The Lost Reavers

by Mike Truk

  “The tethers,” said Anastasia, face pale and gleaming with sweat. “We must find them, destroy them.”

  Hugh nodded and moved forward. It was as if he moved in a bubble of his own light, constrained by an ocean of night all around, with the others visible in their own bubbles, but illuminating precious else. Anastasia pressed in close, her light joining his own, Zarja but a step behind.

  “Can’t scent anything either,” muttered the lisica. “But she’s down here with us, I can sense her. Szidora! We mean you no harm! We’ve come to release you!”

  Her words were taken by the darkness as if eaten by hungry maws. Hugh crept on, lantern swinging from side to side, heart pounding, pounding, pounding. The silence was unnatural, total, swallowing even their footsteps, so that all he could hear was his pulse and Anastasia’s quick, shallow breathing by his side.

  Old crates covered in dust and sagging under mold. Hugh turned from them, walked on. A barrel on its side, holes chewed through the staves by what looked like a thousand tiny daggers.

  Rats’ teeth.

  “Szidora!” Zarja’s voice raised again. She stopped and turned in a circle. “We grieve for what happened to you. We’re here to right old wrongs. Please! Let us help!”

  “Zarja!” Anastasia’s scream shattered the darkness. “Behind -”

  Hugh saw it at the same time. The gleam of eyes over Zarja’s shoulder, darkness uncoiling. He drew his dagger and flung it, an underarm toss, as wizened, corpse-like hands clasped Zarja by the throat, clamped over her mouth, and yanked her back into the dark.

  Her lantern flame snuffed out, and a second later Hugh heard his dagger bounce off the cellar wall.

  “No,” whispered Anastasia, pressing close into his side. “No no no. This can’t be happening. Zarja! Zarja!”

  Hugh fought for calm. Took deep breaths. No new screams sounded out. “Hold onto me,” he said, voice grim. “We’ve got to stay close.”

  “Where are they?” Panic was just beneath the surface of her words. “Hugh, where the fuck are they?”

  “I don’t know. But we’ve got a job to do. Come on.”

  He led Anastasia deeper into the cellar. How damned big was this place? On they walked, lanterns held high, until a contraption came into their view, set against the wall.

  A wooden frame like a strange trestle, but adorned with leather straps and buckles. At one end, a mask of black leather, a strap hanging loosely from the temple. The whole contraption large enough to bind someone over it, as if on all fours. Straps for ankles, wrists, neck.

  Give her to me, came a voice from the darkness, a slithering, metallic sound, like a blade being drawn over a whetstone. Bind her and leave her and you can walk free.

  Hugh whirled. Nothing there. Anastasia’s grip on his arm was so tight he couldn’t have shaken her off if he’d tried.

  “Release my friends! Give them back!”

  Death to you all if you do not heed my words. The one by your side. So weak and so scared. Give her to me. Bind her, strap her, and leave her here in the dark.

  “Never,” growled Hugh, still searching for sign of Szidora.

  “Hugh,” whimpered Anastasia. “Please.”

  I have your friends. Already they bleed. I will kill them, then kill the scared one, then kill you. Unless. Bind her. Strap her. And the three of you can walk free.

  “Hugh,” whispered Anastasia. “Please. No.”

  “How’s this for an answer?” asked Hugh, and quickly sheathed his blade and took one of the oil flasks from his belt. Thumbed the stopper free, and poured the oil out over the wooden frame, causing it to glisten as a sharp tang filled the air.

  No response.

  Unwilling to release Anastasia, Hugh simply dashed his lantern against the wooden contraption, and with a whoomph the oil lit up, leaping and dancing along the wood and straps.

  Hugh bared his teeth in a feral grin. “Like that?”

  No answer.

  The flames leaped and danced, turned from yellow to blue, sank down, and after a few moments went out.

  In the light of Anastasia’s lantern, he saw the frame was unsinged.

  “No,” whispered Anastasia. “It didn’t burn. How did it not burn?”

  “Let’s be more direct, then.” Hugh unshouldered the ax, and still gripping Anastasia’s arm with the other hand, brought it down with all his might upon the contraption.

  The ax blade bounced off with a ring as if he’d struck metal.

  Fool, whispered Szidora, so close that Hugh startled, swung around. There was nothing there. Your time runs out. Bind her. Strap her. Leave her. Or die.

  “Fortuna fuck you sideways,” growled Hugh.

  She already has. Now, it is your turn.

  The flame in Anastasia’s lantern began to dwindle.

  “No!” Anastasia brought the lantern to her chest, began turning the spoke that lengthened the wick. “No!”

  Hugh brought the ax down again and again, to no result.

  The flame dwindled. Guttered. Went out.

  The darkness became total.

  Anastasia let out a scream. There was the sound of breaking glass. She clutched his arm with both hands.

  Hugh turned in a slow circle, ax held before him. Sweat was pouring down his face. He listened, thought he heard a sound off to the side, and hurled the ax as quickly as he could.

  Heard it strike the wall.

  You are in my place of power. Choose. One death, or four.

  Hugh drew his blade.

  Bind her. Strap her. Leave her. I shall not ask again.

  Anastasia was gasping for breath by his side, but then, with a sharp intake, released his arm.

  “Anastasia!” He groped for her, flailed in the dark.

  “Leave me!” Her voice was wild, desperate. “Save the others. I’ll - I - this is what I am for.” Her voice was wretched, near tears, grief-stricken. “I am a disciplus. I live - I live -”

  “No!” Hugh waded forth like a blind man, reaching, snatching at the dark. “No!”

  The wooden frame became visible, as if it alone were illuminated by candlelight, its stark angularity and brutal straps limned by pale fire.

  She has chosen.

  “She chose wrong,” hissed Hugh. “Come out here and fight me!”

  Footsteps, faltering, dragging, and Anastasia appeared beside the frame. Eyes wide, glassy, mouth sagging open in horror as she gazed down at it.

  And all at once, a thousand red eyes opened from the far reaches of the cellar, tiny and beady and bright.

  Rat eyes.

  The air swarmed with the sound of their sinuous movements. The whispering chitter as they pressed closer.

  Hugh cursed and strode toward Anastasia, but found his way barred by some invisible wall. “Ana! Come here!”

  She didn’t hear him. Looking dazed, almost locked in a fugue, she swung a leg over the frame so that she straddled it.

  “No!” Hugh pounded the pommel of his blade against the invisible wall. “No!”

  Her sacrifice will be in vain if you do not leave. Will you watch as she is devoured for nothing? Turn away. Walk away. Only then will I free your friends.

  Hugh reached out into the darkness of his own soul. Dragoslav, he called. Blind Igocha. Foughtash. Yaros. Bolek!

  The mightiest of the Lost Reavers. Their strength swelled within him, caused his shoulders to hunch. He took a step back and then roared and charged the wall, slamming his shoulder into it.

  He might as well have charged stone.

  Anastasia slowly lowered herself into the frame, shivering so strongly that her whole body shook. Lifted her feet and placed them against the sides. Lay down upon the axle and placed her hands within the straps.

  Which animated and coiled tight about her limbs.

  She will die for nothing if you do not turn. The voice was growing furious, Szidora’s impatience scalding the air. Forsake her! Save yourself and your friends!

  “Ana!” Hugh reached for greater str
ength. Hrynco! Kevanir! Old Wladimir, come!

  His blood roared in his ears. His body strained to contain its power. Feeling fell, feeling perilous, Hugh seized his blade with both hands and struck at the wall.

  Sparks of light flew, and he felt his blade bend.

  Anastasia lowered her face toward the leather mask. She was weeping now, weeping in sheer terror.

  The rat eyes were closing in all around.

  You bound me there, came Szidora’s whisper. Bound me and used me and used me again until I was near broken, then slathered me and left me in the dark. To the rats. For three nights I screamed, begged for mercy. But you showed me none.

  “I am not your damned husband!” roared Hugh. He struck at the wall again, felt his blade bend further. “I didn’t bind you!”

  The black leather mask groped for Anastasia’s face like some great leach, curved about her head, the band of leather looping around her chignon and pressing it cruelly tight as it buckled itself. Anastasia’s sobs grew muffled, but her whole body heaved in despair and revulsion. But she couldn’t move. Could do little more now than writhe.

  Leave, or I shall devour you all, one by one, down here in the deepening dark. Her voice rose to a scream, a shriek that near shattered his mind. Leave her!

  “No!” roared Hugh, and felt the rats swarm about his boots, felt them climb his legs, their teeth piercing his clothing, a swarm so thick it was as if he waded in horror. He swept his blade down, cutting through a score of them, but more flowed in to replace the dead, up to his thighs now, cutting and slicing at him, his legs burning with pain as a thousand incisions were carved into his flesh, and in the depths of his mind he knew that he was doomed.

  Knew he couldn’t fight off so many, not with a mere blade.

  They were about Anastasia now, a rippling blanket of svelte, brown and black bodies, a carpet so thick they swallowed up the floor. Swarming about her, tails lascivious and naked.

  Hugh roared, thrust the pain from him, and with everything he had left threw himself against the invisible wall.

  Bounced off it, fell to his knees.

  And was engulfed by the rats.

  About his shoulders, over his arms, talons scrabbling at his face, claustrophobic, cloying, their stench in his mouth, their shrieks and shrill cries in his ears.

  Leave, whispered the ghost’s voice, her tone broken, pleading. Please. Leave her. Save yourself.

  Hugh spat and cursed, shook his arms and forced himself to his feet, dislodging what felt like hundreds of rats. They bit his ears, wriggled inside his clothing, gnawed at his neck, fought to climb into his mouth.

  All he had to do was turn away. Take one step in the other direction. Leave Anastasia down here in the dark.

  To the rats.

  To Szidora’s madness.

  No.

  Swaying under their sheer weight - knowing the attack was supernatural, impossible, a manifestation of Szidora’s power - Hugh grit his teeth, lumbered toward the invisible wall, and with the last of his will struck it with his shoulder.

  “Anastasia!”

  The wall shattered.

  The rats fell away.

  Silence replaced their mad chittering. The wounds on his body faded, the pain disappearing. Hugh staggered up to Anastasia. Her lantern flame was burning once more. She lay across a warped and rotted frame, the leather cracked and broken, her face pressed into a ruined, shrunken cup of a mask.

  “Anastasia.” Carefully, aware of the terrible strength that coursed through him, he pulled her free.

  “Hugh.” Her voice was little more than a sob. She clutched at him, pressed her cheek to his chest. Her whole body shook.

  “It’s over,” he whispered, holding her close. “Almost.” He poured the oil from another flask over the wretched, rotten frame, then disengaged from Anastasia enough to set the lantern flame to its edge.

  The whole of it whooshed up in flames, which crackled and leaped as they devoured the horrific device. Hugh stood back, Anastasia slipping into his arms once more, and together they watched the contraption burn.

  And in the distance, beyond the leaping flames, barely visible in the shadows, Hugh thought he saw a figure. Not a wizened, corpse-like hag, but a beautiful woman, her face in shadow, her cheeks wet with tears.

  When he squinted, peered closer, however, she was gone.

  The frame burned quickly, quicker than he thought possible, and soon collapsed into chunks of cindered wood.

  The light of Anastasia’s lantern swelled forth. Revealed a filthy, dank basement, much smaller than he’d expected, filled with old crates and barrels and little else.

  “Zarja!” Anastasia tore herself free and ran to where the lisica lay curled on her side. Crouched, shook her. “Zarja, please, wake up!”

  The lisica’s eyelids fluttered and then she sat up, hand going to her head. “What… what happened?”

  “Morwyn,” said Hugh. “Maybe she’s -?” He pulled Zarja to her feet, clasped both their hands, and pulled them after him, up the stairs, out of that horrid cellar and into the dark hall.

  Morwyn lay on her back, one arm flung over her face, deep in slumber by the wall.

  Hugh crouched and touched her shoulder. “Captain?”

  “Hugh?” Morwyn shifted her arm, blinked. “I had the strangest dream…”

  Relief washed over him like a tide of icy water. “Thank Fortuna.”

  “The strangest dream…” whispered Morwyn as tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.

  Hugh took her hand and pulled her up to sitting, then, not questioning his impulses, he embraced her.

  For a long moment she sat still, shivering in his arms, and then she sniffed, wiped her nose across her arms, and stood.

  “I’m all right,” she said, voice rough with emotion. But she composed her features and drew her blade. “The ghost?”

  “Gone,” said Zarja, voice wondering. “I don’t sense her darkness. What happened?”

  Anastasia looked at him from across the room, one arm around Zarja’s waist, her eyes gleaming. “Hugh set her free.”

  “I’ll tell you the tale on the way to Erro,” said Hugh, heart thumping still. “Even with her gone, I’d rather not be here a moment longer.”

  “Agreed,” said the others together, and to Hugh’s relief they cracked smiles, amused at their own synchronicity.

  Hugh took one last look around the dank hall, then at the cellar door. “Rest in peace, Szidora,” he whispered. “May the Hanged God welcome you into his Garden.”

  * * *

  “She needed you to abandon Anastasia,” said Zarja, wonder in her voice. They were back in the imperial estate. Candles lit and stuck on the corner of shelves, center of the table, in the mouths of empty wine bottles.

  The ruined fortress seemed a hundred miles away, and the specters of the Lost Reavers he’d summoned had not appeared to bedevil him. Perhaps they’d approved of his using their strength to defeat a ghost. That was as close to honorable Reaver work as he’d done since the Goat’s Wood.

  Hugh leaned back in his chair, staring into a tall, wavering flame. “Yeah. Begged me to, at the end.”

  Morwyn stood by the front door, arms crossed, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t get it. She took Zarja and I without any difficulty. Why not finish you two off in similar manner?”

  Anastasia had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and was staring at the cup of wine in her hands. “It wasn’t about killing us.”

  “Then what was it?” Morwyn’s impatience intensified. “Making friends?”

  Zarja bestirred herself, tail swiping to one side to curl around her shins as she brought her knees up under her chin. “She wanted Hugh to treat Anastasia as the castellan had treated her.”

  “Ok, sure.” Morwyn’s frown deepened. “But why?”

  “I think,” said Hugh, feeling it out, speaking slowly, “that she needed me to repeat the crimes that were committed against her. To re-enact the abuse. To prove that I was no bett
er.”

  “Than her long-dead husband,” said Morwyn, skeptical.

  “Yes,” said Zarja. “I think if Hugh had done so we’d all be dead. She didn’t hurt us, otherwise. Scared us, yes. But she merely put you and me to sleep. The rat bites were phantasmagorical.”

  “Like, what - she needed Hugh to act like a complete ass to kill us? Thank the Fate Maker and his twelve-inch golden rod that she didn’t see any of his previous deeds.”

  Hugh shook his head slowly. “She needed me to fail Anastasia. Wanted it so badly. Maybe… maybe on some level she needed to think all men are so twisted.”

  Zarja nodded, her heart-shaped face solemn. “Perhaps that would in some way absolve her husband of his evil. If all men were evil, then her husband wouldn’t have done anything exceptionally bad.”

  “Or,” said Anastasia, voice low, staring out at nothing, “or she couldn’t bring herself to hurt good people.”

  “Regardless,” said Morwyn, tone brisk. “The fortress is cleared. Mission accomplished. Will there be anything else, my lord?”

  Hugh considered her. Thought of the tears she’d cried when she’d awoken. That dream she’d had. Decided not to press her. “Thank you. That will be all.”

  “See you in the morning,” she said, saluted, and let herself out.

  “She going to sleep in the woods?” asked Zarja as the door swung closed.

  “Fortuna knows,” he said.

  “Hugh.” Anastasia’s tone was dreamy, detached. She was still staring out at nothing, and with some effort brought her focus back to turn and look at him. A single vertical line appeared between her brows. “Why didn’t you leave me?”

  Hugh sat up. “You can’t seriously be asking me that?”

  She gazed steadily at him, not elaborating.

  Hugh scowled. “Leave you in a dark basement to be eaten by rats? You think I could?”

  “I’m a disciplus,” said Anastasia, voice soft. “I live to serve. And I know -” She gulped. “I know that things between us all have grown looser, in a sense, that - formalities haven’t been observed. But. I am a disciplus. To all effects your disciplus. A tool. Especially in a situation like that. Especially with your life on the line. Zarja’s. Morwyn’s. Why didn’t you sacrifice me?”