Anders became aware that other survivors were staggering forward to form a rough circle around the two combatants. He might have to do this more quickly than he’d wanted.
The Baron came at him again, a whirling tornado of sharpened steel. It was all Anders could do to keep the man off him. He parried, he feinted, he dodged, he counter-attacked, but the knight would not be shaken off. Impossibly, Anders tripped and stumbled while moving backwards and the survivors laughed. Even the Baron paused a moment to grin at him. The End-of-All-Things had never been laughed at, never been so humiliated. He sent out another blast of fire that quickly silenced the survivors and dropped the Baron to his knees. Anders drew near the man, who appeared scorched into paralysis. Smoke and steam rose from the fellow’s blackened scalp and armor. Only his eyes moved, following Anders’ every move.
Anders took his time. “Your laughter has doomed your little band of witnesses in yonder hills. No one laughs at the End-of-All-Things. NO ONE!” he roared.
The Baron seemed to be trying to say something, but his lips were gone.
The End-of-All-Things considered his sword for a moment, then sheathed it. He reached out and put his hand atop the Baron’s raw scalp. “Ah!” he said, his eyes closed, “you have a wife and three young children!” Anders cooed. “I will, of course, torture them to death. Slowly, so, so slowly. They will…what is it I want to say…? Marinate in their agony.” This was much better than taking the man’s head for a trophy.
Anders turned to leave and realized he had inadvertently killed his own horse, as well. He looked back at the Baron and sighed, as if to say “What’s to be done?” and slowly lifted into the air. At last, he winked at the dying man and flew into the sky.
The Baron of Eemonfeld felt no pain. No physical pain, anyway. His eyes brimmed with tears as he thought of his family and waited to die.
*****
Mocked because of a pebble. Anders still seethed when he thought about it, and even the destruction of the witnessing army in the hills, as well as the capture and torture of the Baron’s family didn’t alleviate his fury. He refused to consider any fault on his own part; a being of inestimable power ought to be able to engage a fantastically inferior foe without mishap. If he could pulverize every pebble from here to far N’Dare, he’d –
A voice tickled at his ears. That could only be Wims, using the Scaldean head to communicate, as ordered. Anders retrieved its twin from its hawthorn-wood chest and set it on his work table. The thing had once been the actual head of a Scaldean priest, years before Anders was born. The End-of-All-Things claimed it, along with its mate, after sacking a temple to the south east.
“Speak to me,” he commanded.
“Lord?” Wims’ voice asked from desiccated lips.
“Don’t try my patience, Wims. I have none to spare today. Of course it’s me.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“What have you learned?”
“As you suspected, the Virgin Queen is mustering her troops.”
“I’ll need to know more about her, Wims. What other news?”
“They say her army will be led by a man named Tarmun Vykers. Men call him ‘the Reaper.”
Anders paused. “The Reaper. I like that. It’s…eloquent.”
Wims spoke again. “I mean no disrespect, my Lord. No one alive can best in you battle. But this Reaper is…a legend. He is also called Scourge of Empires.”
“Tarmun Vykers, the Reaper,” Anders repeated, almost to himself. The Questing Ear worked much better when it had something specific to listen for. And he was almost excited to learn more of this Reaper.
“My Lord?”
“Continue on to the Capital as planned and infiltrate the Queen’s inner circle,” the End-of-All-Things instructed. Which was impossible, he suspected, but it would undoubtedly test his servant’s abilities and loyalty. When and if Wims returned, he would at last have earned his master’s trust.
“As you command, my lord,” Wims’ voice responded, before the mummified head went silent. Anders considered it for a moment. He could send out a pair of Questing Ears now, one from himself and another from Wims’ Scaldean head. If anyone had anything to say of this Reaper, Anders would hear of it.
*****
Vykers, On the Trail
So, tell me, Arune began, is this story of you defeating two hundred and fifty men single-handed an utter fable, or merely an exaggeration?
What do you think? You’re the one poking around in my thoughts.
It’s like a labyrinth in here, Arune lamented. Too many doors, too many dead ends. And you’re getting better at obstructing me.
Vykers broke open the bone he’d been gnawing on with a rock and sucked at the marrow. Why do I feel like you’re lying?
Arune groaned. Fine, I’m lying. Happy? I simply asked you about the two hundred and –
It’s true, as far as it goes.
As far as it goes…?
I was carving ‘em up pretty good and, at some point, the rest just thought ‘fuck it’ and took off. They fired off a few half-hearted shots from their crossbows once they got outta range and that’s the last I ever saw of ‘em.
So…how many did you kill, then?
I dunno. Five, six score.
A hundred and twenty? You ARE the Reaper, Arune said, impressed.
Huh, Vykers shrugged indifferently, as he threw the remains of his meal into the fire.
Still, it sounds like this End-of-All-Things character destroys entire civilizations.
And that’s why he’s got to die. Besides, what’s left for me if he wrecks the whole world?
Good old Vykers: a moment of selflessness, followed by absolute selfishness.
What else is there but ourselves?
Philosophy, Vykers?
The Reaper stood. I gotta piss, he thought and wandered into the underbrush.
~ SIX ~
Vykers, At Morden’s Cairn
In fairytales, the land always grew dead around the haunted places, as if the spirits of the underworld bore malicious intent against rabbits, mice and shrubbery. As the party drew nearer Morden’s Cairn, however, Vykers could see this wasn’t the case. The hills, forests, marshes and streams all seemed perfectly normal, if admittedly less welcoming. And what did that mean, exactly? The Reaper couldn’t say, except that he wouldn’t feel comfortable sleeping in the open without a fire and someone to stand guard. Even the Five were acting a little skittish, or as skittish as they ever acted, anyway.
“What’s up?” he asked Number 3.
“There’s an…odor here.”
That’s centuries of dead, Arune offered.
“That’s centuries of dead,” Vykers said.
Nice.
What do you want, credit? You want me to tell my little pack of monsters that the ghost in my head is giving me directions?
Point taken.
“I thought so,” said Number 3. “How do we proceed?”
“Well, a cairn is a…uh..big heap ‘o stones.”
“Yes, I was aware.”
Sometimes, Vykers wanted to haul off and belt one of the chimeras right in the snout. They were, by turns, sycophantic and condescending, and Vykers couldn’t tell if that was due to their strange origins or their lack of exposure to and experience with ‘normal’ people.
“Right,” he finally said. “So, that’s what we’re looking for.”
It’s centuries old, at least, Arune said. What if this hill we’re on is the cairn?
Be a hell of a big cairn.
Might be a metaphorical cairn.
A what?
I still think it’s this hill.
“Could be this whole hill we’re on,” Vykers said to the Five.
“In which case,” Number 17 said, “we just need to find an entrance.”
“Right,” Vykers said again. Long as they took his orders, he guessed he didn’t much care about decorum and all that. He looked around and ahead. It was an enormous hill. Was it even possible
that it was also a cairn, or had been at one time? He continued walking.
After some time, Number 3 said “Menhirs.”
Vykers just looked at him.
“Standing stones,” the chimera clarified. “In the distance.”
Vykers didn’t see them, but he’d learned to trust the Five’s senses. “How far?”
“A quarter hour, perhaps.”
Damn big hill. “Alright, then. Let’s see what we see.”
Ten minutes later, Vykers could see the stones for himself, arranged in some sort of pattern, with a few even stacked atop one another. “That looks promising.”
Arune teased him, Promising?
Vykers didn’t respond. He wasn’t in the mood for banter at the moment.
Five minutes out, he stopped and surveyed the area for potential threats. Seeing none, he nodded to his companions and resumed his approach. The stones were definitely placed in a great, triangular configuration, framing a gaping hole in the earth. Less obvious in purpose were several outlying stones that had fallen or been placed in various positions and distances from the triangle.
“Reminds me of home,” Number 12 said.
Vykers had no idea if he was joking or not. He looked at the chimeras. “What kind o’ sense are you boys getting about that place? Are we walking into an ambush?” he asked. And then, to Arune: Any magic we need to know about?
Gods! Magic? Plenty of it. None recent. Some of it…Arune trailed off.
Yes? Vykers prompted impatiently.
When Arune spoke again, her voice was almost a whisper in his head. Some of it goes back farther than the Awakening. Some of it…is of a type I’ve never seen before.
“Great,” the Reaper muttered, aloud. Is there any immediate danger? He clarified.
I don’t think so.
Vykers about shit himself. You don’t think so?
Do you know everything?
What in all hells has that gotta do with anything?
Do you know everything?
No.
Right. And neither do I, Arune scolded.
Number 17 spoke up. “If you’re uncomfortable going in, I can enter and tell you what I find.”
Leaders lead. “I’m going in,” Vykers responded, a little too brusquely. “You wait here.”
Number 17 bowed his head ever-so-slightly and stepped back amongst his companions.
Vykers looked up. The day was overcast, but rain didn’t seem likely. There was still a bit of frost in the shadows, too. On one side – the north side – the menhirs were mottled with lichen and moss. Facing the hole, however, they were bare and dry, revealing a faint blackening here and there that told of exposure to fire at some point. The mouth of the hole looked to have been burnt, as well. Well, the Reaper told himself, now or never, and he climbed down into the hole.
*****
Long, On the Trail
They had been riding for a day and a half and seen no sign of the enemy’s scouts. In many ways, though, Long reflected, searching was better than finding. Finding meant possible battle; battle meant potential casualties, even death. Death did not sound appealing. He thought of his dearest friend, Short Pete, fading away in a puddle of his own blood on the cold ground of that unremarkable campsite in the middle of nowhere. He wondered what Short would make of their latest predicament. Probably, he’d be delighted, in his element. Crazy son-of-a-whore. Crazy dead son-of-a-whore. Spirk started singing again and brought Long back to the present.
“Nessno!” he spat in an urgent whisper. “How many times I gotta tell you not to sing, you Mahnus-be-damned idiot? You’re makin’ a target of us!”
Long could tell by their eyes that the rest of his squad were in complete agreement. Spirk’s mouth clapped shut abruptly.
“Sorry, Sarge,” Spirk said, for the twentieth time that day, at least.
“Listen to me, boy, and listen good,” Long said, pulling his horse alongside the younger man’s. “Next time, I’m gaggin’ you, and you’ll stay that way, except for meals. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
Long growled, “Not good enough. Say ‘I understand you’ll gag me if I sing one more time.”
Spirk glanced around and saw that everyone was staring at him. “I understand you’ll gag me if I sing one more time,” he repeated.
Long slapped him on the back and rode back into position. Things were not going to end well for the boy, Long told himself. It was a mantra he’d been repeating with increasing frequency the closer the squad got to actual combat. The kid was as sharp as polished river rock and possessed absolutely no martial skills whatsoever. To make matters worse, he appeared to have no talents of any other kind, either. Oh, Janks had assured him the boy’s blandness was some sort of talent, but so far Long hadn’t seen it. Quite the contrary, he’d –
Up ahead, one of the twins motioned the squad to stop. He jumped down from his horse and examined something in the dirt. Long dismounted more carefully and walked over to his point man. He didn’t see anything on the ground.
“What’ve you got?” Long asked.
The man held something small and round between his fingers. “Button,” he said.
Long whistled, quietly. A button? The man had spotted a button in the grass? That was impressive. Long gestured for the rest of the squad to stay put, stay mounted, while his point man looked for more signs of their elusive prey. After a while, the man wordlessly showed Long places where taller grass had been broken or shorter grass had been trampled. There were even a few impressions in the hard earth that might have been hoof prints.
“So, what do you think?” Long asked the twin.
“What it looks like: scouting party. Three or four riders.”
“What kind of scout wears buttons?”
“Well, Sergeant,” the man said, “they do say the enemy’s host is made up of all kinds, with a lot of civvies pressed into service.”
Long sucked his teeth, thinking. “Any idea which way they went or how long ago?”
“Looks like west, to me,” the man replied. “Sometime today, too.”
“And this isn’t a trap of some kind? Trying to bait us into following?”
“There’s ways around that.”
“Of course,” Long said and walked back toward the rest of the squad. “Listen up. Here’s what we’re gonna do,” he said, keeping his voice low. “We’ll split into two smaller groups. Spirk, D’Kem, Bash, my twin and I will follow along to the north of these signs. The rest of you do the same with Janks to the south. Sundown, we’ll try to meet back up in the middle, if nothing else happens. It’s important we camp together.”
Left unsaid was the fact Long had assigned Mardine to Janks’ group, while taking the biggest liability, Spirk, into his own. Long felt awkward, never having mastered the twins’ names. It just hadn’t been long enough, he told himself, but that was no excuse. For identical twins, they really looked quite different from one another. It was easy to tell them apart. Still, Long had taken to calling them “you two,” “the both of you,” or “you and you.” When they were separate, as now, he called one “my twin” and the other “Janks’ twin.” Wasn’t a good way to earn the twins’ respect, but he figured that would have to wait. He’d given Janks the A’Shea – mostly to ensure Mardine wasn’t killed – and he’d have to be satisfied with the old Shaper.
Mardine stared him down as she filed past with the rest of her team, but Long pretended his crossbow needed sudden inspection. He knew she wasn’t happy, but he couldn’t be seen to be coddling her, not if he wanted the others to follow him anywhere. Finally, Janks’ group split off to the left with Janks’ twin in front. Long’s twin led the sergeant’s group north, and he followed. Worst came to worst, the two groups would only be a few hundred paces apart, with the twins ranging back and forth between them.
*****
It was truly a weird fire, warm as usual, but completely subdued in brightness. It simply did not shed light outside the small pit in w
hich it sat.
“Campaigner’s Fire,’ we called it back when.” D’Kem explained. “It’s meant to give off all the heat, but not attract attention from unwelcome eyes.”
“I ain’t seen Campaigner’s Fire since…” Janks scratched the crown of his head, “forever, really. Must’ve been a boy, then.”
Steel, Blood & Fire (Immortal Treachery Book 1) Page 20
