Death's Collector

by Bill McCurry

  I made for the outer door at an even slower trot. Halfway there, I heard a moment of muffled grinding, and I threw myself backward just before the entire hallway collapsed. One of the gardeners screamed as huge stones rumbled down on him, and then his screams cut off. While the hill of rocks and dirt was settling, his friend started howling and crying. I never heard her stop. As far as I know, she’s still trapped there weeping.

  A medium-size stone, as big as a comfortable chair, rolled toward me. I mostly dodged it, but it brushed by and knocked me halfway across what remained of the hallway. When I got up, I could walk, but my knee was already starting to swell. I didn’t have time to fiddle around with healing it.

  The debris contained a couple of promising gaps near the top. I chose the closest one, climbed up to it, and began wriggling through. Nothing above me seemed to be shifting, which gave me a bit of comfort. Then I realized that if Vintan was watching me right then, he could collapse another three floors of the keep on top of me if he wanted to.

  I scrambled down the other side alive and headed toward the door at a limping trot. Nothing bad happened before I reached the door and poked out my head, waiting for some gargantuan rock to squash me. All I saw was Vintan riding away on a decent-looking horse, although it looked to be a little short on wind.

  Vintan looked back and mimed three little kisses at me.

  I pulled four yellow bands, one after the other, and whipped each one out to wrap a hoof, dragging the horse to a dead stop. Vintan almost fell, and I rushed toward him, ignoring pain and not worrying about pits and deadfalls. He hopped down, drew his sword, and ran to meet me.

  I almost cut halfway through his neck on the first pass, but he threw himself aside. He swung at my limping right leg, and as I jumped back, my knee wobbled. I fell on my back. He pressed me hard then, but within a few seconds, I’d gotten up on the other knee. I fenced him from one knee for a little bit, pinking him in the thigh and giving him a decent slice across the forearm.

  Vintan probably realized then that, even kneeling, I was about to kill him. He jumped back, and every scrap of everything I was wearing or carrying disappeared. The only exception was the stupid god-named sword. With slush on the ground, things felt a little brisk, but I stood up ready to cut him in two.

  “You miserable reptile,” he said, looking at my still-existing sword, and then he attacked. I blocked, set him up for the kill, and fell into a giant hole. Sadly, the hole’s edge knocked my sword out of my hand. Fortunately, I grabbed Vintan with my claw as I fell. I dragged him with me, and together we tumbled twenty feet to the bottom.

  I hit my head and was seeing double after we landed, and I had wrenched my remaining good knee. Vintan looked around, spotted me, and clambered up to his knees as he raised his sword. Blood was running down his chin onto his chest, which told me he’d probably bitten off his tongue. When he swung, I grabbed his wrist to hold off the cut.

  Vintan got a leg under him and shoved me, and with my pathetic knees, I didn’t have much strength for pushing back. He pinned me on my side and pulled his knife. I grabbed for my knife but realized it had been disintegrated along with everything else I’d been wearing. He stabbed at my neck, but I deflected with my claw. I shuddered as the knife pushed deep into my shoulder instead.

  Every muscle in my body wept and begged to quit. The pain in my chest had crawled out in all directions, and everything below my neck throbbed. I hadn’t pulled a deep breath since my knee had given way and slapped me onto the icy ground.

  Vintan twisted his knife into my shoulder. I gasped and shoved my empty claw against his chest. Then I called a blue band out of nothing and pushed it into his body, trying to wither everything it touched.

  The body wants to live, so withering it is a lot of work. All Vintan’s muscles snapped tight at first, but he was a sorcerer and hard to dissuade. I writhed as he stabbed again, and he dragged a magnificent, bloody wound across my scalp. He was weakening, but he stabbed at me again. He struck my neck this time but just scraped a shallow cut from my ear to my shoulder blade.

  I kept pouring power into him, flooding his body with rot, but he shouted, spraying blood in my face, and tried to push the rot back into me. It was crazy, but I kept thinking there must be better ways to spend that power since I’d promised a lot of murders to get it. I rammed the power harder, withering everything it touched, and he kept shoving it back at me. My vision melted, and I threw up over his shoulder. I drove all my power into him, holding nothing in reserve, and at last I shriveled his heart.

  That was how Vintan Reth the Sorcerer died. May goats piss in every hole of his skull.

  I had no choice but to lay at the bottom of that hole until somebody looked down and felt sorry for me. I did have a choice about how I used my time while I was there. I wheezed for a while before scooting over so that it didn’t appear I was engaged in unseemly congress with Vintan’s corpse. Then I lay flat, pulled my knees up, had a nice laugh, and passed out.

  It was early evening when I woke. I had been washed and bandaged, and I rested on a soft bed in a large, clean room. I saw polished furniture, rugs, tapestries, and even a window. Desh was sitting nearby.

  “This was Vintan’s room,” he said.

  “Make sure he doesn’t come back to life, walk in here, and finish me.”

  “Damn, Bib, look at you. If you were a boot, I’d throw you in a ditch.”

  “I’ll be up soon. I’ll surprise you. How are Pres and Ella?”

  “Pres is weak but awake. Ella’s fine. She’s stalking between this room and Pres’s like a tiger with cubs in different caves.”

  “How did you find me in the Red Room?”

  “Ah, once you escaped from so deep under all these stones, Limnad felt you. We’ve been hiding in the hills, which was even less comfortable than it sounds. I thought you were dead, but Limnad refused to leave without you. I have cultivated some sneaky ways into the castle, so I disguised myself and hurried in. After that, it was easy. Everybody was talking about the filthy lunatic who wanted to chat with the king. Filthy lunatic had to mean you.”

  I snorted. “Hell, my reputation has been destroyed.”

  “Small loss. I’ll bring Ella.”

  Some power to heal would certainly have been useful about then. Or, power for unforeseen eventualities. I didn’t see my sword around, so I said to hell with it, gritted my teeth, and lifted myself to call on Gorlana. She refused me. Harik refused me too, and so did all the other gods I called. I was cut off, at least for now.

  Shortly, Ella swept into the room, grabbed my hand, and kissed me with considerable care. “When they carried you inside, I thought you must be dead. Even now, I wonder whether you still have any blood inside you.”

  “Most of it was his.” That was a lie. Hardly any of it could have been his.

  She touched the cut across my scalp, which had bled like a waterfall. “Of course. You would never exaggerate.”

  “Did Desh give the cure to Moris?”

  “Certainly. The king’s physician is evaluating it. If it proves effective, Moris promises not to yell at you. If it fails, he says he shall hang you for being impertinent and a bad juggler.”

  “I’m glad you’re not king. You must have accused me of impertinence a couple dozen times.”

  Ella kissed me again. “Are you recovered enough to heal yourself?”

  “No, not exactly.” I patted her arm.

  “I pray it’s soon.” She pressed her other hand against my cheek. It reminded of when she sat with me while I was dying. She went on, “So that you feel well, of course, but also to restore Pres’s hand. It’s a horrible wound, but I have faith in you.”

  “Ella, that may not happen, at least not right away.”

  “Why not?”

  “It takes power, and I’m blown out right now.” I smiled at her and shrugged.

  “Can you trade for more?”

  “I’d love to. In fact, I’ve already tried, but none of the gods will even talk
to me.”

  Ella clamped her jaw for a second. “Why? Did you commit some act to aggravate them?”

  “Darling, they float around in a state of eternal aggravation.”

  Ella stood back and let my hand go. “What will you do about Pres’s hand?”

  “I can’t do anything right now. I used everything I had killing Vintan.”

  “You knew Pres’s hand had been severed. Why did you not hold power in reserve to heal him?”

  I looked down. Ella had touched on a tender point there. I might have been able to kill Vintan without shoving every bit of my power into his nasty, blackened heart. I used all of it to make sure he was dead. Also, because I hated him worse than syphilis. And because it felt good to obliterate him, not just kill him. Ella was right—I hadn’t stopped to think about Pres.

  “Ella, at the time, it seemed like I needed all of it.”

  “You should have remained mindful of the power required. You took pains to create a new hand for yourself, and indeed part of another. Yet you leave Pres, your friend and companion, to a life of mutilation.”

  “I’m sorry, Ella. If I were to fight Vintan again, I might hold some power back. Or, he might kill me because I didn’t use it all. We can’t know. I’d help Pres now if I could. If things change and I can help him someday, I will.”

  “I understand.” She said it, but she didn’t take my hand again. “There is nothing to be done about it. I should check on him.”

  Ella hurried out of Vintan’s room, and part of me felt just as dead as that damned Vintan. Pres was her boy, even if he didn’t come from her body. Now he was maimed, and she couldn’t blame Vintan since he was gone. Whenever she looked at his stump, she’d need somebody to blame, and I was the only one available.

  I guess Gorlana hadn’t been kidding about taking Ella after all.

  Thirty-Three

  Sorcerers tend to be a mean-tempered bunch. They like to act forbidding and impatient and inscrutable. Some sorcerers even practice. I mean, they practice in front of a mirror, perfecting their “I’m so wise I don’t even care how much wiser I am than you” expression. They’re really just mean as snakes, but they want their meanness to look like it’s something special and mysterious.

  Most sorcerers act mean because they’re sad, and they’re sad because of all they have traded away to the gods. If you want to see an extravaganza of weepy anguish, get a few sorcerers together with some hard liquor and a fellow playing sad songs on his lute. They’ll say shit like, “The life of a sorcerer is a life of loss,” and, “There are no good deals—only bad deals and deals that are less bad.”

  When morose sorcerers talk about loss and bad deals, they are not lying. They’re wise enough to know that’s their life. But they’re also too foolish to see that every life is a life of loss, even for people who aren’t sorcerers. True, a sorcerer’s losses are often bizarre, but in exchange, they get to roast their enemies alive or make slippers that let them sneak around and hear everybody’s secrets. Sorcerers are strange, but they aren’t that special.

  But arrogant? They are that, and I may be the most arrogant one of all.

  Every life is also a life of wonder. Sorcerers often forget that, which is damn strange since they spend their time seeing and doing wondrous things. But they forget and they lose and they lose some more and they die young.

  I rarely talk about my little girl, although since I met Ella, I’ve talked about her ten times as much. She was the greatest loss of my life, and the greatest wonder, and she will always define what I am and what I am not. A part of me lived only when I was with her. When she died, that part of me died too, and it went with her wherever she went so she wouldn’t have to go there alone.

  King Moris rewarded the crap out of me. He gave me nice clothes, fine weapons, two splendid horses, and more gold than a cheap bastard like me could spend in a hundred years. This all came with an unspoken understanding that I would get out of the Denz Lands as soon as I healed and the weather was agreeable. His experiences with Vintan had soured his taste for keeping sorcerers around. He stayed in residence at the Eastern Gateway to show us hospitality, but I suspect he mainly wanted to make sure I didn’t cause trouble.

  Spring arrived cold and wet, so we all agreed to stay with Moris until the weather broke. He held a banquet for us every evening. Pres moped, melancholy over his friend Vintan trying to kill him; so during the days, I hauled him out to the castle yard and trained him to fight left-handed. After teaching the boy for a week, I began training some of Moris’s personal guards too, and I recovered my strength and wind in a few weeks. I didn’t crave taking their lives, either. Instead, I felt a sober appetite for killing them that I could put aside and indulge some time later, or maybe never. After a month of training, I could whip any three guards at once, in whatever order Pres gave me, and I felt my recovery was well along.

  Ella went most places with Pres. She came to his first training session, stayed ten minutes, and left. She didn’t attend any more training. She and I talked off and on in those weeks. She always spoke properly, no matter how much I teased her or sprinkled on increasingly robust profanity. She acted like we had never shared an intimate word.

  During the fourth week of training, when our session had ended and Pres was collecting the weapons, Ella walked up to me. “Thank you for schooling the prince on the principles and practice of swordsmanship. I fear he will find it challenging. I intended to train him, but he expressed a preference for your instruction.”

  “He’ll come back to you if you tell more dirty stories. I know one about the milkmaid and the halibut—”

  “Thank you, I prefer not to engage in a contest over prurient tales.”

  “Dirty jokes?”

  She gave a faint smile and shook her head.

  “Want to fight?”

  “Thank you, no. I haven’t expressed my gratitude to you yet. For rescuing Pres.”

  “We all worked together to make that happen.”

  “Some of us suffered more than others.” She reached out to my arm but dropped her hand before she touched me.

  “Don’t be shy. If you want me to take off my shirt, just speak up.”

  “No. I want to thank you, now that Pres is secure and the rescue completed.”

  “All right, I don’t mind if you thank me. Go ahead.”

  She sighed. “Thank you. Since the rescue is over and the prince no longer needs to be rescued, he does not require a rescuer.”

  “I wouldn’t think so. What are you trying to say? Do you want me to get a job? Do you want me to hire somebody to kidnap him so we can have this fun all over again?”

  “No!” She reached out to my arm but stopped herself again.

  I realized she was reaching out to my hand, not my arm. For a moment, I thought she was trying to say she felt bad that my hands had been cut off, but when I raised my hand, she didn’t look at it. She looked at the sword I was holding. I reversed the sword and presented the hilt to her. “You’re right, Ella. You’re protecting the prince now, not me. This is yours.”

  Blushing, she took the stupid god-named sword and cradled it in the crook of her arm. Then she grabbed my hand and squeezed hard for a few seconds before she nodded and walked away.

  “Don’t ever feel like you can’t come out and ask me for something,” I called after her. “I may tell you to go to hell, but you don’t have to worry about asking.”

  Ella walked fast across the mud and back into the keep. She didn’t attend the banquet that evening. She told Pres that she felt unwell.

  A week later, I woke up with a faint headache. I went to Moris and asked whether I could hunt down any bandits or traitors for him and kill them. He laughed and said he’d be damned if he’d use any guest that way, and we spent the rest of the afternoon getting as drunk as blind squirrels. I decided to put up with the headache until I departed the Gateway and found a promising opportunity to murder somebody.

  Nine weeks after I killed Vintan, the s
un rose on a clear, warm day. Ella, Pres, and I thanked Moris for his hospitality, and he told Pres to send word if the Denz Lands could ever help him. Then we mounted our fine, well-provisioned horses and rode into the hills to meet Desh and Limnad, with fifty of Moris’s soldiers escorting us.

  Limnad rushed to me in a blur and laid her hand on my chest. “Bib, I’m happy for you! Your spirit isn’t wretched.”

  “Hello, Limnad. It’s good to see you, although I wish you’d said something better than ‘not wretched.’”

  “Your spirit will never be light. You should know that—you did it to yourself. So, don’t whine.”

  “I don’t think I’ve whined since I was a boy. Maybe not even then.”

  “Or made arrogant claims, either. You’re well enough, although I can tell she hurt you. I knew that she would in the end.” Limnad looked across the clearing toward Ella and raised her voice. “That horrible slut with a hatchet face and toads for tits!”

  Ella glanced up, shook her head, and looked away.

  Limnad interpreted that as a gesture of contempt, which it probably was. Desh, Pres, and I restored peace soon with no deaths and not many injuries.

  We traveled north on the same road we had followed down into the Denz Lands. The days were bright and full of new grass. The nights were cool, and they smelled like moss and terrified rodents. The keep we destroyed on our way south had been rebuilt, and the king’s people had cleared the avalanche that Vintan had thrown down on Ralt and me at the Blood River. We stopped for a day at Smat Bander’s village and shared our food. The villagers shared their wine, and we enjoyed a raucous party with three fist fights and a marriage proposal.

  Our trip back to the Blue River was just about perfect, except that Ella avoided me and I annoyed everybody by making it clear how much I didn’t care about her avoiding me. Pres fretted about all the tension between Ella and me, Limnad and Ella traded insults that would embarrass a dockworker, and that son of a bitch Desh watched us all and laughed.

  When we rode down into the wide, grassy Blue River valley, I looked forward to the coming changes. Moris’s soldiers would turn back here at his kingdom’s border. Traveling with large groups of armed, dubiously trained men had always unsettled me.