Blood Rain

by Helix Parker

  “What can you possibly see in the bones of birds?” Rodrick asked.

  “They’re not bird bones.”

  “What are they?”

  “The bones of a nyx rat.”

  “Never heard of it,” Rodrick said, picking up a cup of wine and downing it in three gulps.

  “Not many have.”

  Hess dragged out his words, almost hissing like a snake. The tongue of the Gaen Sae consisted of hisses and exhalations of breath. Words were alien to them, and Rodrick frequently heard Hess struggling to pronounce even the most basic of syllables.

  “So what does your rat tell you?”

  “It tells me something occurred that will displease many powerful people. But something does not make sense.”

  “What?”

  “Death is coming. But it does not tell me for whom.”

  Rodrick guffawed. “Death comes for us all.” He finished another cup of wine. “The master wishes to see you. I’m going to go get one of the women now before the men kill them all.”

  Roderick walked over, grabbed one of the women by the hair, and forced her to the floor. He lifted her skirt with one hand and dropped his trousers with the other. As he thrust into her, he looked over at Hess.

  The Gaen Sae frowned, gathered up his bones, and headed up the stairs.

  7

  Leon stood in his fields under the bright noonday sun. The crops had been decimated over the summer by drought and heat. He had salvaged all he could, but the fields were dry as bones, and almost nothing had survived. He had enough potatoes and wheat and barley to feed his family another year, but that was all. Nothing extra was left to pay the lease on the land or the taxes to the king.

  He bent and took up a handful of dirt. The soil slid through his fingers. He reached deeper into the ground, searching for moisture, but found none. The wells had also been severely reduced. Straightening, he slapped his hands together to remove the dirt. He looked out over the field and saw something moving in the distance. Horses.

  Three of them approached at a steady gallop. Leon watched as they careered around the house and came to him. Barthol, the man at the head, had a red-tipped beard, and his graying hair was also dyed a bright, apple red.

  “What do you want, Barthol?” Leon asked.

  Barthol removed his leather riding gloves. “Your lease is due.”

  “It’s not due for another season.”

  “I’m pushing it up.”

  Leon shook his head. “You can’t do that.”

  “Oh, I disagree. I can do whatever I want. And the proper way to address me is Lord Barthol.”

  “I didn’t know stealing from the poor made you a lord.”

  “Call it whatever you like, your lease is still due. And I expect it on time and in full. No extensions.”

  “I have a family.”

  “And if you go begging in the slums of Dolane or the capital, you can gather more than enough to feed them.” He looked back at the house. “And the house you built is of course forfeit if you lose the land.”

  Leon took a step forward, and the two men behind Barthol pulled out their swords.

  “Farmers don’t make very good fighters,” Barthol said with a grin. He turned his horse away. “On time and in full, or you will be forcibly removed.”

  Leon watched them ride away. They had never done anything like that before, and he knew it was about more than pushing the lease up. Barthol wanted him off the land for some reason. Men had dark hearts with so many hidden chambers that one could never really know what another was thinking.

  When Leon got home, his wife was chasing butterflies with their daughter. They were both laughing, and the sweet sound seemed to hang in the air a long while. How would he feed them without his land? Even on a good harvest, they made only enough that their needs were met. Mortal life seemed little more than one problem after another.

  The mound just off from the house called to him. What was under the earth sang to him, so strongly sometimes that he could feel his bones rattle from its draw. That would solve his problems, all of them. But the solution came with its own set of problems.

  Cassandra waved to him, and he smiled and waved back, wondering how he would be able to provide for his family through the upcoming winter.

  8

  Edgar walked to the city’s office administration building. He entered and scanned the room. Several people were shouting and cursing, while others sat quietly, busily making notes on parchment. He went over to a large desk and stood on tiptoes to ensure the man behind it would see him.

  The man exhaled as if annoyed. “Yes?”

  “I’m looking for some bounty hunters.”

  “So go to a tavern and find some.”

  “I was told the city maintains a list of those that are available.”

  “You were told wrong. We used to have such a list, but bounty hunters and mercenaries have been outlawed.”

  “Outlawed? Outlawed by whom?”

  “The king. Now if there’s nothing else I can—”

  “Listen, I need help. Anywhere you can point me would be truly appreciated.”

  The man lowered his writing feather. “There’s a tavern called Tusant’s farther into the city. Down the main street and take a right at the livery. Go there, and I’m sure you’ll find what you need.”

  “I truly appreciate the help, brother. Thank you.”

  “I’m not your brother, half-man. Just go about your business and don’t bother me again.”

  Edgar looked at him a moment then left the building and headed to the main street. Buildings away from the outskirts were generally taller and better kept, but the streets grew crowded, and most people thought nothing of pushing aside a dwarf. More than once, Edgar was nearly thrown to the ground. Horse manure piled in the streets gave the city a sweet-putrid scent that was unmistakable. Edgar had smelled it every time he went into the larger cities.

  Tusant’s was a little peach-colored square with a gray roof. It had several windows, and the largest one was adorned with unlit candles. A single, narrow door made up the entrance, and there was a second floor, though it looked empty.

  Edgar went inside. The place was better lit than the last tavern he had been in, but it smelled about the same and held a similar dampness in the air. Patrons sat at old wooden tables with cracks adorning the tops. The chairs were just as old, and Edgar would have been surprised if at least one person a night didn’t topple to the grimy floor.

  The lot was rougher looking than in the previous tavern, but oddly enough, they didn’t give him a second glance. Dwarves, though not rare, were unique. Some of the legends of the kingdom said they held magical powers that they only released to those they favored. As far as he knew, not a single dwarf had anything like a magical power unless one considered drinking wine all night without getting drunk magic.

  He ambled up to a table of coarse-looking men and stood by until they acknowledged him. Of the four, only one looked up at Edgar.

  “What do you want, knee-high?”

  Edgar ignored the insult. “I seek bounty hunters.”

  “And what’s the bounty?”

  “Two gold pieces.”

  The men looked at each other. All four of them were suddenly interested. Considering that a hundred silver pieces, which wasn’t even half of a gold piece, was the average wage in the kingdom, two gold pieces was a fortune.

  “You have that much gold on you now, do you?”

  “Not with me, no, sir. I am no fool. You will be paid upon completion of the project.”

  “Half now, half when it’s done.”

  “Again, it would be easier for you to simply take half and disappear, for I would be hard pressed to find you. And even if I did, what could I possibly do to harm four gentlemen such as yourselves? However, if I were not to pay you… well, I dare say you would use my head for a good game of Kick Frog.”

  “Damn right, we would.” He leaned back in his seat. “So what would you want done?”


  “I want a man killed.”

  “Who?”

  “His name—and I hope I’m pronouncing this correctly—is Erebos. He is the commander of the Marauders.”

  Three of the men slouched over their drinks once more, and Edgar knew they had already decided they would not be taking the bounty.

  The fourth shook his head. “What you need is an assassin, not a bounty hunter. You could put out a general bounty, but only a damned fool would take it.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I won’t even speak ill of Erebos, much less try to kill him.”

  “Well, where can I find an assassin?”

  “Don’t know, knee-high. You’ll have to figure that one out on your own.”

  Edgar spent the day going from tavern to tavern, from military garrison to military garrison, looking for assassins. Everyone seemed to know about them, and the rumors were rampant: They could fly, they could kill men with a single touch, they could influence women to sleep with them with their minds, and they could run faster than mountain wolves. Everyone seemed to have a theory of some spectacular feat they could perform, but no one had actually seen one or knew how to get in touch with one. Edgar was coming to believe they were just a myth.

  By the time night fell, he had gone to three separate cities and four military garrisons but had seen neither hide nor hair of an assassin. The closest he’d come was to find out that the king’s army hired them from time to time, should they require someone to stop breathing.

  He was exhausted and in a strange place called Urf near the Long Sea. The small town was built on a hill, and the streets were paved with curving bricks like loaves of bread. All the buildings were different colors, but the paint was fresh, and pots of colorful flowers decorated every windowsill and doorway.

  Edgar stood at the top of the hill, looking down one of the thoroughfares all the way to the black sea. The moon had risen, and the torches attached to the front of every home were nowhere near as bright.

  He walked down the cobblestone road. Maybe not finding an assassin was a sign from the gods that he was not meant to have his vengeance. He wondered if maybe he would just take his gold, buy a private estate somewhere, have several well-endowed wives please him at all hours, and live the life of luxury and pleasure.

  But every time he thought such things, the image of his people lying raped and murdered in the dirt would come to him. The gold had been their final attempt to protect themselves, the last thing they had owned that could ensure their deaths would not be in vain. By killing the Marauder commander, Edgar hoped to slow or even stop the Marauders’ attacks. The Marauders were so fierce, so ready to do battle, that without a strong leader for them to follow, they would soon break out into civil war. And by soon, Edgar thought perhaps as early as one day after the death of Erebos.

  Many people had told him about this Erebos. No one had seen him. He was a sorcerer of some sort, with power in the dark arts because he had given his soul to the god of the underworld. The Marauders apparently worshipped Chedes and believed their slaughter was in his honor.

  The gods. How silly of men. Dwarves were not superstitious, never had been. The idea of hidden entities that came to earth and interfered with human affairs was ludicrous. Why would an immortal care what happens to such brief beings as man? That they favor sides in war, fall in love with women, or give inspiration to artists was the height of foolishness, he thought. And no rational human would give in to such tales.

  But the Marauders were not rational.

  Ahead on the right, a wooden sign with the drawing of a bed emblazoned on it hung over a door. Edgar was turning toward the inn when he felt a slight touch on his shoulder. He spun quickly.

  But no one was there.

  He stood in the street and looked both ways, one ending in the sea and the other in darkness. As he turned back around, he heard only a whisper as a person dressed in black leapt off the roof and landed in front of him in a crouched position. The person rose, the face covered with a mask.

  “You have been asking about the assassins,” the figure hissed. “Here I am.”

  Edgar’s heart was pounding, and his mouth went dry. He took a step back and held tightly to the dagger he had tucked away beneath his clothing. “You’re an assassin?”

  The figure nodded slightly, a slow blink coming over the eyes, the only exposed portion of the body. In the torchlight, Edgar saw that the figure was not a man but a woman.

  “I want somebody killed,” he said. “Somebody who doesn’t deserve to live anymore.”

  “As opposed to the rest of us who do?” she asked with a hint of mockery in her voice.

  “Yes,” he said, ignoring her tone. “His name is Erebos, and I would—”

  “We cannot help you.”

  “But you haven’t even heard what I have to offer.”

  “Erebos is not someone the assassins wish to upset. We cannot help you.”

  “Well, can you give me the name of someone who can?”

  “No one of worth would dare offend Erebos. But there is one who may be able to help you.”

  “Who?”

  “His name is Leon.”

  9

  Leon sat by the fire and looked up at the loft of the home. His daughter was snoring, and the gentle sound made him smile. His wife came and sat next to him. She groaned, holding her belly. He watched the way the flames danced in her eyes. Her beauty had not diminished over the years.

  The day he had first seen her, it was from afar. She was below him, in a valley near a mountain, and he spotted her playing with a small puppy. Her beauty caught his eye, and he wanted to be near her. He went down and got close to her, though he never spoke. Not for a long time.

  Every day, she would walk near her small village with that puppy, and every day, he would be somewhere nearby, watching her.

  One day, she went to a stream and let the puppy play in the water. She took up handfuls of water and soaked her neck to alleviate the intense heat of the plains. Leon had climbed a tree behind her. He wished he could smell her, touch her. Her skin appeared soft and shimmering with the water running down her neck.

  Seemingly appearing out of nowhere, five men came up behind her. A lot of cutthroats and thieves.

  “What have we here?” a fat one with red hair said.

  She faced them squarely, not showing a bit of fear. Her loveliness shone through even more.

  The fat one approached her. Her chest heaved as he raised his fat dirty hand and ran his fingers through her hair. She slapped it away.

  He laughed. “We got us a lady with fight in her. I like my women with some fight in them.” He lifted some of her hair and smelled it. “I think we’ll keep you for a while.”

  Cassandra clawed his face and turned to sprint for the stream as her dog barked and growled. The fat one stomped on the dog, crushing its skull. He tackled Cassandra in the water and held her under as another ran over and began tearing off her dress.

  Leon slipped out of the tree and stealthily came up behind the man standing farthest away from the stream. He slid his blade across the man’s throat. Leon caught the body as it fell and lowered it gently to the ground. He did the same for the other two standing back and watching. The two in the stream were too occupied to notice that their comrades had just been killed.

  Leon grabbed the one tearing at her dress and lifted him in the air like a toy. He broke the man’s back, bending him so far that his head almost touched his arse. He threw the corpse into the stream and stood over the fat one.

  The man tried to scramble away, but he tripped on the slippery rocks and fell face first into the stream. Leon reached down and tore the man’s spine from his back. The skull was still attached and dangled like the head on a snake. Leon threw the spine into the stream. The woman gasped for air behind him. He lifted her out of the water, placed her gently on the soft mud of the bank, and knelt beside her.

  He gingerly placed his hand over her chest and pushed. She b
egan to vomit water. Rolling her to the side, he waited for her to cough out the last bit of fluid.

  She finally turned to him. “Are you with them?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “Why did you save me?”

  “Because the world has so few beautiful things in it that I did not wish for it to have one less.”

  From that moment, she loved him. Though he had never experienced the emotion, he knew he loved her, also.

  The courtship was a quick one, and they were married in a village. Leon borrowed money to lease some land and buy supplies to build their home.

  He had buried his past, quite literally, in the woods near their new house. He had wanted the proximity to remind him of what he was before he met her—nothing more than a savage who felt neither fear nor sympathy.

  “You seem troubled,” she said, placing a hand on his leg.

  He covered her hand with his. “No, not troubled.”

  “I’ve known you long enough that I can tell when you’re lying, Leon. We’re married. We don’t have my problems and your problems. We just have our problems.”

  He leaned over and kissed her. “I’m not troubled.”

  She smiled, bringing his hand to her swollen belly.

  FROM THE BOOK OF IDOLS: Verse 5, Chapter 12

  Verily, I say unto you that man was good. He was strong and healthy and multiplied on the earth. But not all was well.

  Chedes, brother of Lord Rain, natural son of the Great God Helios, felt his father had given man too much freedom. And he went to his father and said, “Am I not your son? Why then do you elevate the ape above me, your flesh and blood?”

  “My son, you do not see now that man is important. They are my sons as you and your brother are. I have love for all of you.”

  But Chedes was vexed and stormed away in anger. He cursed man and said, “I shall be the scourge of man.”

  And death did not exist among men. For men lived eternally and were joyful.