Tadpole wouldn’t give an inch. “And for all that,” he retorted, “he still puts ‘is breeches on one leg at a time, don’t ‘e?”
Aoife let out a long, slow breath. “I can’t,” she said. “I just can’t.”
Tadpole grinned. “A battle of wills, then, is it?”
Irrepressible, indeed.
“We need to speak of more pressing matters,” Aoife said.
“More pressin’ than the End-of-All-Things? That don’t sound good.”
“We need to find you and the rest of these children a home.”
Tadpole was ready. “First,” he said, “you ain’t getting rid o’ me. Second, the rest o’ the kids have a home and this is it!”
“You’ve done well for yourselves, that’s a fact. But you can’t live here alone forever. It’s not safe.”
“Not safe?” Tadpole protested. “We wasn’t safe when the town was whole!”
“Right. So we’ll find you a bigger town, a city.”
The boy exploded. “You are not ditching me in some stupid city. You’re not gonna do it! You’re not gonna leave like the others. I’m not gonna let you!”
The child in the washbasin began to cry, and Aoife pulled her out and wrapped a blanket around her, pulling her close. “And you,” she said sternly to Tadpole, “are not to yell at me, nor issue orders. The A’Shea are no one’s slaves.”
“But you can’t…”
“I can. I might wish things were otherwise, but I have a duty that’s larger than either of us.” Aoife hesitated, watched the boy’s anger drain from his face, to be replaced by fear and loneliness. “Now help me get the smaller children to bed, and then you can help me take stock of your food stores.”
True to his nature, Tadpole helped begrudgingly at first and with greater and greater enthusiasm as time wore on.
*****
On the fifth morning, Aoife was startled as she awoke by the appearance of a silent, shadowy figure in the nearest corner. It was watching her, she could tell, but the fact it hadn’t moved on her eased the rhythm of her pounding heart.
“Is there something you wish of me?” she whispered.
“It is time to return to the road, Mother-sister,” Toomt’-La replied, his voice raspier than she remembered.
“But…”
He stepped forward into the light, and Aoife gasped. He was horribly burnt over most of his body. His skin was covered with sores that wept a fluid more like sap than blood. His right eye was closed or gone – the A’Shea couldn’t immediately tell – and the other was terribly discolored. The satyr swept an arm before himself and said “The children will sleep a while longer.”
“What happened to you?”
Toomt’-La’s chuckle in response had an angry edge to it that Aoife had never heard before. “Something there is that doesn’t love a forest.”
“The End-of-All-Things again?”
The satyr scowled. “Not this time. Just men. Ordinary men. I must confess, I have no love for your kind.”
“My kind?” Aoife felt umbrage rising within her. “My kind? Am I not, as you have often called me, your Mother-sister?”
It seemed she’d outflanked him, for Toomt’-La would only repeat, “It is time to resume our journey.”
Aoife took in all the children, curled up around the room. “Our journey, or yours? You disappear without warning, are gone for days and days, and upon your return abuse me with dark insinuation. Tell me, what is it you would have of me?”
The satyr fixed his lone eye on the A’Shea. “But you already know the answer to that: you are the mother of the forest’s rebirth, the mother of forests yet to be.” He scuffed a cloven hoof impatiently upon the floor.
“And what of these?” Aoife demanded, gesturing to the children.
“What of them?” Toomt’-La retorted. “Countless thousands more will perish if you abandon your duties now.”
“My duties?” Aoife snapped. “As an A’Shea, I have a duty to these children.”
“You have a duty to your own children!”
“But a moment ago, you implied I was not of your kind. Now, you would own me. And for what purpose?”
“You know we have a mutual enemy.”
“Not a very appealing basis for a relationship.”
“You need us.”
“You need me.”
Toomt’-La fell silent for a long time. Finally, he said, “Forgive me, Mother-sister. I am…damaged. More seriously than you would guess. I need to…sleep, myself, if I am ever to heal.”
In the second Aoife bowed her head to acknowledge his apology, the satyr disappeared again. She had bought a little time, she knew. A very little time.
*****
Vykers, In the Moors
“Master,” Number 3 said, “a man approaches. Shall we kill him?”
Vykers stood up from the clump of moss he’d been resting on. “No. I’ll hear what he wants, first.” Probably just wants out o’ these fuckin’ moors. “Which way?” he asked the chimera.
“There,” Number 3 said, pointing off into the mist.
“How far?”
“Near. He should appear right…about…now.”
A large, shadowy shape emerged from the swirling vapors. As he became clearer, the man stopped. “Shit,” he muttered. “Wasn’t expecting four o’ you.”
“And I wasn’t expecting just one o’ you. Life’s full o’ little surprises, ain’t it?” Vykers responded.
“Bad ones, mostly,” the man observed.
Vykers laughed. “Aye. Can’t say as I disagree. You here to kill me, then?”
The stranger shrugged. “Thought I’d have a go at it, yeah.” He paused. “That is, if your…er…whatever-they-are don’t mind.”
“You boys mind?” Vykers asked the Three.
Number 17 beamed. “It is fine with me!”
“Thanks,” the Reaper said, sourly. To the stranger, he said, “Well, ya might as well come closer, eh?”
“Appreciate it. Kinda hard to kill you from twenty feet away.”
Number 3 spoke up. “I think you’ll find it equally hard to kill him up close.”
Vykers grinned at him. “I always knew you were the smart one,” he joked. Then, he turned his attention to his adversary. He was a big man, even bigger than Vykers. A little younger, perhaps, but a lot more scarred. “What’s your name?”
“Hargen Shere. General Hargen Shere, as it happens,” the man said, rolling his shoulders to loosen up.
“And now you’re here to shear me in two, is that it? Too bad your name ain’t ‘Victor.’ So, you work for this End-of-All-Things?”
Shere smiled ruefully. “That I do.”
“Must be a right bastard, to send you after me like this.”
“He ain’t my favorite,” Shere confided.
“What kind o’ general fights without an army?”
“Kind that doesn’t wanna see his troops die for nothing.”
“Troops? You got a funny definition o’ troops.”
“Yeah, well…what can ya do?” Shere hefted his sword.
Vykers considered. “You don’t have to die here, you know.”
“Nah, I think I do. You don’t kill me, the End will. Between you n’ me? I’d rather it was you.”
“I understand. Any last words?”
“Could you maybe let me parry a few before you end it? I’d kinda like to die feeling I was good at something.”
“As you wish.” Vykers said, drawing his sword and holding it before him. The chimeras stepped back several paces.
Vykers…Arune interjected.
Later, Vykers shot back.
Shere came at him with a roar and a sweeping blow to the crown of Vykers’ head, which the Reaper parried with ease. It was a traditional sort of opening, and Vykers could have killed the man then and there, were it not also traditional to accept such a blow as an acknowledgement of the opponent’s worth and gauge of his strength. He found Shere had plenty of strength.
“More ‘n I can count or remember, but nothing like you, if the tales be true.”
“Tales?” Vykers scoffed, “Bullshit’s more like it.” He feinted at Shere’s right shoulder, then, impossibly, turned it into an uppercut for the groin. Shere tumbled backwards out of range.
“No going after the jewels, alright? I’m here, facing you fair and square. There’s no need for that!” he protested.
“Just keeping you on your toes. You wouldn’t want me going easy on you, would ya?”
Shere advanced again, raining a series of blows – two right, one left, one high, one low, two high, one lower left – trying to keep his pattern unpredictable but also keep Vykers busy. As long as the other man was on the defensive, Shere figured, he might have a chance. Then, out of nowhere, Vykers’ sword sliced a nasty gash into his left forearm.
“Dammit!” Vykers grumbled to himself.
“Hoping for better, were you?” Shere taunted.
“I wasn’t trying to touch you at all!” Vykers complained. “Damn sword’s got a mind of its own, wants your blood sooner than later.”
Shere thought he saw an opening and lunged for Vykers’ midriff. Somehow, the Reaper parried and turned his sword into the general’s shoulder.
“Fuck!” Shere howled. “That hurts like a bitch. You got poison on that sword, Vykers?”
“Hold!” the Reaper yelled back. “This ain’t gonna work.” To Shere’s surprise, the Reaper sheathed his sword, though somewhat clumsily.
“What’s this, then?”
Vykers undid his belt. “Three!” he said, “hold this for me.”
“Certainly,” the chimera answered, stepping forward to take it.
“I still have to fight you,” Shere reminded Vykers.
“Right. But let’s do it the old way; otherwise, I won’t be able to keep my promise.”
Shere understood. “Magic sword, huh? The End’s got one, too.”
“So I hear, which is the one and only reason I’ve got this.”
“Makes sense. Still, I wouldn’t have figured you’d need one.”
A vicious grin came to Vykers’ face. “I don’t. Now, drop your sword and let’s see what you’re made of, General Shere.”
“Happy to oblige!” the general bellowed, dropping his weapon and bull rushing at Vykers’ chest.
Again, the Reaper could easily have dodged aside. Instead, he took the full brunt of Shere’s head and shoulders in his chest, dropped to his haunches and used the man’s forward momentum to heave him over his head and into the air behind him. A second later, he heard a loud thump as Shere crashed onto the ground. Vykers was already spinning to meet him.
Shere grunted. “Nice move, that. Where’d you learn it?”
“I dunno. Just seemed like the thing to do,” Vykers shrugged.
Shere stood, fists up and ready, and stepped forward. He faked a jab at Vykers’ head that came nowhere close to the target, then swung a wheeling hook from the other direction that was equally unsuccessful. He faked another charge. Vykers didn’t budge. “Well, this is…” Shere saw a flash of movement and his head snapped back. He tasted salt in his mouth. Shaking the cobwebs away, he realized he’d been punched in the mouth, splitting a lip and cracking a tooth in the process. “There’s the Tarmun Vykers I was expecting,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Vykers stood just out of reach, his hands on his hips. “Why not switch sides? Man like you could tip the scales in our favor.”
“He’s got my son,” the general answered sadly.
“Ah,” was all Vykers could say in reply.
“Anyway, you can’t imagine how brutal the End can be with traitors. There’s no limit to the suffering.” Shere began circling again.
“And dying here is better?”
“Getting killed by the legendary Tarmun Vykers is a pretty fair end, far as I’m concerned.” Shere said. “Still, I woulda liked to have landed one lousy blow!”
“Alright, then. Make it count,” Vykers said, as he stepped into a massive fist. His vision exploded in stars and he felt himself falling, landing hard on his seat. He expected the other man to follow up on his success, but, instead, sensed him moving off. “Why do I feel like you’re not giving me your best?”
“I wanna earn what I get from here on out.” Shere said.
For close to a half hour they fought, back and forth across the small clearing, both men sweating profusely, Shere bleeding profusely, too. Try as he might, he could not connect, but Vykers indulged the man, anyway. He gave the larger man ample opportunity to test every skill, theory and idea he’d ever had about combat. In the end, Shere simply collapsed, unable to mount one more offensive.
“I guess that’s it, then.”
“You sure about this?” Vykers asked one last time.
“Mercy from the Reaper? You’re destroying all my illusions.”
Vykers couldn’t help laughing. “It ain’t mercy, friend. It’s mercenary. I’m offering you a chance at revenge!”
Shere sagged even further to the earth. “Can’t do it, Reaper. I’ve got no feeling for it anymore.”
“So.”
“End this.”
“You fought well,” Vykers said and hit him as hard as he could on the left temple, cracking the man’s skull and breaking his neck in a single blow. The general fell sideways into the dirt. The Reaper rubbed his knuckles, which were bleeding at last.
What’s this, Vykers? Empathy? Arune asked.
Vykers ignored her, turning instead to the Three. “No point in staying in these moors, now. Can any o’ you lead us out?”
~ TEN ~
Janks, the Queen’s Camp
Some people have a peculiar manner, when speaking to others, of looking any and everywhere else but into the faces of those they’re addressing. Lord Marshall Ferzic was one of these hapless folks, and it made taking him seriously more difficult than necessary, especially under the present circumstances.
“The bastard’s on the move!” he declared in the general direction of the officers assembled before him. “A sane man waits ‘til the weather favors warfare.” There was some laughter and some grumbling at this. “A sane man doesn’t cede the choice of battlefield to a more-seasoned force!” One or two polite chuckles, a lot more murmuring. “And a sane man doesn’t challenge Her Majesty in her own territory!” A scattering of “Hear! Hears!” “But the End-of-All-Things is not a sane man and, as such, is all the more dangerous.” Silence. “Yes, he has a vast host of apparently deranged peasants and desperate mercenaries. But those who have underestimated him have all died. We shall not make that mistake.”
To Janks’ ear, this was just about the worst speech he’d ever heard; if it had been meant to inspire, it had failed miserably.
“General Branch,” the Lord Marshall called out.
A tall, iron-haired knight with a nasty scar across his upper lip stepped forward. “Yes, Lord Marshall?”
The Lord Marshall swept his eyes near the general. “To you, the honor of selecting the precise terrain of our stand. We have two days, three at most, before the enemy’s host appears. General Lescoray.”
Another knight stepped forward, with flaxen hair and passing good looks, but for a rather weak chin. “Lord Marshall?”
“Once Branch here has chosen our battlefield, you’ll be in charge of camp fortifications and front line defenses. General Darwent?”
The meeting went on and on, making Janks thankful he’d been of too low rank to attend others like it. All he knew was that the end – or “The End” – was coming, and his fate would most likely be decided within the fortnight. The long list of appointments and assignments wore on, until Janks heard Bailis’ name come up.
“I want you right in the heart of it,” the Lord Marshall told Bailis. “I know I can rely on you and your men should the fro
nt line falter.”
Great. Fucking great, Janks thought. Coulda been placed on the flank. Or guarding the baggage train. Somebody’s gotta do it. But nope. No. I’ve gotta wind up in the absolute shittiest shit. For a moment too brief to be properly called a moment, Janks thought of deserting, high-tailing it the hell out of camp and the army first chance he got. Then he thought of his buddy, Long Pete, whose predicament was undeniably worse. Janks couldn’t even imagine what his old friend’s daily existence was like, living amongst and working for the enemy, while his sweetheart – Janks couldn’t help grinning at the thought of it: Long had fallen for a giantess! – his sweetheart was held hostage. In all probability, Long, Mardine and Janks would die in the coming fray, and never see one another again. Janks needed a drink.
Steel, Blood & Fire (Immortal Treachery Book 1) Page 37
