by Samuel Sykes
“And what have I done, Librarian?”
“You killed people.”
“I’m an adventurer. I’ve killed lots of things.”
“You killed people.”
Denaos did not stir from the log he sat on. But his voice had an edge when he spoke, something crudely sharpened and dripping with rust and grime.
“The only men who tell me I’ve killed people,” he said, “don’t know how many people I’ve killed.”
“Fourteen hundred,” Bralston replied. “Fourteen hundred men, women and children with families and pets and homes that were burned to the ground the night you murdered her.”
Denaos hung his head low, rubbed the back of his neck.
“More.”
Bralston recoiled. He stared in disbelief, at the confession and the sheer disregard with which it had been offered, a sprinkling of sugar from delicate fingers over a plate of charred flesh.
The word became much heavier than any other. It and the sight of the man threatened to unhinge him, to force him to raise hand, to speak word and turn man to ashes on the breeze. He turned away to resist the urge. Heavy as the word was, another still had weight.
“How many?” he asked.
“Many,” Denaos replied, without so much as a stutter. “Mothers, whores, businessmen, politicians.” He paused. “Children. Not as many as her death caused. But these ones … I looked into their eyes. I had chances to stop. Many chances.”
“And you did not.” Bralston removed his hat, ran a hand along his bald scalp as though trying to smooth the rogue’s words into something that didn’t cause the mind to recoil. “How many chances?”
“I’ve got one left,” Denaos replied. “One I’ve been riding for about a year now.” He sighed. “The tome … it’s all I can hope for to balance the scales.”
“You think there are scales? There is balance for what you did?”
“I was given another chance. By the Gods.”
“There are no gods.”
“There must be a reason why you haven’t killed me yet.”
“I had to know.”
He replaced his hat on his head, drew in a breath. The power, his power came flowing back into him. It leapt to his fingers, magic hungry and railing against all the discipline his position was supposed to carry, a magic hungry for vengeance.
“I have responsibilities,” he said. “That will soon be fulfilled.”
Silence.
And then laughter; not sadistic, not conceited. Humorless. A joke that wasn’t funny and had been told far too many times.
“And you waited until now?” the rogue chuckled. “Well, that was silly of you.”
Bralston’s roar was nothing. His magic spoke for him in the crack of thunder and the shriek of lightning as he whirled about and thrust his fingers at the man. The power was reckless, a twisting serpent of electricity that leapt readily and ate hungrily, tearing up sand and splitting log and leaving scorched earth and burnt air.
And, he thought with a narrow of his eyes, no body.
The man was gone, but only from sight. The man would not leave, not after all he had told Bralston. The stink of liquor and guilt lingered, however subtle.
And Bralston had no talent nor need for subtlety.
In death, as in life, the netherling continued to hate.
It had hated the heated blade that dismembered its corpse, resisting each saw. It hated the fire that now ate at it, devouring purple flesh long since blackened with agonizing slowness. And Asper was sure, in whatever nothingness this thing’s soul now lurked, it still hated her.
Hard to blame her, Asper thought; she knew she wouldn’t have much in the way of understanding for someone who had dissected, chopped up, and burned her. And she was not sorry that she had done it to the longface, either.
She was a netherling. A brutish member of a brutish race that served blindly under a brutish, sinister, filthy, horrifying, grinning, always grinning, eyes on fire, teeth so sharp, and smile so broad as he slipped his fingers inside—
She shut her eyes.
She could never maintain that train of thought without returning to that night, to the creature known as Sheraptus, and what he had done to her. Every sense was defiled at the very thought of him: eyes were sealed shut for fear of seeing his broad grin, ears were clamped under hands for fear of hearing his purr, and no matter what she did, she could not avoid, ignore, or block out the sensation of his touch.
Of his two long fingers.
Nor could she ever forget screaming for help, for someone, for anyone. For Kataria, who had fled. For Denaos, who came too late. For the Gods, who did not answer.
Maybe the netherling had screamed out for something when she died, Asper wondered idly. Maybe she had called out for Sheraptus when Lenk cut her open with his sword.
She wasn’t sure why she was still staring at the corpse.
When she heard footsteps, she didn’t turn around. There was no man, no woman, no dragonman or lizardman she wanted to see right now. Or ever again.
“Where’s Denaos?”
Lenk. Not the worst man she had expected; certainly not worth turning around to face.
“Not here,” she answered stiffly.
“Obviously,” Lenk replied. “I was hoping you’d know where he was.”
“Gariath can sniff rats out. I can’t.”
“You’re calling him a rat now, too,” Lenk observed. “I always thought you had the more affectionate names for him.”
“I called him a scum-eating vagrant who lies through teeth that should have been broken long ago.”
“Still,” Lenk said.
The silence that followed was awkward, but preferable, and all too brief as Lenk’s eyes drifted to the burning netherling.
“What did you find out?” he asked.
“Nothing useful.”
“You tear a longface open and apart and find nothing useful?”
Asper pointed to the dagger, its hilt jutting from its place wedged between the stones surrounding the fire it smoldered against. “I had to heat the damn blade to cut this one apart. They’re resilient. Amazingly so. Nothing you didn’t already know.”
“That’s it?”
She sighed. “If I had to offer any sort of advice, it would be to aim for their throat. They seemed to have the least amount of muscle there.”
“Handy. Hopefully Denaos has discovered something more useful from the big one.”
“Such as?”
“Where Jaga might be.”
“I thought Kataria had a plan for that.”
And, as a cold silence fell over them at the mention, Asper had the unique sensation that Lenk suddenly was staring intently at her throat.
“Then why,” she asked with some reluctance, “do you need Denaos?”
“Kataria’s plan might not work. Something could happen while we’re trying it.”
“Like what?”
The answer came just a moment too slow. “Something. There’s no sense in going into this without doing everything we possibly can.”
“I can agree with half of that sentence.”
“The one that means you’re going to be unbearably difficult and whiny about this?”
“You go blindly into a certain-death situation, recently wounded and not at all well, and I’m being difficult for expressing concern?” She rubbed her eyes, sighing. “This is different than before.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I’m not just calling you insane to be charming, you stupid piece of stool.” She whirled on him, blood pumping too much to keep her mouth shut any longer. “This is not improbable, this is not even impossible—this is futile. Going completely blind into a situation where your best bets for success rely on a she-wolf who would just as soon abandon us the moment she thought our ears were too round and a cowardly, backstabbing thug who makes treachery into a hobby, searching for a stupid book to stop demons that had no interest in us until we went after the book so we could tal
k to a heaven that does not exist.”
He stared, blinking. His eyes widened just half a hair’s breadth, not entirely shocked. That was what made her scream.
“WHY? WHY ANY OF IT?”
It was not a voice familiar that replied to her. Too confident to be Lenk’s, too choked to be someone else’s; he spoke, he wanted to believe the words he was saying.
“Because the alternative is still death,” he said.
And Asper wasn’t quite sure who he was, who he was talking to or who he was trying to convince. It wasn’t Lenk, not the man who spoke with certainty and didn’t flinch. Not the man she had followed into this mess, not the man who had led her to that night and into those teeth. That man, for all she knew, was still back on that boat at the bottom of the ocean.
This man could only walk, and he didn’t even do that well. He turned around and clutched at his shoulder, at the sutured wound beneath his shirt. This man was weak. This man made her call out after him.
“Wait,” she said. She turned to a nearby rock, plucked up her medicine bag and walked to him. “At least let me make sure you won’t be blaming my stitching when you die.”
“You killed her.”
Bralston spoke once, then again, and the tree above Denaos’s head exploded. Lightning sheared the trunk apart and sent smoldering shards raining down upon him.
“You killed her,” Bralston insisted.
Hardly necessary, Denaos thought; it was hard to argue with a man in the right, even if that man could make trees explode with a wave and a word.
Another word, another clap of thunder, another explosion. This one farther away. A different tree. The Librarian, at the very least, did not know where he was. Small comfort. It was a small clearing on a small island and there was only so much vegetation to hide behind.
“You killed them all.”
He half expected the wizard to finish that train of thought that had been so frequent. He waited for the wizard to use his magic to open his skull up, read his mind, and tell him he was going to hell.
Well, that’s just ridiculous, he told himself. Wizards don’t believe in hell. And they can’t read thoughts, either. That’d be silly. Now, they might make your head explode and then read whatever’s splattered on the—
Another word came from the clearing.
Oh, right. He’s still there.
And fast on the word’s trail was the end of the forest. Everything to the man’s right, all the browns and greens and soft earth was eaten alive in a roar of flame. It cheered in a smoldering tongue, urging Denaos to be sporting and run.
Denaos obliged, scrambling on hands and knees as the fire raked the world behind him. The sundered tree groaned, split, and crashed behind him in a spray of cinders as the fire put it out of its misery. Smoke rose up in choking gouts.
He’s burning the whole damn thing down, Denaos thought. Absently, he wished he was more of a nature lover so he could fault this strategy, if only on ethical grounds.
Perhaps Bralston was more of a nature lover than he, or perhaps he could read minds, for in that instant, the fire stopped, sliding back into whatever orifice the wizard had spewed it from and leaving only a sky choked with smoke and an earth seared with ash.
Neither of which did anything to stifle the words Denaos could understand.
“I didn’t know you well when you were posing as the Houndmistress’s advisor,” Bralston said, his voice sweeping the clearing. “I saw you, certainly, even met your gaze when she reached out to the Venarium for help. I didn’t know what you were, then, what you would do to the city and its people.”
He wants you to answer, Denaos thought as he slithered beneath a bush and peered out from the foliage. The wizard slowly scanned the forest line. He wants you to succumb to his taunts. A little insulting that he thinks you’ll fall for it, isn’t it? You should go out there right now and show him what you do to—
Oh, that is pretty clever of him, isn’t it?
“But I know you now,” Bralston continued, “under whatever name you pretend to have and whatever person you pretend to be. I’ve seen you. I know you’re smart enough to know that you won’t escape me. You and I both know that if you flee now I’ll hunt you down and your companions will join me, once they know.
“But more importantly,” he said, “I know you’re a man who prays. I don’t know to what gods and I won’t lie to you by saying I know what they’d say. I don’t know if they’ll ever forgive you.” He drew in a sharp breath, lowered his gaze. “But whatever you’re hoping for, wherever it is you think you’re going to go …”
His eyes rose again, drifted over Denaos. Their eyes met.
“Your best chance lies with answering for what you’ve done. Here. By my hand.”
The wizard’s eyes lingered for only a moment before passing on. He hadn’t seen the rogue. Denaos wished he had.
And still, he found himself wondering if it was too late.
Reasonable men were driven by logic. The same logic that kept him alive all these years since he had opened her throat and killed the fourteen hundred and more. The same logic that stated that he could find salvation in doing good deeds, as good as adventurers could manage.
The same logic that said, eventually, he would die, and no matter how much good he did, he would face those people and her on equal footing.
Denaos was a reasonable man.
He closed his eyes and clambered to his feet. He felt the wizard’s eyes upon him, the approving nod, the hand that was raised, palm open and steaming with warmth yet waiting to be released into a fire. One that purified, removed a human stain and left the earth cleaner.
Something final was in order. Good deaths had those. Final words, maybe, whispered in the hopes that they would linger on the wind and find the way. Final prayers to Silf, a last-minute bargain to get whatever lay beyond his flesh to whatever lay beyond the sky.
Something solid, he thought as he opened his eyes and heard the wizard speak a word. Something dignified, he thought as he watched the fire born in Bralston’s palm.
“OH, GODS, NO!”
Not that.
But that was what came out. Of his mouth, anyway. What came out of the wizard’s palm was something distinctly bigger and red.
Not that he lingered to study it in any great detail. He was already darting under it as it howled in outrage, chewing empty air and stray leaves.
Self-preservation was a strong instinct. Terror was, too. Too strong for reasonable men to ignore.
Denaos would wonder which it was that made him dart under and away from the fire, that made him charge toward the wizard. Later. Right now, he didn’t care. Neither did his knife; it was an agreeable sort, leaping immediately to his hand as one eye narrowed on the wizard’s tender throat and the other glanced at his dangerous, fiery hands.
Who would have even thought to look at a wizard’s feet?
That no one ever would was small comfort to Denaos. Comfort that grew smaller as the wizard raised a foot and brought it down firmly upon sand that didn’t remain as such for long. The moment his sole struck, the earth rolled, rising up like a shaken rug. And like a leather-clad speck of dust, Denaos was hurled into the air.
Where he lingered.
Whatever force that had shook the earth slid effortlessly through the Librarian’s body, from foot to hand. One palm extended, the air rippling in a sightless line between it and Denaos, floating haplessly in the grip of it. The other clenched into a fist, withdrawing the fire that licked from it.
Only when Denaos felt the sensation of the sky turning against him, holding him suspended in insubstantial fingers, did he begin to think this was a little unfair.
“I offered you a chance,” Bralston said. “Something clean and quick that you didn’t deserve.”
“Clean and quick?” Denaos scoffed, not quite grasping the futility of it. “What is it about fire that suggests either to you, you bald little p—”
He didn’t feel bad about losing the
insult. It was hard to hold onto when insubstantial fingers wrapped around his body and slammed him bodily into earth that quickly filled his mouth. The grip of unseen force tightened, raised him again. He hovered for a moment before it smashed him once more, earth coming undone beneath him, reshaping itself and crawling into every orifice.
Except the important ones, he thought, small pleasure in that.
Smaller still after he was smashed again and again. Each time, the earth ate the sound of screaming and of impact, rendering the sound of a man being killed into something quieter.
But the moment he thought he was going to choke on dirt, which came after the moment he thought was going to be crushed by the invisible hands, he was hauled into the sky. He stared down at an indentation of his body, noted that the nose looked a little squashed, before the wizard spoke a word.
He was twisted in the air. One hand turned into a fist … or maybe it was a foot all along. Hard to tell with the invisible and insubstantial. Hard to think on it when whatever invisible limb slammed into his chest and slammed him against a tree. It seized his head—a hand, then, good to know—and smashed it against the tree. He came back dizzy, winded, fragments of bark stuck in his hair … probably blood, too. Hard to think, hard to hear.
That must be why Bralston spoke so loud and clear as he approached to ten paces away from Denaos, holding one hand out, the air rippling before it.
“I don’t enjoy it, no,” the Librarian said, answering some unspoken question. “Because I can’t do this without looking at your face. And every time I see it, I see when it used to be tanned and your hair was dyed black, when you pretended to be a Djaalman and you looped your arm around the Houndmistress’s and pretended you were someone she could trust.”
“No,” Denaos groaned, “she wasn’t—”
“She was,” Bralston interrupted. “Everything you think she might have been, she was. She was the one who took our city away from criminals and who didn’t look at the people like commodities. She was going to end the vice dens and the gambling halls and the … the whorehouses. They were all going to be people again.”
“Maybe we don’t get to choose to be that,” Denaos said, flashing a bloodied grin. “Maybe they would have found something else you hated. Maybe there’s no pleasing you.”