Reaper's Awakening

by Jacob Peppers

  ***

  Inside, the chapel was dim, the shadows shifting and swaying under the poor light provided by the low burning lanterns. It was all Cameron could do to see the ground in front of him, the vaguest outlines of what must be the pews. He motioned to Memory to go one way around the chapel, and he was just starting to work his way around the other when a voice spoke from somewhere in the darkness.

  “Oh, it’s too late for sneaking.” Cameron winced as a lantern blazed to life at the opposite end of the room, upon the altar of the Divines. Marek stood with several of his men, the king held in one hand, a knife pressed to his throat. The door clicked shut behind them, and Cameron turned to see one of Marek’s men taking up position in front of it.

  “Cameron,” Marek said, “I don’t know how you made it out of that ballroom, but it doesn’t matter. You don’t have to die here. Join us. Join me. The Church would reward you, and there’ll be no hard feelings between us.” He shrugged, grinning, “Shit, if anything, I should thank you. You’ve delivered Memory, the leader of the rebellion, into our hands. Now, all you have to do is lay down your sword and step away from the woman. All will be forgiven.”

  Cameron only stared at him, not speaking, and finally Marek sighed. “I thought as much. Well, I can’t say as I’m surprised. Like father, like son.”

  Cameron fought back a smile at that, remembering the Bloodless and how they’d crumpled to the ground, lifeless husks, remembering his father’s voice in his head, giving him the knowledge he needed, guiding his hand. You have no idea. “Let his Majesty go. There’s nowhere for you to run.”

  Marek smiled at that, “Run? Oh, I have no intention of running.” He let out one loud whistle. The shadows around the room shifted, seemed to lurch forward, and as they came into the circle of the light, Cameron was unsurprised to see that they were Bloodless.

  Cameron was trying to remember how he’d taken the essence from the Bloodless, was thinking, too, of the frightening way he’d lost himself in it, had nearly killed Memory, when he noticed one familiar Bloodless and gasped in shock. This one was smaller than the rest, shorter, and, as in life, his head was bald. Divines, no. It can’t be.

  “Oh, yes,” Marek said, laughing, “I’d nearly forgotten. He was your friend, wasn’t he? Well, consider yourselves reunited. We all serve, Cameron. Falen, your father, you—alive or dead, we all serve and these are only the beginning of what’s coming.

  All of the Bloodless spread out to surround Cameron and Mira, stopping and watching them with their strange, unnatural gazes. All except for Falen who moved toward him, a sword dangling from his hand. “No,” Cameron said, horror racing through him as he watched his friend move closer with the jerky, sporadic movements all the creatures seemed to share. “Falen, please.”

  If there was anything left of his friend, the Bloodless showed no sign. Instead, it charged, swinging its sword in a wide, vicious arc. Cameron parried it with his own blade, pivoted, and lashed out with his foot. The creature that had once been Falen went flying at the blow, crashing into the wall. Cameron had barely brought his leg down before the creature was charging him again. It had lost its sword in the fall but charged him anyway, raking at him with hands twisted into claws, moving with an incredible speed.

  Cameron dodged as best he could, but he was too slow to respond once and the claws—surprisingly sharp—raked down his side. He grunted and waited for Falen to attack again before he stepped to the side and brought his sword hilt down on his head. The Bloodless jerked strangely, fell to the ground, and did not move.

  Cameron studied the still form of what had once been his friend and was shocked by the desecration, the horror of what they’d done to him. He turned to Marek, his eyes blazing, “You’ll die for this.”

  He started toward the man, but Marek tapped his knife at the king’s throat, “Not one step closer, Cameron, or the king dies.”

  “You wouldn’t. Without the king, you’ll have no way to control the Etherstone. Once he’s dead, how long before the mutations come back? How long before the people of the city realize the Drawing no longer works? And how long after that before they drag you and your kind out into the street and string you up like the criminals you are?”

  Marek backed away, keeping the king between them. “Perhaps you’re right. I won’t kill the king. But what of the daughter?” He turned to the side, “Quintin, bring her out.”

  A young man stepped out of the private chapel. His face was angular, his features too sharp, his eyes too cruel to be handsome. The woman he led forward looked to be only inches from death’s door. Her skin was waxy and pale and covered in sweat. Her long blonde hair hung lank and lifeless, and her eyes swam, unfocused. She swayed on her feet, and Cameron had no doubt that, had the man not been holding her, she would have fallen. Given her state, he didn’t recognize the woman until the king spoke in a voice choked with misery and fury in equal measure, “Leandria.”

  The princess stumbled, and the man, Quintin, jerked on her arm. She cried out and the king roared in anger, “Leave her alone!” Heedless of the knife at his throat, the king knocked Marek’s arm aside, thrust his arm into the Harvester commander’s tunic and pulled out the golden chained necklace. The king rushed toward his daughter, but Marek kicked out a leg and the king went sprawling, the necklace flying through the air to land only a few feet away from Cameron.

  He stepped forward and grabbed the chain, surprised by how warm it was. He felt more than saw something at the corner of his vision. If not for years spent training with some of the best swordsmen in the realm, he would have died in that moment. Instead, his body reacted before his mind had caught up, his sword arm flashing forward and catching Marek’s descending blade only inches from his neck. The black obsidian blade shuddered in his grip and the ringing chime of the blades meeting filled the air.

  Marek swung again, and Cameron spun, knocking the blade aside and taking a retreating step. He tossed the necklace to Mira, “Take it and get it to the princess.”

  Mira glanced worriedly between Cameron and Marek, “What abo—”

  “I’ll be fine, but she won’t,” he said, indicating the princess with a nod.

  He turned back to Marek and saw that the older man’s face was twisted in rage. “I’ve beat you once, boy. I’ll beat you again and this time I’ll make sure to finish the job. Just like I did with your parents.”

  Cameron forced himself to stay calm, smothered the coals of anger that threatened to blaze to life, and brought the obsidian blade into a guard position. “Not this time,” he said, and although the words were his, it was as if two voices spoke them at once. Marek must have heard it too because his eyes went wide with surprise, and he took a step back, an expression of uncertainty on his face.

  They circled each other warily, Cameron glancing intermittently to the Bloodless who still stood as if frozen at the edges of the lamplight. Then Marek dashed forward and, in the poor light of the lantern, the shadows danced and shifted as he swung his blade. Cameron’s own sword flashed out before he knew what he was doing, as if someone else was sharing his body with him. Marek struck again and again, his attacks coming faster and faster, but the obsidian blade was always there, parrying his blows aside with ease.

  The commander of the Harvesters snarled and came on harder still, his blade moving in a blur. Their blades flashed and danced, weaving a tapestry of steel, and Cameron danced aside smoothly from those strikes he did not parry, his feet carrying him in a dance they knew well. A feeling—not his own—stirred in him. It was a feeling of contentment, of satisfaction at doing a thing he loved and doing it well.

  To Marek, it was as if he fought more than one foe, as if by some trick of the light and the shadows, there were two swordsmen, two blades, lashing out at his own strokes and he almost … almost thought that he could recognize the one.

  “What in the fuck are you?” He said, lunging forward, his sword flashing out in front of him.

  Cameron glided to the side, an
d to Marek it seemed that the other one, the one he refused to recognize, knocked his sword wide. He jumped back, away from the counter stroke, but not in time to avoid a thin cut that traced a bloody track down the left side of his face.

  Cameron watched the older man put a hand to his face, watched him stare at it in surprise as it came away bloody. Surprise and something else.

  Cameron smiled, stepping forward. “Fear, Marek,” he said, and if the intensity of the brief altercation had taxed him, he showed no sign. “It’s what you’re feeling now.”

  “Go to the Pit,” Marek yelled, and there was something wild in his eyes, “I’ve already killed you both. I’ll kill you both again!”

  The old Harvester waded in again, and Cameron dodged the strikes where he could, and each time he felt that he wouldn’t be fast enough, that his parry couldn’t come quick enough, something seemed to take over, and his blade was there positioned right where it was needed.

  They fought on and after a time—it could have been minutes or hours—the older man’s assault began to slow, his strikes not as sure, nor as powerful as they had been. He breathed in great rasping breaths and the next time his attack came, Cameron knocked it aside, and his back stroke sent the obsidian blade cutting deep into the flesh of Marek’s upper arm.

  Blood flew in an arc, spattering several of the nearby pews, and Marek cried out in pain, his sword falling to the ground with a metallic clang. He pressed his hand to his bloody arm, stumbling backward. Cameron followed, a slow, satisfied smile spreading on his face.

  “I-it’s not possible,” Marek said, “You’re not that good. I … I know you’re not.”

  “You’re right,” Cameron said, “I’m not. But my father was.”

  Confusion swept across the older man’s face. “The Bloodless … what did you do—no. No,” he said, his voice a scream of denial, “he’s dead. I saw him die! I gathered the essence myself!”

  “So you did,” Cameron said.

  Marek backed into the wall and came up short, desperation in his face as he looked around the room for help. “Quintin,” he yelled, “if he comes one step closer, kill the bitch!”

  Cameron turned at the sound of a woman’s scream and saw the man, Quintin, with his sword at the princess’s throat. She stood, not daring to move, as he brought the blade closer to her throat, drawing a single drop of blood.

  “Leandria,” the king shouted, struggling to his feet. His shouts turned to groans as Marek kicked him hard in the side. “Not another move. “ He turned back to Cameron, “Now, drop your weapon, lad. It’s over.”

  Cameron hesitated, despair welling in him, and Marek grunted, “If he doesn’t drop the blade now, Quintin, I want to see what the bitch’s insides look like.”

  Biting back a curse, Cameron dropped his blade, raising his hands. “Alright, okay. Just let her go.”

  Marek shuffled forward, blood still leaking from his arm onto the hand trying to staunch the flow. “Kick it away, boy.”

  Cameron did, resignation settling in him. So close. They’d been so close.

  He watched the Harvester come, watched his death come, and knew that, in such matters, close meant nothing. Close meant that the numbers of the Drawing would increase. Close meant that the king would continue to be little more than a puppet for the Church. It meant that his parents, that Falen and all the rest would go unavenged and, ultimately, it meant that nothing would change.

  Marek was only a few feet away from him when a pounding came from the other side of the door. “Your Majesty? Are you alright?”

  “Sir,” the man, Quintin said, his expression anxious and uncertain.

  Marek grunted, “We do what we came here to do, now stop looking like you’re going to piss your trousers. That door is reinforced with steel—they’ll have to get an axe or a battering ram to bring it down, and we’ll be long done with our business before they do.”

  As if to emphasize his point, Cameron heard someone from the other side of the door call for an axe. The leader of the Harvesters ignored it, walking toward Cameron once more, his sword hanging loosely at his side. “Ah, boy. The smart choice, the only real choice, is to let her die, but you can’t, can you? You were always weak—just like your father.”

  Cameron watched him approach, saying nothing. When Marek was nearly on him, a roar came from the other side of the door, a deep, bass-filled shout that echoed in the room like thunder. “Move damn you!” Someone shouted from the other side of the door, “Get out of the way befo—”

  Whatever else the voice said was drowned out in an explosion of shattering wood and screeching steel as the door flew off its frame and into the room. Cameron caught a brief glimpse of the large, familiar figure that tore through the doorway before the door crashed into the man, Quintin. The young man screamed as he was pummeled to the ground as if struck down by the hand of some vengeful god, and he disappeared beneath what remained of the door.

  For a moment, everyone stood in shock, frozen as they stared at the big man in a pink cat mask who lay on top of the door’s remains, unmoving. The guards in the hall stared into the chapel with stunned, bewildered expressions except for one man who Cameron recognized. Nicks stood in the hallway rubbing at his head, an embarrassed expression on his face.

  “Blinks, are you okay?” Mira said, running to him. The big man was stunned, but apparently unhurt, and she helped him to his feet. He withdrew the mask from his face and stared at the large crack down one side of it. His expression grew dark and, with another roar, reached down and threw the door off of the unfortunate Quintin as if it weighed nothing.

  The young man lay on the ground groaning, one of his arms bent at an unnatural angel. His gaze was unfocused—a blessing, perhaps—as he didn’t see the big man’s meaty fist descend. His face rocked back under the force of the blow, bouncing off the floor with a resounding crack. Blinks brought down his fists again and again, beating a vicious rhythm on the unlucky man face.

  Cameron started forward, meaning to stop him, but then Nicks was at his side, a hand on his shoulder. “There’s no talking to him when he gets like this,” he said, and Cameron was barely able to make out his words over the big man’s roars, “He really liked that mask. Best just let him get it out of his system.”

  Cameron nodded and spun to Mira, “The necklace.”

  She bent to the floor and held up the chain. The stone that hung from it no longer glowed as it had, and Cameron could see that a large crack had split it down the middle. “Divines, no,” he breathed, his own despair mirrored in Mira’s tortured expression. He shot a look at the princess and saw that she’d collapsed to the ground. The king was at her side holding her hands, tears streaming down his face.

  The princess still breathed but barely. Her skin had grown even paler, something Cameron wouldn’t have thought possible, and it was as if she’d aged twenty years in the space of moments. Her face was withered and drawn and there was no doubt that she was dying. We can help her.

  Father? It’s you, isn’t it?

  It’s me, son. It has always been me.

  Cameron felt an ache at his chest. It was the ache of a little boy who has had everything taken from him and who, for a moment, is given it back. In that moment, he hated himself, hated himself for believing all of Marek’s lies, for going his entire life ashamed of his father.

  Don’t blame yourself, son. He fooled me, as well. When he found out that I could shape Essence, he came to me with a plan to overtake the kingdom. I refused, but I let my friendship cloud my judgment, believing, no, hoping, that that would be the end of it. It wasn’t until he showed up at our home that I realized how wrong I had been.

  Dad, there’s so much I want to say. So much—

  I know, son, and I’m sorry, but there’s little time if the princess is to be saved.

  Cameron swallowed hard, nodding, What do I do?

  Just touch her. I will do the rest.

  Cameron did, grasping one of her hands and ignoring the questioni
ng, desperate gaze of the king. At first, nothing happened. Then Cameron felt something building inside of him, and his hand where it touched the princess grew warmer and warmer until he thought that any second it would burst into flames. He felt part of himself being pulled away, drawn through the connection his hand made with the princess. No, not me. Not part of me. Then the pressure doubled, quadrupled, and it felt as if some great, invisible hand, had reached into him and tore away a chunk of who he was, and he screamed as a cold—greater by far than any he’d ever experienced in his life—seeped into him. Cold and darkness.

  When he came to, Mira’s hand was on his shoulder, and he turned to see her looking into his face, concern etching her features. “Cameron, are you okay? What happened?”

  Cameron shook his head wearily, not trusting himself to speak.

  “F-father?”

  They all turned at the sound of the rasping, breathless voice, and despite what he’d done, Cameron was shocked to see the princess’s eyes open and, perhaps it was a trick of the light, but it seemed that some of the color had returned to her face.

  “I’m here, Leandria,” the king said, pulling her tightly to his chest, “I’m here.”

  Mira helped Cameron to his feet, and he was suddenly more exhausted than he ever remembered being. “Cameron,” she asked, “What happened? What did you do?”

  “What I could,” he said, “Wait. Where’s Marek?”

  His gaze swept the chapel, and he spotted a trail of blood leading to a door in the back of the chapel. “Where does that door go?”

  “My sanctuary,” the king said, tearing his eyes away from his daughter with a visible effort, “It’s—” he cut off, a look of terror coming over his face, “The Etherstone. He’s going for the Etherstone.”

  Cameron cursed and turned to Nicks, “Keep the king safe.” He turned to Blinks and saw that the big man was still beating on what remained of Quintin. Divines, but he really loved that mask. He sighed and turned back to Nicks, “Just … keep the king safe.”