The Reaper Realm: Threads of Compassion

by K. A. Lentz

  Thistle slipped from his grasp as she was unexpectedly dropped to the forest floor, her landing cushioned by a plush blanket of green moss. Miach toppled over as well. Oh no, not now, he thought as the ground reached up to grab him. The tired warrior thrust both arms out to arrest his fall, but each exhausted limb was no match for the strain of his weight. After a fleeting second of trembling determination, Miach collapsed to the ground. Thistle flew to his side only to find him fast asleep. Not sure what to do, she gently shook him. No response. She tried once more, this time calling out his name; still no response. Tucking into his side she nervously scanned their surroundings. It seemed a hospitable forest however lessons of the past compelled her to guard every horizon with a cautious eye.

  Passing an hour nervously scanning each direction, Thistle’s focus had long ago tipped into boredom. The forest here was even emptier than the last; it lacked the customary bustle of insects normally found scurrying about. Thistle was curiously digging into the dirt for the slightest hint of life when her ears caught the faint sound of music.

  Standing tall she turned round on the spot, trying to orient herself toward the mysterious lullaby. Slowly the sound grew louder, approaching from somewhere unseen at a glacial pace. The derby of fears racing through her mind increased in number as she failed to find the music’s origin. Turning on-heel once more, Thistle’s breath caught in her throat as shimmering rays of golden light began streaming through the trees before her. Snuggling closer to the illusion of security Miach provided, she stared at the strange effulgence with a wary eye.

  Breaking through her defensive wall of fear and worry, the music began weaving a spell over Thistle’s resolutely distrustful thoughts. Gathering up her courage she took a step forward, intent on searching for its source, when the source came into view. Appearing a short distance from where she stood, a shaggy-white unicorn displayed itself proudly beside the trunk of a giant oak. Orbiting the noble creature like satellites, small fairies zoomed around playing enchanting music all the while. Thistle’s breath caught in her throat once more. Displaying the kind of grace and elegance one expects from an ethereal being, the unicorn slowly made its way to her side, stopping just a hair’s breath away. Reaching out a trembling hand she touched the tip of its shimmering horn. Quickly snatching it back, she was amazed to find her hallucination solid to the touch. I’m not dreaming… this creature was real!

  The unicorn wasn’t put off by Thistle’s bold action, it simply responded by placing a velvety nose in the palm of her hand and softly snorting. Like a calming wave reverberating throughout her body, the creature’s touch forced her mind to release the last shreds of worry. Now lacking any caution, she confidently climbed aboard the unicorn’s back with a smile. Feeling as young and carefree as a child, she gently pet the creature’s velvety shoulder while snuggling her face into a silken mass of rose-scented mane. The swarm of tiny, multi-colored fairies assiduously continued to play an aura of music around them. Now carrying its intended rider, the unicorn slowly turned—stepping over a forgotten Miach—and lazily retraced its steps through the woods; Thistle simply smiled and laughed.

  Miach awoke sometime later in a full state of confusion. He had been roused by a nagging male voice desperately pleading for him to wake up. It took a few blinks for him to get a handle on reality and realize… he was alone. Unaccustomed to running for months on end, all while eating little and sleeping none, the hardy warrior had finally succumbed to the strain. He hadn’t wanted to push himself so hard, but concern and circumstance had required it. He should have slept the night before—he knew it—but he couldn’t. About two months ago he had tried getting some rest, but fear and worry kept waking him with unpleasant images of Thistle’s demise as he was tipping into oblivion. He tried again the following night yet the result was the same; he hadn’t tried since.

  Looking through the dense cover of trees at the sparse sky available, Miach tried to get a handle on how long he had been out. The sun was still high in the sky, so it couldn’t have been more than an hour… maybe two. Counting himself lucky that he hadn’t slept long, Miach decided to begin the search for his wayward charge. She would likely be caught nearby, mesmerized by one fascinating thing or another. He sniffed the air once, but her scent was too far off to find. Looking around the spot he had fallen, Miach quickly found Thistle’s footprints and headed off in their direction.

  The unsuspecting warrior made it only a few steps before something caught him about the middle, knocking him to the ground. Jumping back to his feet, Miach looked up to find his worst nightmare staring back with a malicious smile spread across its hideous face. Nearly twenty thousand years old, and originally a very willing recruit, Zelrahk was the first fire-slave of the eldest reaper, Zombie. Well known in early times as a malevolent executer of his master’s most devastating missions, the depraved shadow-elf relished his work as commander in chief to a reaper’s army. Zelrahk, along with his master, dominated the realm’s first era with cruelty and death, unopposed by their peers. Near the end of the first war Zombie became crippled in battle by powerful magic. His master no longer concerned with their domain, or the vacant seat of power, Zelrahk was free to tenuously claim the throne. Now wielder of his master’s power, Zelrahk bathed alone in the increased energy flowing unhindered from his addled overlord. After almost a century controlling the reaper’s domain, the remaining reapers were forced to acknowledge his newly found status and began squabbling with him like a peer.

  Zelrahk had entered Miach’s story many years ago following one such disagreement with Lesdaeonna regarding a stretch of lands in the south. Miach’s master had ordered her slave to fight Zelrahk one on one, knowing full well her swordsman was no match for the budding reaper. Lesdaeonna greedily watched the heated combat until eventual boredom overcame her impulsive bloodlust. Unwilling to spare him another moment of her time, the purebred reaper easily defeated Zelrahk and ordered her battered slave to discard the rubbish. As Miach carried the shadow-elf’s limp body to the edge of Lesdaeonna’s castle-lands, his vanquished foe revived faster than expected, catching the storm-slave off guard. Forced to fight once more, Miach fought harder and braver than any who had faced Zelrahk before. Enraged it took so long to defeat a fledgling slave, Zelrahk warned Miach not to meddle in the affairs of a god such as he. Abused and exhausted after hours of combat, he could do no more to fight off the powerful slave. Lifted into the air by the taller shadow-elf, Miach was slowly burned alive by a gushing river of fire flowing freely from his adversary’s fingertips. The young storm-slave revived a couple days later, his body teetering on a void of creation lazily floating through Lesdaeonna’s private-lands.

  Miach now stood before Zelrahk, guarded and cautious as to why the shadow-elf had suddenly turned up. In contrast the arrogant fire-slave lazily stood leaning against a tree with a sardonic smile hanging beneath his malevolent gaze. Looking over his shoulder and then back at his prey, the monstrous shadow-elf stated through a chortle of cruel mirth, “I see you have lost something, how sad young pup… you should know better, but then… maybe you are not as smart as you think?”

  Only Miach’s eyes moved upward as he scowled back at his enemy. A confident growl in his voice, he dismissed the looming menace, “Taunt me all you will Zelrahk, I have no time for you.”

  Like the eyes of a reaper, Zelrahk’s pupils blazed with the same fire roaring beneath the surface of his runes. Rushing up beside Miach, the shadow-elf raged, “DID I NOT TELL YOU!?” His voice dropping to a malicious whisper, “Watch your tone with a god!”

  Without a word, Miach took advantage of Zelrahk’s slightly bent position. Encased in a crackling shroud of lightening, the storm-slave reintroduced his fist to the shadow-elf’s lower jaw. A snap of wind timed perfectly on contract had promised to send his adversary reeling toward the ground, but instead merely forced the taller elf to arch slightly back. Not wasting a moment, Miach followed his first punch with a rapid second; sinking his fist deep into Zelrahk�
��s solar-plexus. Like an unyielding tempest the storm-slave continued his assault, cracking another blow across the fire-slave’s grimy cheek. None of these attacks had their desired effect, giving Miach a moment’s pause. This shouldn’t be; Zelrahk was powerful indeed, yet he was still made of flesh and blood.

  The fire-slave stood his ground wearing a smug expression. A hearty laugh rumbled from deep within his throat before he jeered, “Ha-ha young puppy! Aww, have we still not learned to fight… human?”

  Miach was stunned. How had Zelrahk known he had once been human? Something wasn’t right. Provoking the budding reaper, the bold storm-slave taunted his adversary, “I think you can recall how well I fight… slave. Come, enemy mine, I shall show you my new bite! Remember Eltine?” Making his point, Miach unsheathed both swords. Arrogantly smiling, he added, “These blades were the end of her reign; care to test their sting on you?”

  Zelrahk’s indifferent gaze traveled from one weapon to the next, and lazily back to Miach. Chuckling aloud the fire-slave sneered, “Foolish pup, I do not hold to their laws! Have at me once more and see if your pitiful weapons can hinder my immortality!”

  The confident shadow-elf stood with his arms open wide, inviting the younger slave to take his shot. Miach paused with uncertainty. Why would Zelrahk make such an offer, and why hadn’t he fought with fire? None of this made sense. Miach decided to take the bait and struck with caution. Hurling a single blade, the swordsman’s aim was true. Zelrahk looked down at the offending weapon protruding from his heart and smiled. Looking back at Miach, he slowly pulled the blade free and said, “You see, I am a reaper! Now give me the fear due my station as I wrench the life from your stolen body!”

  Casually tossing the sword to the ground, the fire-slave smiled just before charging. This was all wrong, even Zelrahk should have fallen for a time. It was in this moment Miach realized he had been played from the start. Hinged on his belief, the shadow-elf’s image began to dissipate before vanishing on impact. Miach quickly retraced his steps to Thistle’s trail and took off at full speed.

  Thistle, in the meantime, was living the dream. During her journey through the enchanted wood a parade of woodland creatures had joined her procession. Chirping cheerfully atop the unicorn’s horn, a fluffed-up chickadee sung merrily in time to each fairy song. Dancing aboard the stallion’s hind-end, a squirrel and rabbit boisterously carried on like old friends. On one side of the unicorn a pair of mice played leapfrog in time to the music, while an adorable fawn bounded along the other with a smile. Everything was joyous and pleasing, yet there was an incipient feeling of dread growing within the pit of Thistle’s stomach. At first she shoved it back and tried to take no notice, but soon the feeling began vociferously vying for her undivided attention. Unable to ignore it any longer, worries unknown began dominating her mind. The profound need to run started prickling up Thistle’s spine and so she anxiously slipped from the unicorn’s back; thanking everyone for a lovely time. The gathered crowd simply stared at her with bewildered looks on their impossibly cute faces. As her feet hit the mossy earth, the churning dread within began to ebb slightly. Miach! She had left Miach… and now she had no idea how to get back!

  “Thank you for a fine time, again, but I must get back to my companion.” Thistle turned and started in the opposite direction when a voice sounded behind her; it was Miach’s, “There you are! I’ve been looking for you. Do not wander off again! I’ve already informed you… I will bring you back.”

  Something still wasn’t right, yet Miach was there and so she turned to move toward him. The effulgent unicorn and its host of companions were slowly trailing off into the woods behind him, but Miach took no notice at all. Again fear flared with every step she took back to his side. Thistle paused, uncertain. Coaxing her in Miach demanded, “We must get going, we’re late… Pyhe will be waiting.”

  Thistle started forward once more yet as she approached his outstretched hand something changed for a moment confirming her reservations; Miach shifted as though someone passed in front of an image projector. Not Miach! Who is it? Backing away, her mind raced through possibilities as fear boiled like a cauldron within her core. In a flash she thought of Miach’s words, a reaper trap… the plant! Unable to maintain its hold on her fearfully racing mind, the enchantment around her vanished. Quick as a flash the forest surrounding Thistle melted into a cloud-covered bog just as her guardian wafted away as if no more than fog, replaced by some kind of giant, pitcher-plant. As tall as a tree, the plant’s lush, green leaves ran like a bottle-brush up its massive stalk. Cradled atop the stem’s vertex was a large, cone-shaped bloom slowly wafting glittery pollen and purple petals into the air. Sheltered beneath the plant’s bottom row of red-trimmed leaves hung a crowd of coffin sized pitchers… open and waiting for the expected meal.

  Thistle began backing away fast but streamers of bright-green vines struck out from the plant’s base to catch her about the middle and, with sluggish determination, began slowly pulling her in. Thistle dug her feet into the bog’s thick, pasty earth while frantically tugging at the bonds gripping her waist. In defense of her actions more lashed out and snaked around her offending appendages, straightening them to each side. Thistle leaned back hard and yelled for help with every breath; deciding she would rather take her chances with whatever might show up—hopefully Miach—instead of the thing currently prepping to make her lunch.

  The hopeful savior heard Thistle’s cry in the distance and willed himself to go faster. No good, he was already giving it all he had. Edging toward panic with every second that passed in silence, Miach was relieved when Thistle screamed for help once more. Finally the trees gave way to a clear view of the vast bog claimed as the beast’s home. Resembling a lone carnival ride, the pitcher-plant sat in the center of a mucky clearing waving vines around in anticipation of its overdue meal. Miach spotted Thistle near the plant’s base and ran straight to her side. In moments he was next to her, assessing the pitcher’s hold on his charge.

  Thistle saw Miach the instant he stopped beside her, “Oh Miach, you’re here! I was starting to think this plant was actually going to eat me!”

  Miach’s eyes were full of worry when he replied, “You’ll be free in a moment.”

  Understanding the swordsman’s plan and fearing the loss of its prey, the bog-beast thrust a large cluster of vines up from its base to ensnare Miach’s arm. Nimbly he ducked around the snaking tendrils while pulling both swords free. His actions caused a frustrated screech of desperation to emanate from no earthly mouth. Silent outside the confines of their minds, Thistle and Miach each heard the plant’s terrible cry as something different. Thistle endured the torment of a thousand jagged nails scraping down an endless chalkboard, while Miach cringed at the furious screams of his master. Both were overcome by an instinctual need to cover their ears, yet neither had the luxury of doing so. Her arms still pinned, Thistle tried to fend off the terrible sound by closing her eyes and tipping her head against the pain. Her protector was less affected than she; shielded by his curse he was able to tolerate the discomfort.

  Prepping for a mighty slice, Miach was caught off guard by a new cluster of vines twisting around his ankles from underground. He took a hasty swipe at one shackle yet as he swung for the next, more wove like pythons around each wrist. Dropping onto the bog’s welcoming earth, the dismembered pieces of vine quickly took root and began growing at an alarming rate. Infuriated by his attack, the beast clustered every available tendril to lift Miach high into the air before yanking him hard to the ground, pinning him to a blanket of sphagnum moss. Acting on instinct, the storm-slave flash froze each restraint where it made contact all the way up their lengths to the beast’s heart; an elvish keystone. Protected by both Reaper and Elvish magic, his abilities could go no further. One powerful clap was all it took to break the coils around each wrist, shattering like broken glass into the stubby moss around his feet. Without pause he rushed into the plant’s foliage.

  The bog-beast wa
s taking advantage of Miach’s preoccupation by hastily stuffing a very unwilling Thistle into one of its gaping pitchers. Shoved in head first she was nearly gone, save two feet desperately hooking opposite sides of the opening. Miach speedily carved an exit into the pitcher’s side, gracefully avoiding the squirming occupant within, before chopping through the tangle of vines restraining his charge. Dropped into the drooling coffin, she was plunged into a deepening pool of digestive juices at the bottom. Wiggling free of the loose coils around her arms, Thistle wasted no time clumsily making her way through the opening. Triumphantly she sprang to her feet before jumping back against the damaged pitcher, stunned by what she saw.

  Where once was one, now stood three, fully grown pitcher-plants. Littering the ground between them, trembling green shards struggled to grow as they slowly thawed out. Freeing Thistle had distracted Miach long enough to be captured. Each adult plant now vied for control over his body by the limbs they were latched to, fighting like children over a ragdoll. Miach took advantage of their furious attentions and did nothing as he bided his time for Thistle to crawl free and gain some distance from her predators. Seeing his charge backed up to the mangled pitcher, luckily un-noticed by the freshly sprouted plants, the storm-slave roared, “RUN! RUN NOW TO THE TREES!”