face or the way her hair seemed to have grown thinner. More food, she told herself, her inner voice recriminating and accusing, but when Myra turned to her, smiling and raising a hand in her direction, the little girl matched it with one of her own. Memory smiled back, forcing the expression on despite its reluctance, and waved a greeting of her own.

  She spent the next hour stopping to visit with some of those who were awake, and they were unfailingly kind, never complaining. Many—the newer ones in particular—thanked her for her kindness in bringing them in, none of them betraying any fear of what their future might hold. Because they trust you, she thought, and you will not fail that trust.

  She was just stepping away from one of the tents when a hand touched her gently on the shoulder, and she turned to see a familiar face. This time, the smile was genuine despite the quiet despair she was feeling as she took in the old man, his shoulders stopped from age, his robe—one as white as fresh snow—now stained and grimy from the floor and walls of the cavern, “Magister Mikalson, it is a pleasure to see you as always.”

  The old man grinned displaying a fine set of white teeth, “Oh, must I insist again that you call me Pellin?”

  Her smile widened, “Yes, I think you must.”

  “And would it do any more good than the last ten attempts?”

  She laughed, “I suppose not.”

  “Even though,” he said, as if considering, “Magister is a title afforded those who have learned under the tutelage of the university and have, what’s more, been given license to tutor others in turn? Even though, as we both know, an undisguised trip to the surface would mean no recognition or accolades for me but a short trip to the hangman’s noose?”

  Memory nodded, “Even so.”

  He sighed theatrically, “Very well then, do your worst.”

  She smiled, putting up an arm for him, and he took it, walking with her as she made her rounds. “Tell me,” she said, “how are things?”

  “Ah, they are well, my lady,” he said, grinning at the wince she betrayed at the title, “and it would no doubt please you to know that Zane and Clara are coming along nicely with their letters.”

  “Well,” she said, “that’s no great surprise with such a worthy, such a renowned scholar and Magister as yourself to teach them.”

  He grunted, smiling, and nodded his head as if to indicate that she’d won a point.

  She was just about to say something else when Harmen approached and even in the dim light provided by the cavern’s few candles—wood, like most resources available to them, was scarce and so only used when absolutely necessary—she could see that his expression was a grim one and, as he drew closer, that his shirt was covered in blood. “Pit, Harmen, what’s happened? “ She said, stepping forward and taking hold of his shirt. “Are you alright?”

  “It’s not mine.” He glanced between the Magister and Memory, “We have a problem.”

  Memory took in his grim expression once more then, noting the increased whispers that had started up at Harmen’s appearance, she turned to the old man, “Magister, please keep everyone calm. “ The scholar nodded, and she turned back to Harmen, her own voice firm, “Show me.” The big man nodded without a word, turning on his he
el and starting away. Memory followed after, a growing sense of unease rising in her.

  Once they were in the tunnels and away from the large cavern that served as her people’s living quarters, Memory spoke, “Who?”

  “Shem and Isaak.”

  “Are they ….”

  “Isaak made it, though he’s in a bad way. I called Myra before I got you, figured she’d need to see to ‘em as soon as possible. Gene was on patrol near the tunnel entrance and found Isaak lying just inside the tunnel. And Memory … his hands …”

  “What about them?” She said, the normally blunt man’s hesitation making her worry grow.

  “They’re gone. Someone’s chopped ‘em off. And Shem … he didn’t make it back.”

  Memory felt a terrible grief rising in her but forced it back down. Later, there would be time for grieving. Now, her people needed a leader, not a blubbering woman. She asked Harmen more questions as they walked, but he’d apparently told all he knew and it seemed like forever before they finally arrived at the part of the tunnels that served as their makeshift healing rooms.

  She pulled aside a curtain to find Myra finishing bandaging Isaak’s wounds. Her assistants—two young girls that couldn’t have been out of their teens—stood nearby, one of them holding a pair of scissors, the other several bloody strips of cloth. The girls’ faces were whiter than the bandages wrapped around the stumps on Isaak’s arms where his hands used to be. Divines, help us, Memory thought.