Box Set: The Fearless 1-3

by Terry Maggert

  Slowly, he unfurled the tallow-laden hide and stayed very still indeed, as if afraid that his simple acknowledgment of the blade might cause it to vanish. Perfection. The work of a master and his entire learning, and the help of a god, I think. It was arm’s length, double edged, and had the cruciform pommel that made the weapon appear as a cross when pointed at the ground. The balance was flawless; neither heavy at the point nor grip, and a shallow blood runnel tapered away into the steel, finishing a few inches from the sharp tip. No ceremonial toy, the plainly lethal sword had a single element of decorative flourish. A circular inscription in the metal surrounded the profile of a dragon’s head, with its jaws open and daggered teeth flashing.

  Venenum Draco. He closed his eyes in memory of seeing those words for the first time and deciding that is was far more than simple chance that brought such a blade to him. A dragon of poison, indeed. He had already been powerful when he discovered the armor and weapons, but his shiftless existence had consisted of following war to feast upon the strife. With objects such as what he now held, he would bring war. He would foment strife. He would envenom an entire landscape and gorge his blackened heart until it was bursting with the screams of all who fell before him, and he would do so knowing that there was no mortal who could stand in his way.

  Returning to the moment, he realized his feet pummeled the dust as he followed the trail upward to the ancient ruins near the center of the island. Retrieving his items would be easy, but leaving with them would be slightly more challenging. In his hand, he carried a sea bag, taken from a ship at dock without permission, but then, the owner would not require such things any longer as he was currently feeding the crabs under the pier. He trod an ancient path, tree-lined and buzzing with insects, upward, out, and curving away from the city to the modest peak of Guardi dei Turchi. When he reached the open meadow spanning the peak, he slowed, letting memory and innate directional skill urge him to the area of walls and tombs that lay open to the Mediterranean sun.

  Culunnedda, the grove of tombs, spread before him. Old, very old indeed, perhaps even from the time of his first rise to power. Oh, how his homeland had reacted to that particular campaign. The mere thought of it caused a visceral thrill, and he tasted the blood of thousands in his nose again. Scent was the purveyor of memory, and he welcomed the waking dream to his nose even as the screams of his victims echoed at the edge of his perception, a tantalizing hint of what was to come. Sunlight began to fail, drawing longer shadows across the antiquity of his surroundings, and the last straggling tourists took their leave, curious expressions sliding over him as he sat, cross legged, and awaited their departure. It wasn’t that he was avoiding killing, it was a selfishness of wanting to bask in this moment, the first significant step in his triumphal return to power. Let this awakening be for me alone. There will be no lowing cattle to disturb the first second in my hour of return, he decided. The sky purpled and stars began to wheel, perceptible only to his patient eyes. Unfolding from his rest, he walked to a desecrated tomb, laid open like a milkmaid before a knight, no secrets left, and no plunder save that which had been seen by so many.

  Or so they thought. His lips quirked and he crawled, dusty and undignified, his broad shoulders squeezed by the walls of the grave. With a short, sharp blow of deafening power, the false wall shattered in four segments, having been scored by a stone worker who hid the items centuries ago. Naturally, the mason had been dispatched upon completion of his task, loose ends being a risk he found distasteful, but the man had cut well and true and the wall folded obediently outward with a crumble of stone chips and dust.

  He let his eyes adjust even further to the pitch black of the recess, and reached in slowly, reverently. I have missed you, he thought, as his hands closed on the crumbling remains of a sheep’s hide. Collapsing under the lightest touch, the hide revealed his breastplate, inside which rested the greaves and vambraces. He pulled the armor out lovingly as a brush of his fingertips revealed that there was rust, but that was expected. On the next leg of his journey westward, he had nothing but time in which to lovingly return his kit to its proper glory, and he would be diligent in his task. Returning to the packed earth of the hidden depression he pushed a stony digit, hardened by years of combat, into the space where the remnants of the hide lay scattered about. Instantly, his finger hit something solid, and he worried his way around the buried copper sheathing with one large hand, gripping firmly but without abandon. Slowly, even delicately, he withdrew the encrusted shape, nearly a yard in length, and pulled it behind him as he extricated himself from the depths of the nameless grave.

  His breathing was even as he sat under the span of the stars. He moved with exaggerated care, exploring the copper seam of the scabbard with a lover’s touch. There, a hasp, hidden by the encrustations of ten centuries, he confirmed, and crushed the delicate device between two thick fingers, impatient to reunite with his missing part. Thousands we have slain together. A few more strokes and I will surge to prominence, perhaps even godhood, this time. The voice in his own skull reverberated with avarice, and he felt the distinct chill of an oncoming fight race along his spine, so forbidden to mortals, but welcomed by him. He peeled the copper back, mindful of the brittleness after so many years, and the dragon, hidden for so long, met his gaze. Even under the miniscule light of the stars, the beast fairly blazed with radiance, and in a flash, his hand was on the hilt.

  He stood, discarding the crushed scabbard. Let some dolt worry over so old a thing being found in a place that had been plundered a hundred times over. He cut the air in whistling arcs, and the sword sang to him in a voice that had been silent far too long. With brisk, purposeful strides, he turned to the sea. Idly, he wondered if his enemies would understand what his visitation meant this time. Before, he had been constrained, even demure by his own standards, but as the power structure shifted, so did his behavior. In his own crimson history, he had only tasted defeat twice. Once, his humiliation was at the hands of a god, the other due to cunning and skill that he marked well in his mind. Both left him enraged for decades, with the poisonous flavor of shame bright on his tongue.

  He cut the air again, a silver blur of such speed so quick that only his eyes could measure the path of the blade. The last defeat had cost him his army, as well as his standing among the mortals who knew not what commanded their abhorrently weak ranks. For two millennia, he had been general, commander, the will of armies or regents brought to life, but that had ended in a box canyon where he learned the true meaning of impotency. I will neither forgive nor forget such treachery, and ignominy of being shamed in front of that filthy mongrel who styled himself a king, he mused, the memory raw and weeping with toxic rage. He thought of the horsemen and their stony faces, circled around him as he was forced to a knee before a mortal.

  Never again will I rely on humans to do my killing, he vowed, as a final, savage cut of the sword seared the air before him. This time, I deliver my judgments personally.

  21

  Florida

  That’s her. I was right, Red thought, his hands moving mindlessly as he scattered white sand over the lawn of the main church grounds. His hands gripped the rotary spreader, a solid metal affair on two wheels with a whirling disc underneath that whipped the sand outward in a blur. Back and forth, he rowed his way across the span of the lawn, but his eyes were firmly on the buxom blonde who walked hesitantly toward the church. Each of her steps was delicate, as if she feared that the concrete would collapse underneath her from the weight of her transgressions. She wasn’t his style, but he could appreciate the perfection of a creature who was purpose built for the destruction of lives; albeit in a glorious, agonizing manner. She removed her sunglasses and put them in a small purse, vanishing into the sanctuary of the church with only the slightest awkward pause before she gripped the door.

  Old habits die hard. This is not your place, and you know it, don’t you? His ponderings occupied him for a few more seconds in the sun, and then he was at the end of
the row, so he wheeled dutifully, centered the spreader, and began to trek back in the opposite direction. The woman could be in with the priest for an hour, or the entire afternoon, which wasn’t really surprising given the impossibility of what she was attempting. Red had seen what immortals were capable of, had felt it, even smelled it, and the only thing keeping him from opening an artery and letting the memory of that knowledge run into the sandy lawn, was the possibility of revenge. Complete, surprising, unseen—the type of revenge that is cathartic and lethal within the same moment.

  He slowed his pace, since his natural tendency to be a diligent worker was his undoing, and he wanted to be in the yard at his labors as long as he possibly could. With lazy arcs and multiple trips to the pile of white sand that slumped near the parking area, he was able to draw out the task into an all-day affair.

  His reward came in the form of the woman walking at a course that would intersect his, so he stopped his progress and waved her forward across the path with a suitably subtle gallantry.

  “Thank you for the courtesy,” she said, and there was a sad exhaustion behind her mannerly response. She followed with a smile of paralyzing beauty and he understood what had allowed this . . . thing, to turn so many lives into dust.

  “You’re quite welcome, please, go right ahead. I’m Red, by the way.” He added as an afterthought, thinking that she would be used to men pursuing her from the instant of their meeting. Be predictable. Be like every other grunting hog. He kept that counsel to himself.

  This time, her smile was perfunctory. “I’m Delphine, it’s a pleasure.” She took his hand despite the dirt and shook it in a businesslike fashion. Then, with a quick nod, she added, “Have a pleasant day, Red.” Her steps were short but quick. She was fighting a response to his presence, or maybe her wan smile had been due to the the rigors of confronting her own life over the past hour. Regardless, he enjoyed her discomfort.

  “Have a good day,” he called out, mostly to force her to wave, since it was patently obvious that she wanted to be away from everything and everybody. A casual wave was all he got in return, but it was enough. He would be known to her now, a face that could be trusted to get closer, and closer was all he needed. With his mouth a grim line, he shoveled more sand and imagined how he would exact his revenge, but by will alone, he slowed his accelerating thoughts of her demise. He had nothing but time, if he was any judge of how diligent Kevin would be in pursuing some form of absolution for the immortal murderess. With a history such as hers, the peace she sought would be a long time coming. He could wait.

  Aren’t you a little schemer? From a car across the street, the woman watched Red. She adjusted the the air conditioning as cold as it could possibly go. There is simply no substitute for the wonder of science, and its penultimate achievement is the ability to keep the heat at bay. She shivered delicately against the chill of the leather seat, and reveled in the sensation. Being rather petite, she had no need to slouch in the vehicle, even if the boy calling himself Red had been cognizant of surveillance, but his eyes never left the swaying hips of the succubus who departed after her appointment with the priest. Humans who became incensed with immortals styled themselves as avenging angels at the cost of their own safety. True, to assault an immortal was not without risk, but the humans who stalked the Undying often became myopic to the point of their own demise. Watching them was dull. It left much to be desired, especially in a busy, sunny place such as this, free of civil wars and relatively safe. Completely safe, for me. She nearly laughed at the thought of being threatened in a place like this, but then, danger was rarely obvious, and one did not achieve godhood without a healthy sense of paranoia.

  She watched for a while longer, noting the coiled anger in the boy’s body. Very useful, that one. Starting the car, she drove away carefully, noting the hostility of the daytime traffic and revising her opinion that she wasn’t in danger. She really must learn to use cabs more often. Stress, she concluded, would not be conducive to planning a war.

  * * *

  I admit it was strange to see Achilles flummoxed by something as simple as a fishing reel, but after creating his third insane bird’s nest of a knot, he shrugged his massive shoulders with finality, grabbed his beer, and announced, “I’m done fishing.” We sprawled over my boat, both of us consuming more beer than actually fishing, and were in general doing very little of note. Occasionally, I like to break ranks with my partners and it turned out Achilles shared my opinion, which led us to the water for an afternoon of sunlight, therapy, and hopefully as little interruption from fish as possible. We had priorities.

  The boat rocked modestly in the unending chop of the Intracoastal Waterway, but he held his beer like a seasoned veteran of countless naval excursions, which is to say he didn’t spill a drop. I retrieved his reel and marveled at the ineptitude that could cause such a disastrous tangle.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’ve seen a fishing reel before, haven’t you?” I pulled a knife and began cutting the line in an admission that his ability to create knots trumped my skill at detangling them. His answering grunt and single finger extended upwards was as much response as I could hope for without violence, so I declared the reel lost for the duration of the afternoon and attended my own tackle. “I just expected a bit more from you, given your martial skills. But, perhaps a glorified sheep herder from some Aegean backwater would find such devices to be nothing short of magic, and—” The beer bottle whizzed harmlessly past my nose and splashed into the water. I smiled in triumph and he waved his hand at the cooler.

  “Cabin boy, another beer, if you please. I seem to have dropped mine overboard, and I’ll have you know there were no sheep on my island. They were too tempting to the local men.” Achilles belched yeastily as I handed him a bottle.

  “You included?” I raised a brow. “I understand Greek sheep can be quite comely.”

  He roared with laughter and toasted me grandly when his fit subsided enough to allow it. “They are a beautiful strain, it’s true, but there were hosts of the proverbial farmers’ daughters hurling themselves at my defenses. It was quite difficult to hone my martial skills in the midst of such . . . aggression.” He was the picture of urbanity as he sipped with delicacy at his new beer.

  “Uh-huh. I imagine that you’re naturally selective nature led you to only the finest cuts of meat, so to speak.” I smirked at his affectation, and he became thoughtfully silent.

  “Actually, it did.” His sight lost focus as he drifted into the past. “I’ve known Patroclus for my entire life. The only other constant in my life has been war, or at least battles. You know the difference?” he asked me with the intensity of a soldier.

  I nodded my head, sadly. “Battles are just flashes, like a waking dream that comes and goes. You can’t even tell that time has passed, except for knowing that you’re tired, and your hands are shaking like a junkie from the adrenaline.” When he agreed, I continued, “War never ends. For my part, every nerve in my body felt like it was shattered glass. I was so tired, more than just what a human can tolerate, when you think you’ll just lie down and die, but you don’t. The fucking sand is in your teeth and you smell so bad that you make yourself sick. One time, I touched my head and realized my hair actually hurt, you know?” Achilles smiled at that, his commiseration told me that he probably knew every kind of pain that could be imagined. “I slept on the plane ride home; all the way, even though I was so jangled that I couldn’t shit, or drink, or eat. I was a mess, and I was going home.”

  Achilles spread his hands wide in appeal. “And what do you think is happening right now, Ring? You clearly know war, and you know the distinction between right and wrong, battle and campaign, murder and soldiering. So, I ask you, what of today?”

  “I don’t understand.” I grasped his points, individually, but taken as a whole, I was lost.

  He indicated the scene around us. “We are at peace. But, as I said, there are only two constants in my life: Patroclus and war. We’re s
oldiers, Ring. We are either fighting a war, recovering from our wounds, or preparing for the next fight.” He examined me intently, saying, “Your outward wounds have long healed, and I’ve seen the playfulness return to your home. Risa smiles, and she means it, and Wally’s laughter is less forced. I know how they feel about you, and how you love them. You killed the vamp the other night, and I’ll bet your blood pressure didn’t even rise, did it?”

  I nodded, but very slowly, because I could see where he was going, and I hated the inevitable conclusion he was bringing me towards. Time passed and he said nothing, but just as I made to speak, he uttered words in a near whisper. I stared in confusion, and he leaned forward on his knees, his huge hands hanging limply at first, but then coiling like springs as he flexed them. I knew the lethality of those hands, and seeing him in motion, even such a small act, was akin to a declaration of war.

  “Nature abhors a vacuum.” That time, I heard him, and I gleaned his meaning.

  “Elizabeth?” One word. A storm of implications.

  “That very thing.” He finished his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. I wondered how many times he’d done such a thing by campfires and onboard rolling ships. Many, I guessed. “But more to the point, immortals abhor a vacuum because in our squabbles, a free grab at the brass ring is much more desirable than fighting for the same opportunity.”

  I understood. “And you think—well, you obviously believe that Elizabeth’s holdings, or whatever you call them, they’re now on the open market, so to say?”

  “More than that. She had relatives, of a kind, and they aren’t all dead. But they certainly aren’t strong enough to hold her legacy in place. She wouldn’t have allowed such powerful subjugates, it’s too risky. On the other hand, she would have people, enslaved to her, really, that knew all or most of her secrets. Her hiding places, her collections, and anything else of interest that she had hoarded over her years.”