Just a week? You’re a man of iron.
The big man laughed. “Not iron, steel. Steel, blood and fire.”
*****
By sunset, Vykers had traveled several leagues and felt utterly exhausted.
“Fuck me, but I am out of fighting trim” he spat as he threw himself down on a fallen log.
If it’s any comfort, I understand most fighters don’t outlive their twenties.
“No, that’s certain.”
And even most peasants don’t reach the half-century.
“So, I’m getting old. That your point, Burn?”
“Speaking of which, how ‘bout a fire?”
Gather your kindling and we’ll set it ablaze.
But as he bent to retrieve a broken branch, Vykers froze. He thought at Arune: You smell that?
I smell what you smell.
Svarren.
It would seem they smell you, as well.
If the Mahnus-cursed Savages can smell me, I must stink something awful.
Well…
Vykers shoved the two spears he’d made into the dirt at his feet and took hold of his staff. “Rather have a nice cross-hilt long sword, but this’ll kill ‘em just as dead. What can you tell me?”
They’re getting closer.
No shit.
There may be more than you can handle.
The warrior broke into his biggest, most chilling smile. There’s no such thing, little spook. No. Such. Thing.
In the waning light, Vykers could hear the pounding of countless feet on the forest floor as the swarm of Svarren raced towards his position. Near cities and towns, Svarren preferred to gibber and ululate, perhaps in attempt to terrify their prey. In the deep woods, however, it appeared they favored silence. And if it was silence they wanted, they’d come to the right man.
Moments before the creatures burst into view, a wall of fire exploded into existence around Vykers. It was not terribly high, reaching only two or three feet into the air, but it did give the Svarren pause. They stumbled to a stop just at the flames’ edge, and Vykers sneered at them. “Gods, but you’re ugly fuckers.”
“Ug-lee fuckerzzzz,” one of them echoed, flecks of spittle flying from his lips.
While Arune could easily have enumerated the several intelligent and semi-intelligent races apart from men, Svarren were not of that number. Because Svarren were not completely separate from men. They had, in fact, once been of mankind, but centuries of inbreeding, cannibalism and other equally unpleasant practices had reduced them, as individuals and as a people, to malevolent and misshapen perversions of their former race. Some were fully eight feet tall, covered with warts and bristles, while others were diminutive and sported extra digits or tusks. Some had only one eye, while others boasted several. A rare few even had extra heads, though not all of them functioned. The universal attributes were nakedness, a putrid stench, long, filthy nails and jagged teeth.
In their hunger, several jumped through the fire and came at Vykers with their jaws hanging open and arms outstretched, but the big man was a fire in his own right. He swung his staff faster than his enemies could track, in a series of blows that seemed to have been choreographed days if not weeks before. Eventually, the Svarren made a bridge of their fallen brethren and poured into the circle, only to be smashed and broken by Vykers’ impossibly prescient blows. Even creatures as primal as Svarren could sense they were witness to something preternatural, for the longer the fight went on, the stronger the warrior became. It was as if he was somehow feeding on their rage, their fear, their very life-energies.
Arune remained quiescent after the fight was joined. She had meant to help her host, but even she had never seen his like in combat. Few men live up to their reputations, and while slaughtering a score of Svarren in a remote stretch of woodland was hardly the same as leading an army into battle, Vykers was clearly up to his legend and then some. She, too, felt there was more to the man than made sense, something either divine or infernal, but in any case somehow beyond simply human. Even inside him, as she was, she was awed. Despite being a Shaper, she was mystified. In mere moments, it was over.
“Douse these flames, Burn. Might be there’s worse than savages in these woods, and I don’t want their attention right now.”
That was…fast.
“Heh. Best way with Svarren. Get into it, get it over with. Don’t want ‘em calling out for kin.”
I meant, your skill is impressive.
“Put a sword in my hand, Burn. Then, you’ll see ‘impressive.’ Although most of the Svarren had been largely naked, Vykers was able to salvage a very shoddy pair of boots and an equally shoddy – and mismatched – pair of gloves.
Good thinking.
“If folks want to assume I’ve got real hands and feet, I see no reason to make ‘em think otherwise.”
Clever. There may be some advantage in that.
“’S what I figured. Anyway, let’s camp somewhere else. I got my wind back, feel like I could go all night.”
*****
Some time later, Vykers managed to pounce on an orris – a large, nocturnal rodent – and, with a fire of Arune’s creation, was enjoying a hot meal.
“So, Burn, how’d you end up in the dirt, anyway?”
Why do you refuse to call me by name?
Vykers rolled his eyes.
I just felt that, you know.
Vykers sighed, exasperated. “Look, in war, we don’t use given names. You got a title, you got a nickname…that sorta thing. I ain’t courtin’ you, anyhow.”
Arune had noticed that whenever he felt belligerent, his language got more rustic. Courting me? She laughed. You don’t have to worry about that.
Vykers grimaced. “You’re not one o’ them, are ya? One of those girls who only goes for other girls?”
And what if I was? Besides, you’re too old for me.
“Too old for a ghost?” It was Vykers’ turn to laugh.
How old do you think I am – or would be if I were still alive, anyway?
“I don’t know. I’ve seen some damned old Burners.”
I was seventeen when I found ‘the dirt,’ as you so eloquently put it. I would be over eighteen now. Far too young for a relic like you.
“Seventeen’s young for a Burner, ain’t it?”
I was good. And I’m even better now.
“Huh.”
I’ve learned a great deal since my body died.
“And, again, how’d that happen?”
Savages. Perhaps even the ones you killed tonight. I came into the forest with a few companions, looking for Theulia resin –
“Toolia what, now?”
Theulia resin. It’s what we call a ‘Channeling Enhancer.’ It makes magic easier. But the Svarren overwhelmed us.
“Yeah? I thought you said you were good.”
Yes, but overconfident, too. I’ve learned my lesson. And I’ll be back.
“I hope so. I don’t like you poking around in my dung bucket.”
Your…what?
“My skull, my skull! Ain’t you ever been around soldiers?”
I’ve tried not to let them get too close.
“Well, this is about as close as you can get, now, ain’t it?” Vykers chuckled sardonically. “Anyway, I got another question…”
You’re in a mood, aren’t you?
“You got anything better to do right now?”
What’s your question? Arune asked.
“Menders and A’Shea are the same thing…”
Yes?
“How come A’Shea have an old name, but Shapers are just Shapers?”
Who says we don’t have an old name?
“Well, what is it?”
There’s a reason Menders are only Menders. They share their knowledge; we keep ours close.
“Must be some special fuckin’ name,” Vykers remarked, irritably.
And what about you? Arune asked, deftly changing the subject. How was the mighty Vykers brou
ght so low?
He was silent for a moment, as he thought about it. “I was…overconfident, too.” Then, he said nothing more for several minutes. Arune didn’t press, because she sensed more was coming.
Vykers chewed an orris haunch, watched sparks from the fire float up amongst the tree branches. For the briefest of moments, he wondered if stars were, in fact, sparks that had escaped the forest canopy. “I was replenishing my host. Told the people of the Tenbrae region I’d wipe out their rivals over to Bysvaldia, if they lent me their husbands and sons. Then, I told the Bysvaldians the same. I really only wanted an army big enough to take out the Virgin Queen.”
Arune gasped.
“Hey,” Vykers shrugged, “if you’re going to go big, you might as well go the whole hog. Anyway, she’s sharper than you’d think, and she slapped me down pretty good. Then she sold me back to the Bysvaldians. Love to know what she got for me.”
I imagine you’d be disappointed.
“I expect so. But that’s life, ain’t it?”
So, what’s next?
“After you get out of my body, you mean?”
Yes, well, that’s going to take a considerable amount of gold.
Vykers stretched. “I’ve got gold. I just need to dig it out.”
You buried it?
“In a manner of speaking. I’ve got various…business ventures, I guess you’d call ‘em. My money’ll keep building up ten years after I’m dirt.”
And you don’t think anyone’s stolen it?
Vykers stared into the fire. “Terrible things happen to folks who steal from the Reaper.”
I’ll bet.
*****
Long & Company, Farnsley
Long Pete looked up from his plum wine. Shit. The gang just wouldn’t leave him alone. Janks and Nessno muscled towards him through the crowd, while D’Kem stayed back near the door with another man, dressed somewhat pretentiously, and a monstrous, hulking figure. So, they’d found the giant.
“Good news!” Janks smiled. “We picked up another sword arm and landed our giant, as well.”
“I’m happy for you,” Long answered sourly, and turned back to his wine.
“Means we can get back on the road, soon!” Janks prompted.
“Have fun.” Long said.
Janks and Spirk exchanged glances, looking both hurt and confused. “Um, well, we sorta need you to…what I mean is, we can’t…”
“I’m not going, Janks. I don’t want to die leaking my guts out in the underbrush, just off the Queen’s Road.”
Janks grabbed him by his shirt collar and pulled him nose-to-nose. “And how are you wanting to die, then? In a big feather bed, surrounded by all of your rosy-cheeked grandchildren? That ain’t gonna happen, for fuck’s sake! You’re well past marryin’ age, Long. You got no one but us. If you’re lucky – lucky!” Janks yelled, spittle flying in Long’s face, “you’ll go out like Short did, with all of your mates nearby, keepin’ you company and holding your hand as you go over!” Suddenly, all the air seemed to rush out of Janks and he slumped, got smaller. “Ah, forget it. Goodbye, Long.”
Janks took Spirk by the arm and Long watched as both men worked their way back to the front door. “Lads!” he called out. They turned. “Wait up! Wait up a second!” Slowly, cautiously, Janks broke into a smile.
*****
Long was disappointed, but, after Janks’ outburst, he was loathe to show it. Still, their new giant was female. He didn’t see how a woman, no matter how big, could possibly serve as the basher their squad needed. And the new man was an actor. An actor!
“Long Pete,” Janks said, indicating the giantess, “this towering beauty is Mardine. And this,” he added, pointing to the actor, “is the famous Remuel Wratch.”
“Friends call me ‘Rem,” the man said, bowing deeply.
The giant said nothing, but watched Long with eyes like two tiny currents peeping out from an enormous shortbread scone.
And Long watched her. She was big, he’d give her that. Maybe ten feet tall. How’d she’d gotten through the door – in or out again – he’d no idea. Her enormous, pasty face was surrounded by a cloud of wiry red hair. Her arms were covered in red down as well, and even the backs of her massive fingers sprouted red hairs. She was huge and unlovely, and the look in her eyes seemed to be challenging Long to say so aloud.
As for the actor, although Long had worked as a gigolo, Rem actually dressed like one. His attire seemed more aimed at women’s tastes than men’s respect. He was decked out in opulent black fabrics embroidered with red and gold thread from his collar to the top of his thigh-high boots. His blue-black hair was wrapped in a gem-studded bandana, while the plunging neckline of his shirt offered full view of his quite hairy chest. He sported an enormous belt with a custom-made buckle that spelled out the mysterious initials “W.C,” along with a scabbard that held some sort of dueling sword. Finally, he wore the best pair of gloves Long had ever seen. He couldn’t believe this man had ever been in a fight. Not with another man, anyway.
“So…uh…Rem,” he began, “you ever been in the army?”
“The army? Absolutely!” Rem replied.
“Really?” Long asked, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. “And where was this?”
“Well, let’s see. I played General Zardrakkis in The Tyrant’s Demise, and I was Commander Voobs in Die King, Die! That was an especially popular play. Of course, I started my career playing no end of ‘third-spearholder-on-the-left’ roles. And I…”
“No,” Long interrupted. “I mean actual service. Actual combat.”
“Whatever do you mean, ‘actual combat?’ I’ve fought in dozens of plays. Dozens!”
Long took a deep breath, willing himself to calm down. “Right. Look, I don’t mean to sound, uh, judgmental, but actual fighting’s a bit more difficult and dangerous than play-acting with prop swords. For one thing, it draws real blood.”
“Oh! Real blood, is it?” Rem countered, indignantly, “do you see this?” he asked, pulling the neck of his shirt open even further and revealing a small scar above his left nipple. “I got this when my scene partner scratched me with an unbated foil! Bled like a bitch, too!”
“Of that, I’m certain,” Long muttered.
“Look, Long,” Janks broke in, “what are you after? We needed a giant, and Mardine’s here to help us. We needed another sword, and Rem’s here, too. Now, I say we gear up and see if we can find some work!”
“Work! Work! Work!” Spirk cheered. The others didn’t join in.
After three hours of searching, the best they could find was a merchant offering them twelve pennies apiece to escort him and his wagons to Milford. After agreeing to the merchant’s terms, they retired to a tavern to sulk – at least that was Long’s plan.
“Well,” he sighed, “if we don’t eat, we might just break even.”
“Ah, but Milford’s a much bigger town!” Rem offered. “We’re bound to do better there.”
“Bigger, aye. And more dangerous.” D’Kem replied.
It was what Long would have said, too, but the grudge he was nursing against the Shaper wouldn’t allow him so much as a nod in agreement.
Mardine pounded the table top with a fist the size of an anvil. “I can’t live on twelve pennies a day. I need to eat!”
Long sighed. “The rest of us’ll have to pitch in, say, five pennies each then, to make sure you don’t go hungry.” Seven pennies a day? That probably seemed like a fortune to that idiot, Nessno. It sounded like fuckin’ poverty to Long. He looked over at Janks, caught the other man’s eye, and they both frowned in response. Seven pennies. Seven Peasants. Seven Shims, so-called because they were so low in value, they were often used to level wobbly table legs. They weren’t good for much else.
Janks rose. “I can put us up for one night’s lodging, and then we’ve gone through the money we brought with us. That is, unless anyone wants to dip into his private funds?”
Everyone looked at the table top.<
br />
“Right, then. Let’s all get one good night of sleep and see what the road brings us on the morrow.”
When morning came, the group climbed back on their various mounts, except for Mardine who was forced to walk and made it plain she was none too happy about it.
“I understand, I understand Em,” said Long.
Steel, Blood & Fire (Immortal Treachery Book 1) Page 6
