by Sam Ford
Malicent laughed as he began to feast. The other four Rangers continued stabbing as their comrade screamed. Blood gushed everywhere. The luggage trunk shuddered and rolled, spilling the other two Phantoms onto the grass. They screamed and lunged, like sharks drawn to blood. It was a feeding frenzy. That was enough for the Rangers and they all ran, chasing after their horses.
"Remember," Galway called. "Twenty-four hours!"
He turned back to the Phantoms, who were devouring the last of the Ranger. They ate everything--bone, cloth, metal. All that remained was the bloody grass staining the field. Galway wasn't happy about this at all.
"We need a plan to cover up your failure," Galway thought aloud, speaking to Malicent. "Something even these two fools can't mess up."
"How dare you speak to us in such a manner?" The smallest one barked. "We have been granted names by our foe on the field of battle. I am called Fang, and this one is Mud. These are honorable names given to us by our many enemies, and they shall surely strike fear into the hearts of all who hear them. You shall know it as well and bow before us in reverence."
A strong reprimand would have been his choice, but these Phantoms were animalistic beasts of the most psychotic degree. Torture was all they understood, so torture they received. Galway needed to show them who was in charge. The tattoo on his hand burned as he clenched it tight, commanding them with the power of the ancient rune, the only help King Ares could offer.
"Listen and listen well, you miserable reptilian slag. There is only one in charge around here, and that is me!" All three Phantoms screamed in pain. Galway thought his hand might explode. "Who is your master?"
"We are."
"Who?"
"Daegon!"
Galway clenched his fist tighter, his tattoo glowing like a brand. "Who is your master?!"
"You are!"
"Don't you forget it." The phantoms scampered for shelter, cowering in the luggage trunk away from the light. Galway nearly collapsed back on a stool. His left hand shook with pain and exhaustion. Fang peeked from the trunk, glaring daggers at him.
"You are no longer Fang."
"It is our custom to receive names in battle!"
"And indeed you shall. Henceforth your name shall now be Mud. The other is Fang. Defy me again and you'll lose more than your name next time."
Mud, now newly renamed, vanished back in the trunk. Galway needed to think. The Rangers bought his bluff, but he needed to make it stick. There had to be a way out of this, one which would make the leaders of Uruk obey in the same manner. He needed to humble and humiliate them into capitulation. He needed a strong hand, like with Phantoms. He needed to exploit their weakness.
Galway wiped his brow. The morning was already muggy. He could use a bath.
Wait, that was it. That had to be it. They wouldn't let anything happen to their precious bathhouse. It was a source of pride for the city, a glistening jewel in the heart of the city by the bay. It had stood for generations. Aquifers delivered fresh water daily from the lake far upstream. Galway had personally seen to a dispute on them some years back. If he cut off the aquifers, he would starve the bathhouse of fresh water and let the city smell like the cesspit it really was.
"Mud. Fang. Come here." The two Phantoms leapt to attention, sitting politely at his feet. "Tomorrow Malicent and I shall go to the gate. You two will travel upstream. Go to the lake and await my signal. If they fail to cooperate, I need you to shut off the water to the aquifers. The large stone bridges. Do you understand?"
"How?" asked Mud.
"They have gates to dam the water for maintenance. Use those."
"The big wall with the stone gate?" Fang put in.
"No, that's the dam. I'm talking about the ones in the sky."
"Where the rain falls from?"
"Not that sky. The one with the door," Galway tried to explain.
"How do we open the door in the sky?"
"What if it is locked?"
"Should we tear it apart? I never cared for doors."
"Yes, you get stuck in them."
"I do not!"
"You are getting fat. You have been eating too many humans, I am thinking."
The Phantoms hissed at one another and began screaming like banshees, lashing out with their claws before tumbling around, creating a din as they crashed into Galway's supplies.
"Enough! Destroy them then. The aquifers, the dam, all of it. I don't care!" The brand on his hand glowed red. These Phantoms were the worst parts unruly animal and backtalking child. They made Galway's head hurt even more than it already was. "I want this place to finally see itself as I do. They will turn over the Imperial Knight to me when their oh-so-sweet city finally smells of the rotting corpse it is built upon. Just..." Galway took a deep breath, steadying himself. "Just do what I tell you. Understand?"
"Not a very honorable solution. Perhaps we are rubbing off on you?" Malicent chuckled.
"When dealing with a tick infestation, sometimes it is best to just kill the dog."
Chapter XXVIII
Answers
Jazreal was hungry. They hadn't been given breakfast or lunch, and now dinner appeared unlikely, as well. She lay on the dirt floor, counting bricks in the ceiling and trying to pretend there were no lice in this cell. It had been hours since they’d been taken into custody and thrown in here, locked up for reasons Jazreal could not understand. The shadows were now long and red coming in through the high windows. Vyk had been hauled off for questioning. Cale was nowhere to be seen. They had taken everything from them, weapons, equipment, blankets--not even giving them the common decency of clothing. Even Jazreal's duster had been taken from her.
She wanted clothes. At least Vyk could mostly preserve his modesty with trousers. Jazreal was forced to lounge around in her undergarments. This stone cell was mighty drafty and she could only stand being scantily-clad for so long.
Vyk had been taken and returned a few times now, each time coming back in worse shape than before. His good eye was swollen and his lip was bleeding where the Rangers had beaten him again and again. He seemed to know the most out of everyone as to what was going on, but he was reluctant to talk about it. He was reluctant to talk at all.
"Are you alright?"
"Peachy." His tone suggested he was anything but.
"What did you tell them?"
"They didn't ask me anything. They were just looking for someone to take the blame."
Vyk clammed up. Jazreal hated it when braves in her tribe did that, just shut a conversation down because it was difficult or worrisome or painful. Vyk rolled to his side, another indication he didn't want to talk. But Jazreal was bored and had nothing else to do but talk. She raised her arms above her head in frustration. Then she took a closer look at the stranger's undergarments she was wearing.
"Hey Vyk?"
"What?"
"Why do you own so many women's clothes?" No answer. "I mean, if you were barvy in the head I could understand, but they aren't your size." Jazreal looked at her hands nervously.
"You wouldn't believe they're just left over from previous girlfriends?"
"No, I wouldn't believe that."
"Then I guess you're right. I'm barvy in the head." Vyk still wouldn't make eye contact.
"Is that really it? Previous girlfriends?"
"That's really it."
Jazreal clenched her fists. She needed answers, and he wasn't talking. Answers about one thing in particular. And if that meant debasing herself, she would. She crawled to him, rolling him to his side.
"What? What are you doing?"
"How many?"
"What?"
"How many girlfriends have you had?" Jazreal laid her chin on his shoulder and flashed her most attractive gaze at him.
"Um, I don't know. Why?"
"Oh? I thought you fancied yourself some kind of ladies' man?"
"I mean, there have been a few, I guess." Vyk got comfortable, settling on his back.
He thinks he knows
where this is going. Good, Jazreal thought to herself. Thank you, Lydia, for teaching me all you knew.
"Oh really? I can see why. You have a nice physique, and the beard was so becoming."
"You're terrible at this." Vyk laughed.
"I know you're lying about the clothes." Jazreal pressed ahead, moved her lips closer.
"And why's that?" he answered softly, playing along with her game.
"Because." She pinned his hands above his head. "They're all the same size."
"Maybe I just have particular taste?"
"Maybe. But most men don't store all their ex-girlfriend’s clothes in a chest in their room. Especially not where they keep a wedding band."
Vyk tensed up at the mention of the chest. It took a second to process, but his muscles tightened, ready to fight, turning to iron cords beneath Jazreal's weight. She kept his hands pinned though, and his eye flashed with anger.
"What's in the chest, Vyk?"
"None of your business, girl." Vyk shoved. Jazreal held on.
"Why do you have a scalp?"
"What?" Vyk struggled to his feet. It was like wrestling a bison.
"The scalp of my people in your storage chest! Which one of my ancestors did you butcher, you piece of Ranger trash?!"
"Get off me!"
Vyk pried her off, throwing her against the wall. Jazreal rushed forward, lashing out. Vyk slapped back. She held a hand to her cheek, burning hot, fighting back tears. Then her anger emerged and her hunter instincts kicked in. She threw the first punch with a warrior scream. Vyk punched back and she saw stars. Jazreal rose to her feet and charged again, only to have Vyk toss her aside as if she weighed nothing.
"You hit me!"
"You hit me first!" Vyk wiped the blood from his lip. "Crazy squaw."
"You killed my people!" Jazreal shouted.
"And you killed mine!"
Jazreal stopped. Vyk was breathing hard, ready for a fight. But he also looked hurt. Jazreal had wounded him, she saw--hit him where he was most vulnerable.
"You've killed thousands of us!" Jazreal gave one last try, pushing her sympathies aside.
"And? You've killed thousands of us, too. I thought you would have realized that. The might of a people is defined by the strength of their enemies. Isn't that what your people believe? Your kind and mine? Honorable enemies? We've made each other strong. We have been at war for a long time. I think we may be destined to do this dance forever." Vyk sat, turning his back to her.
Jazreal slumped down the wall, holding her head in her hands. "What happened to us? We were so close to winning."
"The bottom dropped out, girl. Didn't that Sword tell you it would happen? The closer you get to the truth, the more you have to lose. Sometimes answers aren't worth finding."
Jazreal looked at him. She was so tired of running, of fighting. All she wanted to do was go home, go back to the Plains. Instead, she was stuck with this man she knew nothing about. She wanted to know his secrets. She knew she was being petulant, but she just did.
"What happened, Vyk?" He had to know exactly what she was talking about.
"He was trying to kill me." When Vyk said nothing else, she prodded him. Vyk sighed. "When you are a Ranger, patrols are nothing like what you imagine. You are cold and scared and far from home. We wandered too far into Indian Territory when we found a small war party. Or, I should say, they found us. It wasn't pretty."
Jazreal could imagine. She remembered when braves would return to their tribe. If they were victorious, the men and women would celebrate. If they were defeated, the tribe would mourn.
Old Mother spent decades overseeing the healers, ensuring that their braves would live to fight another day. Many were the times when Jazreal and Lydia stitched up the men, brought them water or cleansed their bodies. Living or fallen, all needed attention.
"What was it like?" She tried to imagine.
"Dark. Our first clue something was wrong was when the dogs started barking. Then the sergeant went down. We couldn't see the arrows until it was too late. Your braves were already on us. They came out of the darkness, screaming like banshees." Vyk paused. "You hear stories and think war is this grand, glorious thing as these armies with... diametrically opposing viewpoints crash into one another, cheering for their sides. This wasn't like that. After the initial attack, there wasn't a lot of screaming. There were no banners flying, no grand speeches. I don't even remember that much cursing. It was just a lot of quiet grunting as we tried to kill one another. That's the thing I remember most. We weren't seasoned warriors. We were just a bunch of kids who didn't know we were on the other's land, trying to drive each other off. Not many of them were much older than you, Jazreal."
"How old were you?" Jazreal asked in a whisper.
"Younger than Cale."
"What happened next?" She needed him to finish the story. And she suspected he needed to get it off his chest, as well. Vyk was slow in answering. Slower than Jazreal liked. Finally, when Jazreal thought he wouldn't say anything else, he spoke again.
"There was a brave. He got the drop on me. Long topknot. Obsidian knife. Red war paint. He was larger, but I was quicker. I still remember the look on his face as my blade sunk home. It took me three days to wash the blood off my hands."
"But... why a scalp?" asked Jazreal. Members of her tribe scalped their enemies as a rite of passage, to signify their first kill or to commemorate driving deep into an enemy's territory. Trophies were used for celebrations, ceremonies or to decorate lodge poles. The more scalps a warrior claimed, the greater his prestige grew. It was a matter of honor amongst the People of the Plains. But she had never once heard of a white man partaking in the practice. "That is what I don't understand. You are a Ranger. Rangers don't scalp people. Indians... my people do."
"I don't see how that's any concern of yours."
"He was of my people!"
"We've all done things in the past we're not proud of, Jazreal. Sometimes that's where it belongs; in the past. Can't you understand that?"
"I can't." Jazreal sighed. "I can't trust you now, either. You're just like the men who killed my father and put me in chains. Worse, you pretended to be someone you're not. You pretended to be a friend."
"I'm not pretending. I'm not lying--not to you two. You have to believe me. I've made some mistakes in my past, yes. But helping you two, being your friend, that was not one of them."
"Why did you lie about being a Ranger?"
"I was a Ranger. I was a good Ranger, trained by the best. My father showed me the world, but my mother, she left me with stories. Old legends, learned at the knee of her grandmother. Usually only half remembered and even more rarely true. But they were all she had left, and she passed them on to me. It drove me, always searching, always questioning." Vyk leaned against the wall, closing his eyes. "I went everywhere, talked to everyone, read every book and thirsted for every scrap of knowledge. That thirst got me in trouble. I discovered things I shouldn't have. And I paid the price."
"What kind of things?" Jazreal whispered.
"King Ares is still alive, though by what dark magic, I know not. The Thirteen Rangers are taking their orders from him, but he is not in charge. Not really. Worst of all, he communes with Phantoms, somewhere deep underground. That is what The Mine is for, that is what they are searching for, with the full cooperation of the Rangers. The same Rangers I pledged an oath to. My sworn brothers are corrupt to their very core. There are only a handful of honorable men and women left. I stole books, searching for proof, searching for anything. When I tried to tell others, tried to raise the alarm, I was found out and repulsed. Violently."
"Is that what happened to your eye?" Jazreal asked.
Vyk nodded. "I was somewhere I shouldn't have been. I wasn't as careful as I should have been. I was framed for murdering a fellow Ranger. I had so few choices, Jazreal, and I picked the worst one--I ran."
Vyk swallowed hard. Jazreal may have been the first person to hear this story since it happen
ed. He was sweating from the strain, still weak from the beatings he had received at the hands of his former comrades. Jazreal placed her hand on his and scooted closer, offering a reassuring smile.
"A squad of Rangers caught up with me weeks later in my own hometown. They had a kill order, and they were there for me. I knew it, they knew it and the entire town knew it. Fratricide is forbidden amongst the Ranger Corps. But in the end, I was spared. I was pitied. This?" Vyk touched his eye patch. "This was the price for my life. I was stripped of my rank, disbarred from the Rangers and cast out. My saber was taken from me."
"But you still have a sword," Jazreal pointed out.
"It's not mine. When Rangers graduate training they are each given a silver saber that is theirs for life. My saber?" Vyk gestured to his sword belt, forgetting it was confiscated. He smiled wryly. "It's just more pity."
"So the Rangers really are the ones who killed Cale's family?" she asked. Cale was going to be so hurt. "Why didn't you tell him this before?"
"What? That the Rangers and the Phantoms are working together? That my brothers have the stain of sin? No, you had no reason to trust me, and I needed you. I needed that Sword."
"You could have asked."
"Trust doesn't come easy. And besides, he called me a Ranger," Vyk smiled sadly. "Do you know how long it's been since someone looked at me with anything other than hatred? Or worse, pity? I wanted someone to think I was useful again, if only for a moment."
"He would have forgiven you. I think he will still forgive you, if you ask."
"I think his frame of reference may be on the slim side, lass."
"True, he thinks everything is wonderful." Jazreal agreed. "But in this case, he's right. We wouldn't have gotten this far without you."
"You would have been fine."
"Maybe." She nodded. "But we didn't have to. You were there."
Vyk grinned a lopsided grin. "Well, for better or worse, I think we're stuck together. For however little time we have left."