And here I thought you liked running around inside me.
No, Vykers. I do not and have not. This is what they call a “marriage of necessity.”
Whatever that means, the warrior thought, derisively. Arune went silent. He’d hurt her feelings. Big fuckin’deal.
Vykers looked down at the wagon driver. The man was a touch on the heavy side, but otherwise nondescript and, in that regard, well chosen for his task. No one would remember much about him if questioned later. Just another laborer in rustic homespun and a ten-penny cloak.
Lunessfor was beginning to awaken in earnest by the time Vykers and his team reached Traders’ Gate, the one reserved strictly for commerce. After an interminable wait in line behind dozens of other wagons, Vykers’ driver presented the guards with various documents, all impressed with the crest of a house that was definitely not Blackbyrne. It seemed that lying was standard operating procedure in the Capital. Good to know, if Vykers ever came back. The guards looked suspiciously in the big man’s direction, but the driver quickly assured them the warrior was his personal bodyguard. That was rather far-fetched, as far as Vykers was concerned, but as long as the guards bought it, he didn’t care. At last, the wagon pulled through the gates and moved out onto the massive bridge connecting Lunessfor to the mainland. From its center, the northern branch of the Aumbre was impressive, indeed. Biggest damned river Vykers had ever seen – and this was just half of it, as the southern branch forked around the far end of the Capital. A quarter of an hour later, they had moved well into the farmlands that surrounded the Queen’s city and wouldn’t escape them until noon or so the next day. If Vykers feared anything, it was boredom.
“You ever kill a man, driver?” he asked his taciturn companion.
The driver looked up at him, as if Vykers were something of dubious origin that had washed up on the shore. “No,” he said, curtly.
“Wanna learn how?” Vykers asked, jovially.
“No,” the driver said again.
“Alheria’s tits, man! You’re an irrepressible bundle of giggles, ain’t ya?”
“No.”
Vykers fell silent. Then he had an idea. Hey, Burn. Burn!
Yes? Arune answered.
You ever kill a man?
Silence. Yes.
This was more like it!
*****
Aoife, On the Road
Aoife had been assaulted before, beginning with Anders, but continuing through any number of bandits, pimps and mercenaries. With the exception of her brother, Aoife inevitably bested them all. She would defeat these villains, as well.
In the morning, Lempz came over near Aoife to relieve himself. Presumably, he thought the sight of his pecker would intimidate her or awaken her desires. It was ridiculous, really. And when his piss trickled down the slight incline upon which he stood to soak into Aoife’s clothing, she had the link she needed. In a heartbeat, she temporarily paralyzed him. Without thinking, she kicked out and toppled his rigid form, so that he tumbled down the slope and bumped into her. Cautiously, Aoife hazarded a look over his body to his comrades. None had noticed. With perhaps less than a minute remaining before Lempz recovered, she fumbled with her bound hands to find and retrieve his dagger. Once she had it in hand, she sawed furiously at her bonds. Just as Lempz began to stir, Aoife’s hands came free and she renewed his paralysis. That done, she pulled off her gag and crawled on her belly towards the fire. She lacked a Shaper’s gift for true pyrotechnics, but she was able to enrage the thugs’ campfire, such that it tripled in size in one mighty explosion, dousing the last two bandits with sparks and flames. As they jumped up in panic, their clothing caught fire and they danced like madmen trying to put it out. Aoife seized the opportunity and destroyed the taller one’s balance with a word and a wave of her hand, and he promptly fell into the fire. As the second man bent down to help his partner, Aoife made the fire explode again, engulfing both men. Immediately, she suffocated the fire, extinguishing it completely. The two men crawled from the fire pit and collapsed in the dirt. Behind her, Aoife heard Lempz calling, “Hey! Hey!” She hit him again with temporary paralysis and then gathered herself and the few things the bandits had taken, and walked away. She hadn’t killed those men, but at least two of them would wish she had for a couple of weeks.
By evening, she was within sight of a very small village – just a few cottages, really – but A’Shea were welcome virtually everywhere, and she knew she would find succor.
She spent the night in a small farmhouse that made her somewhat nostalgic for her own childhood home. The sad old couple who lived there had lost all of their sons in one war or another and their daughter to the Fevered Death. They had a room that was spare in both senses of the word and no one to keep them company, so they were glad of Aoife’s presence.
She asked them for news of this part of the world, and they asked her for stories of her travels. The old man had pain in his knees, which Aoife alleviated as best she could. The old woman had a terrible toothache, and Aoife was able to put the nerve to sleep forever and kill any rot that might be troubling her jaw. They fed her mutton stew with carrots, onions, potatoes and parsnips. She fed their souls and lightened the pain of their memories.
In the morning, they gifted her with cheese and bread, dried fruits and a newer, warmer cloak. She kissed each of them on the forehead and bid them goodbye. She felt it unlikely they would see another spring. She stopped by each of the other cottages to see whether she might be of aid, and then resumed her journey.
Late morning, she heard a wagon approaching from behind. She stepped off the road to allow it to pass, and its driver pulled to a stop just past her position. The young man offered her a ride for as long as their paths coincided, and Aoife accepted. The wagon was full of more onions than Aoife had ever seen, their fragrance strong, but thankfully not overpowering. The young man’s name was Mix. Or perhaps that was his nickname. In any event, it suited him. He was skinny and tall, with hands that looked two sizes too large for his body. Though he was shy, he warmed to Aoife quickly – and she to him – and they were soon exchanging stories like old friends.
During such encounters, Aoife often found herself wishing she could settle down. Not in the standard domestic fashion, but at least as a member of a community, a small town in which everyone knew and looked after one another, some place she could have a deep and lasting impact. A home. Invariably, though, when she began to yearn for such things, she remembered her brother and how his sole purpose in life appeared to be the destruction of those same things – not just for her, but for everyone. It seemed laughable on its surface, but if anyone existed who could destroy Love, it was Anders.
*****
Long & Company, In the Army
Short Tempered, the new squad called themselves. In honor of Short Pete, though four of their number had never met nor heard of him. Looking them over, Long was almost convinced. With their company-issued leathers, mail and weapons, all ten of them looked much deadlier than they had any right to. Even Spirk looked capable of hurting someone other than himself.
“Corporal,” Long called over to Janks, “take these men through the basic attack and defense drills.”
“What are you going to do?” Janks asked.
“What are you going to do, sir?” Long corrected him. “We’re in the army again, Corporal. Best set a good example and remember that.”
Janks scowled. “Question still stands, Sir.”
“I’m going to pitch my new tent and take a nap.” Long replied, smugly.
“How come you get to nap while I get drill duty?”
“Because,” Long began with deep satisfaction, “I’m the sergeant and you’re the corporal. You remember how that works, don’t you?”
“I do, sir,” Janks admitted in disgust.
Long winked at him and headed off towards his future tent.
Later that evening, the squad was sitting around a cook fire when Long approached.
Rem leapt to his feet a little too eager
ly. “Orders, sir?” he asked, while saluting.
“At ease, soldier,” Long said.
If this was all a grand charade of some kind, they were pulling it off remarkably well. Everyone looked and acted his part, and even D’Kem seemed to have a little more life in his eyes. Long looked at the four newest members of the squad. The two archers were in fact twin brothers, long and lean; no question they looked like bowmen. The new basher, the mean son-of-a-bitch that Bailis had mentioned, was more interesting. He was some sort of half breed, though Long had a nagging suspicion that neither half was human. The basher was big – not Mardine big, but big enough. He had massive shoulders and no neck. His hands were like mallets. And he had tattoos over both eyes that made them look monstrously large from a distance. He didn’t say much, but he laughed often, in a deep, rumbling bass. Finally, there was the healer, the youngest, most unassuming A’Shea Long had ever seen, a slight, wisp of a thing with mousy-blonde hair. He’d be amazed if she could handle the hiccups.
“What do you hear, boys?” Long asked the group.
Janks was a little less pissy than he’d been earlier. “They’re still sayin’ it’s to be the Reaper. Can you imagine? The Reaper and the Virgin Queen on the same side?”
Truth was, Long could not imagine it. It made no sense. “And who or what is the target?” he asked.
It was Spirk who spoke up this time. “Everyone’s saying it’s some end-o’the-world fellow.”
“End-of-All-Things,” Mardine corrected him, not ungently.
Long squinted. “End-of-All-Things? What’s this?”
Janks answered. “There’s a fella calls himself the End-of-All-Things. They say that’s his name and his deepest desire.”
“The End-of-All-Things?” Long repeated, stupidly.
“That’s what they say. All kind o’ stories going around about him burning crops, razing entire villages, poisoning lakes – all for sport. They say he’s even laid waste to some of the East’s largest cities.”
To Long, this made less sense than an alliance of the Reaper and the Virgin Queen…which gave the whole thing the disturbing ring of truth. Long pulled up a good-sized chunk of firewood and sat on it, right between Rem and one of the twins. “So, what do we think?” he asked the group.
“I think we’re going to whip the End-o’-the-World fellow’s ass!” Spirk shouted.
“Well,” Janks began, sinking into a familiar but long-unpracticed role, “if the Queen’s worried enough to forge an alliance with the Reaper, this fella in the East has gotta be one nasty fucker.” Suddenly, he became aware of the two women present and self-consciously added, “if you’ll pardon my language.”
“Sort of like fighting fire with fire,” Long observed. “But do we have anything more than rumor to suggest the Reaper’s our new general?”
“I’ve heard it ten ways from Shars day, all over the camp.” Rem said.
“Might be it’s just an attempt to raise morale.” Janks replied.
“This early? Before any fighting?” Long asked.
The A’Shea’s small voice cut through the conversation. “What do we know about this Reaper person?”
Everyone turned to stare at her in unison.
“You kidding?” Janks said. “The Reaper’s flat famous. He’s a legend. You tellin’ me you don’t know about him?”
“Not…much,” the A’Shea finally allowed.
“Well,” Janks said, loosening the top button on his britches and propping his feet up on a log. “Lemme tell you about the Reaper,” he began. The rest of the squad seemed to lean just a bit in his direction. “The Reaper started out in the army, just like you all,” he said, waving his arm at the rest of the group. “Now, every good warrior usually has some kinda edge, some kinda way he’s just a little bit better than his enemies. Might be he’s big and stronger than most,” he pointed to the basher. “Might be he’s faster, or more creative when it comes to attack and defense, might be he don’t feel pain like you and me, or maybe he anticipates just a mite better’n most. Well, the Reaper’s a freak o’ nature. He’s got all o’ them gifts. All o’ them. You name it. First battle he was in, they found him at the end, surrounded by a wall o’ bodies. I mean to say he’d killed thirty-forty-fifty foes in that one fight. He got promoted pretty quickly after that.”
“We had a favorite story about the Reaper in my players’ troupe. It was one we always wanted to work into a play, but none of us could figure out how to do it.” Rem paused. “There’s a story up North that the Reaper was owed some money, once upon a time. He had loaned one of his sergeants a fortune in gold, in order to help the man build his own keep. When the debt was due, Vykers sent couriers to collect it, but his sergeant killed the men and fled. When the Reaper found out, he chased them into a large city – Qarms, it was – and the culprits tried to hide there. In his rage, the Reaper went through the city like a bladed whirlwind, killing everything in his path, not caring one whit whether his victims had participated in his men’s murder or not. Qarms released the city militia on him, but he just went right through them like a forge-heated blade through a snowdrift. They say that’s where he got the name ‘Reaper.”
“No, no, that wasn’t it,” Long objected. “It was back in Agondria. The Reaper had laid siege to the walled city and was ever-so-slowly starting to prevail when the Agondrians challenged him to face their champion, instead of prolonging the conflict. When Vykers showed up at the appointed field for the challenge, the Agondrians had a group of two hundred knights ready for battle. When the Reaper demanded to face their champion, the Agondrians insisted their two hundred knights were their champion, that they fought as one and must therefore be considered as one, single champion. Vykers didn’t even reply, but flew into their ranks with his sword flashing. When it was over, he’d left a lone knight standing, uninjured. The Agondrian witnesses and the knight were both terrified and bewildered. Then, the Reaper told the knight, ‘you assured me two hundred of you were one; now one of you is two hundred. Go back and comfort the dead men’s parents, wives and children, for they are now your own.’ It’s said the Agondrian killed himself within a fortnight.”
“Two hundred men?” the basher scoffed. “Ridiculous. Ain’t no one alive can defeat two hundred knights.”
Long glared at the man with a look that bordered on contempt. “That a fact? You ever see action against the Reaper and his forces? You ever seen the man fight?”
The basher just shook his head and spat into the fire.
“You might want to check that, soldier. Attitude like that can get you killed but fast,” Long cautioned.
“Yes, sir,” the man said, somewhat mockingly.
“Yes, sir,” Long repeated. “Once you’ve seen Vykers fighting, you’ll know the truth of it.”
“The truth of it,” D’Kem uttered into the silence. “The truth of it,” he repeated, as if he was testing the weight of those words. “The truth of it is, Tarmun Vykers once fell in love – against his instincts, against his principles, and against his nature. And he paid dearly for his mistake. Her name was Hesh-Tu, a slave girl from halfway ‘round the world. Vykers had liberated her from a vanquished foe and took her, at first, as a curiosity. He had never seen her like, and she intrigued him. They grew closer, however, and over time, he could not do without her. Hesh-Tu became great with child, and Vykers knew contentment. But a challenger arose in a nearby land, as challengers will, and Vykers rose to meet him. This adversary was King of the Daemites and, with the help of one of Vykers’ inner circle, he conceived a plan to blunt the Reaper’s sword by kidnapping Hesh-Tu and holding her hostage. For a brief time, the plan worked. Vykers was truly unable to think or to act without Hesh-Tu at his side. The thought of endangering her unmanned him. Uncharacteristically, Vykers sued for peace. The Daemite King, however, like Vykers before him, had fallen for Hesh-Tu’s exotic beauty and would not part with her. In fury, Hesh-Tu attacked the King with tooth and nail, and he killed her. They say the Reaper heard her
death wail half a league away, and when he learned for certain of her death – and of his unborn son – he fell upon the Daemites with singular ferocity. He swore to kill them to the last member of their race. And once his army breached the Daemite Capital’s outer wall, he was as good – and as bad – as his word. Vykers and his army killed every man, woman and child they encountered. They killed livestock, dogs, cats and birds. They desecrated temples and ruined art wherever they found it. Within a moon’s time, Vykers erased the Daemites from the face of the world.” D’Kem paused, breathed. “Look for them now. You will find them only in books.”
Again, a silence descended on the squad, as each member reflected upon the Shaper’s story. Long and Janks exchanged thoughtful glances. Rem looked pensive. Spirk looked lost. The others looked equally troubled by the story. An entire people erased for the treachery of a few? What kind of man would do such a thing? What kind of man was their new leader-to-be?
*****
Vykers, On the Trail
The Five, as Vykers had come to think of them, could not pass for normal in daylight and so could not be allowed to accompany him into villages and towns for supplies and information along their journey. Bad enough being the Reaper, but having the freak show in tow was asking for trouble – not that Vykers wouldn’t welcome a little trouble, but he wanted to get this Ahklat business out of the way as soon as possible. He did not relish the thought of sleeping amongst apparently immortal former cannibals, or whatever in Mahnus’ name they were.
Steel, Blood & Fire (Immortal Treachery Book 1) Page 12
