“Why does he need to die?”
“Because someone is paying us for it. Listen, Red. This isn't a job where you ask questions. The less any of us know, the better.”
“Does he deserve to die?”
“Someone is willing to pay good money to see him dead, so I'd wager he's no saint. And what did I just say about questions? Bring me that bundle and you get eight rhysus. That's all you need to know. Now off with you. These things have a way of going stale, and I don't want the price going down because you decided you were curious.”
She ambled away, leaving him behind. Knowing that if he hesitated any longer he might change his mind, and knowing that this dark opportunity represented quite possibly the last real chance he had to earn enough to make a difference, he set off for the battlefront.
Little care was needed to stay hidden as he left the city. The soldiers traveled on the main roads, and none but they would dare venture so near to the battle. All of his life, twenty years now, Teyn had heard of the war. When he imagined it, he imagined clashing swords and butting shields. He imagined men on both sides fighting and tearing at each other. His mind had never turned to what those battles might have left behind.
These skirmishes had raged off and on for a generation. The closer he came to the line that the lives had been lost to defend, the more he saw that the land had not been spared. The scars of dozens—if not hundreds—of battles fought on this stretch of the land were everywhere. Houses reduced to charred ruins. The broken remnants of stone walls. Hastily-erected and even-more-hastily abandoned shelters. Broken arrow shafts stuck from the ground like some manner of ghastly crop. He passed through what might once have been a town, but the only evidence was a scattering of foundations and a single stone-paved road. Now it was a place so ruined, so long-deserted that only wildlife called it home. He took the opportunity to stop in this forgotten place long enough to catch and consume a meal before continuing on his journey.
Then, looming in the distance, there was the front. It was a sight to behold. He had heard the people of the nearby Tresson cities refer to this place as Red Band. Here, the border between Tressor and the Nameless Empire ran through a wide stretch of low, flat land between two sloped ridges. It was a war ground that might as well have been designed to foster a stalemate. Each day, the men would descend the slope, spill blood, and retreat when the battle was through. If the line moved too far north or south, the high ground would bring it to a stop.
Beyond the slope was a patchwork city of tents, lean-tos, and other makeshift structures. Horses slept, or shuffled uneasily. Heaps of red armor streaked silver with scrapes and gouges lay outside each temporary residence, awaiting the morning when the soldiers would suit up once more. The air was heavy with the scent of smoke and blood. Most of the soldiers slept, but along the top of the slope, a line of campfires glowed, warming the patrol that kept watch over the killing fields, lest some of the northern scum try to slip by. Far in the distance, a string of similar glows served the same purpose for their opposite number.
The task of crossing to the north mercifully stole away what mind he had left to dwell upon what he had seen, and what he was planning to do. Where the ground was steady enough for a squad to attempt to slip through, there were scouts and lookouts. To make the land elsewhere less forgiving and more likely to betray those who would sneak across, the soldiers had littered the field with bundles of cruelly-sharpened sticks sunk into the soft earth. That suited him fine. One did not become a successful hunter—at least, not one of the sort that Sorrel had taught him to be, without learning to step lightly and carefully. Selecting a route heavy with traps but virtually without patrol, he began the long, treacherous trek across the border.
There was an eerie, cold feeling as he moved across land. A part of it, a small part, was how far north he had come. Unlike most of Tressor, which was warm for much of the year, the air became sharply cooler near the border with the north. However, a stiff breeze and an icy bite to the air was nothing compared to the graveyard pall that hung over the place. So many had died here. There were no remains of soldiers, save the stain of blood here and the dislodged bit of armor there, but the atmosphere seemed sickly and poisoned by the horrors it had witnessed. The smell, likely too faint to be noticed by the men and woman who fought here, was almost nauseating to him. A single whiff was all he needed to know that it was a scent that would linger for years, a stench of death that would be a part of this place for generations to come.
He pressed northward, senses alert. The border was behind him now. He was in the land of the enemy. As he traveled, swift and low to the ground, he found himself glancing toward the fires at the top of the ridge ahead, hoping for a glimpse of those who fought on the side of the north. These were people spoken of with nearly the same fear and hate as malthropes. As he drew nearer, though, and he began to see faces and forms near the flames, he found that they were merely humans, identical to those he had left behind him—albeit clad in blue rather than red. Somehow, he'd expected them to look different, to be monstrous or ghastly.
Seeing more of the same left him baffled. How could something as arbitrary as which side of an invisible line a man called home make him worth killing? With a shake of his head, he logged it away as yet another thing about humans he simply could not understand.
When the battleground was well behind him, his mind began to drift back to his target and how to find him. First came the river, if it could even be called that. It was a narrow, shallow stretch of water. More than a stream, but not by much, it must have been one of the tributaries to the river that wrapped around Millcrest. He had to take care as he followed its banks east. A well-traveled road ran alongside it, and flat-bottomed skiffs loaded with goods and passengers were drifting along its surface even as dawn was just beginning to break. Both the goods and the passengers were destined for the war, so special care had to be taken to remain unnoticed. Everyone would be well-armed.
Pier after pier passed with faded gray planks until the rising sun fell upon a row of black adorning a pier near a small cluster of cottages. Three had red doors. One had a horseshoe. He approached it. There was enough light now that he was in real danger of being seen, but the fertile ground of the riverside had resulted in a lush and dense area of high weeds, and whoever called this cottage home had done little to tame them near his walls. He crouched among them and breathed deeply of the air. There was only one human scent, the scent of a man. It formed trails, new and old, leading toward and away from the cottage. The trails all led to the single door of the structure, and they always approached from the riverside road. It smelled as though he was not home now, but he'd left very recently.
He closed his eyes, removing his mask to draw in a better sample, and unraveled the story the scent told. The man spent his nights here. He returned after the sun set, and left before the sun rose. Others passed along the road, but no one ever came to the cottage. So long as he could weather the day unseen, Teyn was certain he would find the man alone after nightfall. All he had to do was wait . . . and hope that when the time came, he still had the resolve to complete his task.
The wait was agonizing. Constant traffic on the road put his nerves on edge, allowing long overdue sleep to come only fitfully and in shallow dozes. The dreams that came whenever he drifted off were dark and twisted, filled with troubling memories. Finally the sky began to darken. Not long after, the crunch of purposeful footsteps approached the cottage. Through the weeds, Teyn could see the man he was to kill.
A heavy jacket, made from rough cloth and stuffed with down, covered a wiry and unwashed form. His hair was long and greasy, his face bearing the wispy beard and mustache of a man not meant to grow facial hair. To look at him, one would almost think that he'd been warned. His eyes were sunken and red, dark bags beneath them. His head darted aside to scrutinize the source of any sound, real or imagined. His left arm was held tightly to his side, clutching at a vague form beneath his coat. His right was at his hip, c
lutching lightly the hilt of a dagger. This man was no stranger to being a target.
He approached his door and cast a wary glance around him, eyes sweeping over the very patch of overgrowth that hid Teyn. They lingered there for a moment, but Teyn knew better than to abandon his hiding place due to a simple lingering stare. Sure enough, the man turned back to the door, reluctantly taking his hand from his weapon to work the latch. In the moment of distraction as the door slid open, Teyn slipped from the weeds and pulled himself to the roof of the cottage. The motion was smooth and nearly noiseless, but the crackle of a tuft of weeds was enough to raise an alarm in the jittery man's mind. His hand shot to his dagger and pulled it free, and he launched himself into the weeds, stabbing viciously at the spot where Teyn had been moments before. As he struck at the underbrush, he screamed threats in one of the languages Sorrel had attempted to teach.
The man stopped stabbing and stood stone still, eyes wide and wild. When the only sound to greet him was the babble of the distant water and the swish of windblown weeds, he made his way quickly to the door and pushed it open, hurrying inside to latch it again. He threw himself against the door and listened once again, ear against the sturdy wood. The only light within the cottage was the faint glow of embers still weakly alive from the previous night's fire. It wasn't enough for the man to see, but it was enough for Teyn.
The malthrope had slipped inside when the man was stabbing at the weeds, and now he stood behind his target, a knife in his hand. His breathing was slow and controlled, his eyes steady and locked on the man's back. Every part of his body was still, but his mind was a storm. It had been his fear, ever since the dark day at the plantation, that if ever he found himself in a position to take another life, he would not be able to resist. He was certain that he would lose control as he had before, that he would become once again what the men had believed him to be since birth: a monster, a killer. Now he stood behind a man who had been marked for death by other humans, and he couldn't bring himself to put his blade to work.
As the man stepped away from the door and fumbled in the darkness until he found a taper and a lantern and set about lighting it from the embers, Teyn continued to struggle with himself. This was for the others like him, the others denied their freedom. Taking this one life would provide him with enough money to give back the life of at least one worker. This man had his freedom and look where his choices took him. It was time to give someone else a chance.
Now the man had lit the lantern, filling the cottage with its dim glow. If Teyn was going to do something, he had to do it now. His target began to turn. Teyn grabbed him by the arm and twisted it behind his back, forcing him forward and slamming him into the wall. The force of the collision knocked the lantern from the man's hand, spilling lamp oil onto the floorboards and setting them aflame.
“Listen to me!” Teyn hissed through teeth clenched by the mask. “There is a price on your head. People want you dead for the bundle of parchment you've got clutched beneath your coat. Give it to me!”
After struggling and screaming in pain until it was clear there was no breaking free of his assailant, the man spoke, his voice brimming with insanity. Teyn knew little of the language. He didn't understand half of the words, but those he knew were filled with hate and madness. Words like “kill” and “wealth,” words like “war” and “children.” Teyn repeated his offer as best he could in the same language, but it was clear that this madman had no intention of accepting. He struggled and shoved, all the while the flames growing higher. Finally, an awkward twist of his body and a furious thrust of his foot managed to shove Teyn back toward the flames. It was enough to force the hunter to release his grip on his prey.
In a flash, the man was upon him, knife drawn and screaming. The two tangled, rolling atop one another. It was clear after just a few moments that this man was no stranger to combat. Crazed though his eyes and voice seemed to be, he moved with precision and purpose. He was barely as strong as Teyn, and far slower, but it took every ounce of advantage that the creature had to keep his opponent's weapon from meeting its mark. The fire spread around them as the fight intensified. The man's raking fingers caught the edge of Teyn's mask, pulling it free. The sudden sight of animal eyes and a beastly face were enough to briefly seize the mind of the man. Teyn took full advantage, kicking him off and springing to his back. One hand grabbed a handful of greasy hair and pulled the man's head back, the other held the knife tight. Teyn's teeth were bared, his mind aflame as he breathed great heaving breaths of the scalding air. He lowered his weapon . . .
#
Outside the cottage, men and women were beginning to gather, calling out for water to extinguish the burning cottage. A bucket brigade was already forming when a form finally burst from inside the fiery cottage. Despite the many witnesses, none caught more than a glimpse of the fleeing form. It was little more than a blurred silhouette rushing from the brilliant flames. Some claimed it held a tight bundle in one hand. Others were certain it held a crude, armored mask to its face. The only thing that was certain was that it was not the man they knew to live in this place. When hours of work and countless buckets had been hauled from the river to the cottage, they revealed the remains of the cottage's mysterious resident. Though the fire had done its work, it was clear to all that he had been dead long before the flames had reached him.
#
Two days later, the woman who had hired him smiled as a leather bundle dropped to the table beside her, crunching spent nutshells.
“Well, well, well,” she said, slapping an insect buzzing by her ear, “look who came back.” She snatched up the bundle and pulled it open. “Did you look inside?”
The malthrope simply shook his head.
“Good. Glad to see you got that curiosity under control. Me, on the other hand . . .” she commented, pulling open the roll and sifting through the pages. “Need to be sure you brought back what they were after, rather than any old pile of parchment.” She read over a few of the sheets. “Yes. Yes this is what they were after. Boys! Eight gold!”
Inside the building, he heard the woman's two assistants moving crates and chests.
“It'll take them a bit to get to it. We don't do business in gold much these days. See, two out of three of the people I've got working off the black list don't come back from their first job. Some of them lose their nerve. The rest lose their lives. But I had a feeling about you, Red. Like I said, I looked at you from day one, and I thought to myself: this one, he's a killer, through and through.”
His eyes lowered. He did not argue. There was a time, however brief, when he was whole. When he was a person with a name and a life. That time was over. The creature who had earned that name would never have done what he'd done. Teyn was gone. Now he was only the Red Shadow.
After a few minutes of laborious searching and three miscounts, the men finally exited the building and dropped the coins into his gloved hand. Eight rhysus. Eight gold coins for the work of a few days. He gazed at the glittering payment. What he held in his hand was the freedom of one of his own—or more.
“Feels good, eh? Something about the weight of a gold coin. Just feels right. Now that you've gotten your feet wet, I've got a real job for you. Something a little more substantial.”
“No. I have something I need to do first,” he said, clutching the coins tight and turning to the south.
Now that he had the money in his pocket, and the blood on his hands, the weight of his deed was ravaging his mind. He'd been able to make it this far because he knew that what he did, he did to achieve his goals. It was for his purpose. Now that it was within his power to sever a set of chains, to give back a life, he needed to do it. Every moment wasted stained his soul more and robbed this horrid act of any redemption.
“Fifteen rhysus for this one,” she called after him.
He paused. “I'll do it when I return. A few weeks.”
“Weeks? No, no, no, Red. It won't be here in a few weeks. These things dry up. The oppo
rtunity passes, they dismiss the job, and no one gets paid. Fifteen's the top of the list right now, but I've heard from this man before. Fifteen is nothing to him. Once he trusts a hired blade, twenty, thirty, fifty rhysu jobs start to show up. I don't know how good you are with numbers, but what would you rather? A handful of coins today or a pocketful in a week? Or a sack in a month? I don't know what you're off to do, but don't tell me you couldn't do it better if you were a few coins richer.”
He looked down to the coins in his hand. What had moments earlier seemed like more than he could have hoped for now seemed pitifully small. If what she said was true, in the space of a month, he might earn enough to free a dozen men. In a year, he might earn enough to buy the very plantation out from under the slaveholders. His conscience and his reason tugged at his thoughts. This wasn't about money, this was about lives. Who was he to be making these decisions? But if he didn't do what needed to be done, who would? There was so much to consider, so much at stake.
Finally, he cleared his mind and did what he always did when something seemed beyond him. He thought back to the one person he'd known who had the mind and heart to make such a decision. He thought back to Ben. What was most important? The purpose. Could more be done to achieve it? Yes. Then so it must be. If it can be better, then it isn’t good enough. He quieted the part of his soul that still resisted, and turned back to Maribelle, eyes still low.
“What do I need to do?”
Chapter 21
While the Red Shadow was near the northern border receiving his orders, deeper in the heart of Tressor, Duule was meeting with a group of his underlings. A meeting such as this would normally have taken place in the wheat field, but in light of his capture there, he wisely decided to find a less open and more secure place to conduct his business for the time being. He selected an isolated barn some distance from his home and stocked it with six of the burliest bodyguards he could hire. Joining him were eight messengers, each carrying reports from his endless network of scouts and spies. Thus far, none of them had managed to provide him with what he considered to be a simple bit of information.
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 175
