Arrowmask: Godkillers of the Shrouded Vast

by John Ruch

  “How about now? Do you want to leave now?” Rinka taunted as she looked into those suddenly tear-glazed eyes. Pesh shook her head again, her shoulders shivering this time as she flinched from a third blow that didn’t come.

  “No, Miss Rinka,” she murmured into Rinka.

  Another tug on her scalp bent Pesh backwards at the waist. Rinka crouched over her and began slapping her face methodically, front-hand and back-hand, with strong, practiced strokes. After a moment of looking blankly at the ceiling, Pesh’s face scrunched up and the tears came streaming. Rinka released her hair and the girl bent forward again, her arms folded atop her stomach, her face turned away as she sobbed.

  Rinka squatted beside her and brushed her curtain of hair aside, Pesh flinching at the touch. She studied the pained lines of her expression.

  “Don’t you want find a fun little playtime mistress who’ll feed you cookies? Hmmm? Don’t you want to leave?”

  She leaned in closer and licked the sheen of tears on Pesh’s cheek. By Night and Fury, nothing tastes so good.

  “I don’t want to leave, Miss Rinka,” Pesh whispered through heaving breaths.

  Rinka stood smoothly, towering over the huddled bard, her legs planted confidently apart. Pesh reached out hesitantly and hugged one of them, pressing her wet face to Rinka’s bare thigh. Rinka stroked the top of her head softly, then sharply grabbed a handful of hair again.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  She began striding toward a window nook across the chamber, Pesh scrambling along beside her on hands and knees, yelping and mewling. Rinka held Pesh’s head on the window’s seat cushion, knocking aside a stack of Face Girls and Honeypots. She braced one foot on the seat and screwed a finger into Pesh’s mouth to force it open. When the silver string of her hot saliva plashed on Pesh’s upper lip, the bard squeezed her eyes shut and recoiled.

  She watched clinically as Pesh steadied herself and licked her lips. Her face was a mess of spit and tears, but a calmness had set in. Her eyes still closed, the bard reached for Rinka’s strong hips and slowly pulled herself up to bring her mouth to the source, half-swallowing as their lips touched. Her eyebrows pursed in a beseeching, desperate need for approval.

  “I’ll never leave you, Miss Rinka,” she vowed.

  The next actions of her tongue were sheer bliss, but of course Pesh was lying. She left a short time later, dismissed to her own chambers. And Rinka herself would leave soon enough, on the road in a box with the pestering, aura-judging equilibrique.

  You’ll leave me for good sooner or later. Everybody does. I just hope you do it on your own terms, not under the knife of a Thousand Leaguer.

  Or something far darker and deeper than that.

  Rinka lay stretched out on the bed, still nude, a crisp white sheet draping her, like an officially autopsied corpse. She stared into the dark, struggling to remember a dozen once-beloved faces, and unable to forget another that had laughed at her failure to die as the noose tightened a third, tenth, twentieth time.

  You’ll leave me, too, one day. The hard way, you motherfucker.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Bitch of a thing, it is, for a soldier to not be able to scratch his own balls.

  The metal cuff locked around the base of his cock chafed, but there was no way former Centurion Lain Clyst was gonna let anyone see him flinch. Not here, not on his first return to the Curia Regis since the trial. Even a return that meant standing at attention in a dirt-floored scullery courtyard normally used for plucking chickens and washing out ale barrels.

  Besides, the three comrades in his short-staffed decanus were all locked the same, and they’d endured far worse together. Like the fucking brig. They’d stand here in the early spring heat, sniffing the reek of rotten corncobs and stale beer, and they’d hold their chins high. His own little Tetragate, the four of them, showing those lead-from-behind paladins how it’s done. Fuck ’em. He smirked inwardly, but kept his mouth as tight and straight a line as the scar along his jawline where whiskers never grew.

  Motionless blocks of fresh green-and-black livery in his peripheral vision told him his comrades remained in perfect order beside him as he stared straight ahead at nothing. On his right, as always, his former optio, Littalia Anceps, who had never lost her hunger from growing up poor on the Godsblood island of Scutum. To his left, his two principales: Trath Trelleck, whose wit helped him survive those months in the hole, and Fortin Ninebarrow, a former pro hunter who hadn’t fared as well, her skin now milkier, making her hair seem redder. Like family, the lot of them, even if he’d been sixteen when he met them, drummed by a court into the Imperial army after spending his lizard-catcher wages on a whore who turned out not to like the beating he’d paid good coin for.

  Centurion, optio, principale. Good ranks with decent pay, and small estates in the fruit orchards of Hortium Viridias waiting at retirement time. Earned every bloody lime-tree twig of it as amphibious troops assaulting pirate islands and smuggler caves. Then, what should have been an endless working holiday better than any retirement, running Fort Glasspoint off the Old Spandrel Coast, where the beaches gleamed with sand made of tiny white-crystal balls.

  They kept those shipping lanes as wide open as the asshole of a well-buggered cabin boy with runny-dung fever, as Trath hilariously put it. Nothing but commendations from Cor Cordum for dealing with the pirates, until that day last summer when some raisin-balled legate came for an inspection, or excuse for a beach vacation, more like. The old chief was a worshiper of Mercy and got his panties in a knot over their methods. “How dare you enjoy the work you’re doing so fucking well?” was the gist. Lain had rammed a fist into that prissy mouth, and the others joined in.

  Problem was, they sent another legate, and prisoners started talking. So they’d been sitting in a hole, stripped of rank and armor, with little white crabs nipping their bare toes and a powdery green fungus growing in unpleasant places, until a centurion unbolted the door carrying a sheaf of Tetragrate papers and a crazy offer.

  Bodyguarding some civilians on a suicide mission was just a slow form of death penalty, but then, so was sitting in the hole. This one came with a chance of the “rope breaking” or the “executioner dying,” like Trath joked. Shit, who knew? Maybe they’d even survive and come back grinning. This wasn’t a normal group of civilians, after all.

  He watched the new bosses ride into the courtyard on their shabby borrowed warhorses for this typical half-arsed Imperial ceremony. The fat old professor, too big for his ride, and the midget girl with beesting tits, too small for hers, looked like nobodies. But the centurion had told them the deal. The old man did time in the Jadal with ex-legionnaires and was a magimath to boot, could do some wild shit with stones. The girl was one of the best hand-to-hand fighters anybody’d ever heard of. She’d left a dozen Warsun pirates dead at the Blade & Ladle.

  Then there was the gangly “commander” Arrowmask and his “lieutenant,” the Voidiva in her tit-and-twat armor that made his cuff pinch even worse. They’d met those two yesterday in a dingy stable, shortly after the centurion reinstated them at decanus rank in a ceremony amounting to a grudging handshake.

  Arrowmask looked like a dry drunk, all nerves and bluffs, but Lain wouldn’t have underestimated him even if the centurion hadn’t told them he was the guy who stole that gem from the Citadel. Lain had faced guys like this before in backwater alleys and on blood-slick decks. Rangy bastards who’d disarm you with a wimpy smile, then when you turned around, stab you through your ass pocket and pluck your wallet off the bloody tip.

  Still didn’t make him a leader of troops. When Arrowmask handed each of them a packet of the livery they’d be wearing, he made a corny speech full of stuff a barstool-perching townie figured soldiers liked to hear. Shit about “getting your honor back” and how he’d respect their worship of Order and their right to hold their monthly “ritual orgy.”

  Anybody who survived their first six weeks knew the army had nothing to do with honor. It was abou
t keeping yourself and your buddies alive, period. Honor was for big arses with big ideas at big tables back home, and even they hadn’t had anything to crow about since the last Weàlae wars fifty years ago. As for the orgiastum, sure, it was a duty that was partly fun and partly not; they’d all rather be jacking and jilling. And no one gave shit about Imperial Order worship, beyond tossing a tithe into the collection box. Their true religion was the secret mysterium of Vitulus, a soft-eyed calf who descended to an underworld and returned to tell the tale. He couldn’t quite remember how long they’d been initiates. Long enough.

  But, fuck, it wouldn’t be the army without a clueless leader. Or without a sidekick to do the heavy lifting. This Countess Rinka Svetkov fit the bill. Just carrying those tits was heavy lifting. When she stalked in wearing that kinky armor, his first thought was to laugh. But as she walked the line, staring them each down in turn, there was nary a titter and, he suspected, not a dry pair of underwear in the house. He’d never seen this kind of hotness up close—never could afford it—with her blue lips and purple eyelids and the first perfume he’d smelled in nearly a six-month. He’d seen eyes like that before, though—in the mirror. She was a killer, and somehow that just made his cock throb all the more uncontrollably.

  She had stepped back, tapping a roll of documents on her armored thigh. “You will address me as Voidiva Svetkov.”

  “Yes, m’am, Voidiva Svetkov,” they had repeated obediently, after just a moment’s hesitation. It was no Imperial rank, but then, the countess plainly did things her own way.

  “So, tell me what you did to get locked up in one of those little Tetragate black holes where you usually dump people like me.” She had done her homework and put the question to him as the leader.

  “Treating some raping, murdering pirates the same as they done to others,” he had replied. Then, after a moment of her glare, adding, “Voidiva.”

  “It says here you personally knocked up a pirate and hanged her pregnant.” She had looked down at the document in mock consultation. “Jerking off like a sick monkey the whole time. And then killed your commanding officer.”

  His anger overcame even his lust. “I’m done explaining myself to someone who wasn’t there, ’specially not a Volanian ballbreaker with—”

  She had the big sword off her back and against his throat faster than he’d guessed possible, and yeah, he flinched as it bit. Littalia, Trath, Fortin—they all stepped forward, even though they were still unarmed. Rinka scowled beautifully, flicking her eyes from face to face with the cold calculation of a Check-player. A test, he had realized. She’s looking for unit cohesion. Loyalty.

  “I’ve met army cooks tougher than you’ll ever be,” she spat at them. “Cross me just once, in deed or word or the slightest backtalk, and I’ll kill all four of you like I was wiping off my lipstick at bedtime.”

  She had brought the sword’s edge up slowly, scraping the five-day beard off his cheek in a cool crunching sound. She raised the blade to her lips and puffed, blowing the whiskers into his face. He blinked but kept his chin steady.

  Rinka stepped back and crumpled the documents, tossing them into a hay-filled corner. “But follow me…,” she continued. “Follow me and I’ll lead you to every glory we can grab out there. We’ll stack up our own trophies and treasures. And you can come back and toss the pissant titles and fruit farms back in the faces of those dog-fucking paladins.”

  He had snorted but grinned in spite of himself. He stepped forward and slammed his fist to his chest in salute. The others followed suit.

  “Yes, m’am, Voidiva!”

  “Good.” She had held up a sack jangling with metal. “Now here’s your first order. Get your pants off and your chastity belts on.”

  She reached into the bag and tossed scuffed steel devices on the floor before each of them. Two were metal tubes secured to a padded cuff. Two were triangular plates fused to a belt and harness. All had a padlock looped through their closure mechanisms.

  There was a shocked pause, but no one spoke. We’ve all met bluffers, and she sure as shit ain’t one of them. Littalia glared, Trath allowed himself a chuckle, and Fortin blushed deep enough to match her hair.

  “That’s right, we’re locking up your filthy bits, and you’ll never guess who has the keys,” Rinka lilted. “This will keep you out of mischief, focused on your duties, and very, very eager to please me. I’m sure I’m an inspiring voidiva, but your own lust makes an excellent company commander.”

  He had hefted the metal tube and turned in over in his fingers.

  “Yes, some are made to go over boy parts and some over girl parts. I’m sure you can figure out which is which,” Rinka cooed.

  She had leered as they dropped trousers and suited up. He had nothing to be ashamed of down there, but fuck if he didn’t have trouble getting it up to spite the bitch. He’d served under some hardasses, but a commander deciding if and when you got it up? Shit. The metal was like getting a blowjob from a cold dead skull. He clicked the lock.

  Rinka had helped the women with their harnesses, whispering something in Fortin’s ear that refreshed her blush. Then she stood back to chuckle at her handiwork, wiggling her finger to indicate they should pull their pants up again.

  “Good boys and girls,” she had said. “We’re off to a great start. I’ll see you at the Curia tomorrow at oh-eight-hundred.”

  She had paused and turned at the doorway, cocking her head an irritatingly charming way.

  “And finish getting a shave. Clean yourselves the fuck up. Treat yourselves to lip gloss or something.”

  His jaw was clean-shaven now as he clenched it and watched the Voidiva’s armored ass roll and bounce in perfect fucking motions on the back of her horse. Takes a special kind of man-hater to emasculate a guy and wiggle at him in that gear. They had a long road ahead. He wondered how long before she gave him a taste when she got lonely. Or when she was hanging from a tree.

  The courtyard dust settled as the bosses got into place. Then they all waited just long enough to remember how insignificant they were before a couple heralds came through a rear gate without heralding anything. Their little banners hung limp in the breezeless heat. After them, two guards in tooled plate, and between them a bearded guy in a silvery tunic. He looked like he jumped right off some ancient Corcorid coin. Obviously, he was the counsel, the top middle-man who probably got cartel kickbacks and free samples for Lain and company’s hard work of keeping the shipping lanes open. The counsel tried to spread his gaze around to everybody the way a good commander does, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off Svetkov. None of them could.

  The counsel’s horse had its pale mane in silly braids done up with colored string. It lifted its feet in exaggerated steps as he directed it to parade before each adventurer in turn. The counsel put a hand on Arrowmask’s shoulder and had a quiet word. Finstickle, the magimath, pumped the counsel’s fist while saying some sort of Weàlae nonsense. Making out the quieter chitchat was impossible and probably saved them all from being bored to death anyway.

  The ladies, though, they weren’t quiet at all. The Sharadaian wore a ridiculous hat with two long prongs that flopped down when she bowed low to the counsel like she was giving head to a ghost. The girl probably though the Tetragate themselves were peering down like gods from their towers. She’d be lucky if one of them thought to piss on them from a wall privy.

  “It is an honor to meet a great toady of the four kings!” the girl shouted at the counsel.

  The little wince on his face was priceless. Lain kept himself from grinning with a little guardsman’s trick where he bit the side of his tongue. But he hadn’t heard anything yet.

  When the counsel got to the Voidiva, he had trouble keeping his eyes pointed level—never learned the thousand-yard gaze like a real soldier—and she leaned forward all snake-like as if to give him a better view. He leaned in as well—and then she cuffed him so hard across the cheek he rolled right off his horse.

  “Don’t you ever
stick your Imperial prick into my private life again!” she shouted down at the reeling counsel. “I’ll cut it off and feed it to your kids with rat poison!”

  The guards’ steel came out, and so did Lain’s. He let himself grin now. Fuck, he’d fight for this crazy bitch any day, and he wouldn’t mind starting with these posh twats. Meanwhile, Arrowmask and the magimath got their horses between everyone, and the Shardaian girl went nuts.

  “Rinka, you are totally crazy!” the girl shrieked, her prongs flying, her hands flapping. “He’s a famous toady! The four kings will be super mad! They’ll never come out and say hi now!”

  The girl pulled out a hunk of sugar on a stick and used it to lure Svetkov’s horse away from the action. Then she slid low in the saddle and gave the counsel a hand getting up.

  “I am sorry Rinka dishonored herself by smacking you so that you rolled around on the ground like a helpless baby!” the girl shouted.

  The counsel finally got to his feet, probing a bloody lip with his tongue, and waved his guards off.

  “We deserved that. This one time,” the counsel said loud enough for everyone to hear. He clambered wearily back in the saddle and shot Arrowmask a final look. “I wish you luck,” he said, and wheeled his horse back to the gate.

  Lain watched the bosses gather for the inevitable squabble. Svetkov looked cool as morning frost, carrying a little smirk on her perfect purple-glazed lips. He knew the rest of them would calm down eventually because they’d take for that look for satisfaction. But he knew the type—was the type. That was an expression of the pleasure of something getting started, not something ending. He knew what she was thinking, because he was thinking it himself.

  Nothing makes you want to live more than knowing some snob is praying to the gods that you don’t make it back alive.