She was not like the Reaper, ever invigorated by the prospect of battle. She was, as she’d once tried to tell him, the very antithesis of Tarmun Vykers.
And yet, she could not chase him from her thoughts.
Action, perhaps, was the best tonic, and so Aoife strode from the path and into the trees. After a hundred strides or so, she found a spot to her liking and reached into the earth with her thoughts. In no time, vines broke through the crust of old snow and sprouted into the air, curling and weaving around one another. Aoife stood at their center, and, within minutes, was completely surrounded by a thorny, impenetrable barrier that reached well over her head. The snow and ice melted into the soil, and a rich carpet of moss rapidly took their place. Next, a small clump of mushrooms burst into view, glowing with faerie fire, offering the A’Shea light, warmth, and a source of food.
These were not powers enjoyed or practiced by anyone in the Sisterhood. But to the Sister-Mother of Nar, they were as natural and as easy as breathing.
Inside her fey shelter, Aoife was safer and more comfortable than most of the people in Her Majesty’s realm.
*****
Nelby & Esmine, On the Road
Her handsome savior’s name was Innoman. Whether that was his first name or his last, Nelby hadn’t the courage to ask. The young man seemed nice enough, but there was something about him too eager to please. And who was Nelby, that he should worry what she thought? She played along, of course, out of concern for Esmine, humored Innoman’s moods, nodded after his every suggestion, and in all other ways did her utmost to convince him of her loyalty to him. Trust him, though? Not in the least. The former thrall had learned through painful experience that people were very seldom what they seemed, with the possible exception of Mardine, Esmine’s mother.
But Mardine was dead.
And why did it always seem that the good paid, whilst the bad stayed?
“Hungry,” Esmine said, from the pile of blankets Nelby had won for her.
“I know, love. He’ll be by soon, I’m sure.” At least she hoped Innoman would be by soon.
She looked through the bars of the cage she shared with Esmine. It was bad enough on its own, but fixed atop one of the caravan’s flatbed wagons, it offered no shelter from the cold, no protection from sudden, bone-jarring jolts caused by unseen or unavoidable potholes. The girls’ captives claimed they wanted Esmine in good condition when they passed her along to her new owners, but they surely didn’t behave like it.
Except for Innoman, whom Nelby didn’t quite trust.
Now that the storm had abated, the caravan had resumed its journey north. Desperate as she was, Nelby wondered for the thousandth time if escape might be possible. With snow on the ground, she and Esmine were bound to leave obvious tracks wherever they went. Too, food would be virtually impossible to find. Finally, without shelter and fire, an icy death was a foregone conclusion.
But was it worse than whatever awaited at the journey’s end? Might it not be better to die cold and hungry but free than live warm and well-fed but a slave?
I hate being a coward! Nelby admonished herself.
“What’s that faraway look portend, eh?”
Innoman appeared out of nowhere, riding beside the girls’ wagon. Again, Nelby was struck by his looks.
“Nothing. Just missing home.”
Innoman chuckled. “You’ll ‘ave t’get used to that, love. You’re not like to see it again.”
“True enough.” What else could she say?
“I’ve got somethin’ for ya,” said Innoman slyly.
“’Ave you?”
“Nice little bit o’ rabbit.” He looked around first before handing it over, which told Nelby this kindness was a risk on Innoman’s part. And when men took risks for women, well, they usually expected something in return.
“Thanks,” she said, avoiding eye contact as she reached for the meat.
“Just tryin’ to make sure you two stay strong,” Innoman smiled.
“And we’re grateful. We know you been good to us.”
“Aye,” said Innoman, before putting his heels to his horse and riding away.
“Aye,” said Nelby to herself, still worried what the future cost of such kindness might be. She, too, looked around to ensure no one had seen her receive the rabbit’s leg, and then, comfortable it had gone unnoticed, she examined her prize. It was a pitiful thing. Hardly enough meat on it for one person, let alone two. Well, she’d give it all to Esmine. Maybe the girl would leave a small bone or two for Nelby to chew on. There might even be a bit of marrow, if she was lucky.
Gently, she leaned into the child and held the rabbit under her nose. It took a moment, but eventually Esmine’s eyes cracked open and she squinted at the gift. “Rabbit?” she whispered weakly.
“Aye.”
“All for me?”
“Aye. All for you, sweetheart.”
Against Nelby’s expectations, Esmine did not wolf the meat down, but gently, almost tentatively, pulled it apart, putting only the tiniest of slivers into her mouth.
“Taste alright?” Nelby asked.
“Mmm,” was all Esmine said in reply.
While her charge ate, Nelby sat back and considered their cage again. There were bars on three sides, with a solid back wall where it met the wagon. Sometimes, the girls’ captors threw an old tarp over the cage to keep out the sun, wind or rain. Other times, they didn’t seem to give a shit. Near the back wall, was a bucket for waste, a prisoner’s chamber pot. At the front, a large wooden cup lay on its side in the filthy straw the girls used for bedding. Often, the only drink the girls received was snow they’d melted in that cup. Once in a while though, they were given hot broth – not very hearty, but the warmth meant almost more than any nourishment it might offer. Nelby had survived worse, but the child?
Once more, the former thrall’s thoughts drifted to escape. With every sunset, the caravan came a day closer to its destination – whatever that might be – and the captives, a day closer to their undoubtedly unpleasant fates. For weeks, Nelby had sought comfort in the belief that she and Esmine would be sold as a pair. Now, she had lost all confidence in the possibility. Now, she feared the caravan’s arrival would result in a final parting. She felt she’d failed Mardine; she couldn’t bear the thought of failing Long Pete and especially Esmine. She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving the child alone to her fate.
It was time to escape, whatever the risks.
*****
The Giants, In the Forest
Eoman and Karrakan stood side-by-side, pondering the snow at their feet.
“More blighted Svarren.”
“All headed the same direction, too.”
“You know what that means.”
“One o’ their cursed meet-ups, at the very least.”
“Or war, in the worst case.”
“Should we follow ‘em?”
Eoman pulled at his beard, torn. “I don’t want to lose Mardine’s killers…”
“But?”
“You know as well as I: when Svarren gather, it bodes ill for the rest of us.”
Karrakan nodded. “What to do, what to do?”
Eoman exhaled vigorously, as if he’d come to a decision.
Karrakan raised an eyebrow at him. “Well?”
“Spoor’s fresh. I reckon if we hurry, we can catch a straggler or two. Find out what they’re after.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
The king of the giants shrugged. “But let’s mark this place, so we know where we were when we left off.”
Karrakan waved his right hand over his head and said “Done!”
It was Eoman’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “How so?”
“Trust me, old friend. I’ll know the place,” Karrakan laughed.
His king grumbled. “Let’s just find these Svarren bastards and get it over with. I’ll not have Mardine’s spirit haunting me for failing to avenge her death.”
Just as the two giants
veered off their previous path and onto the Svarren trail, the snow began falling again.
“Going to be an especially cold winter, this.”
Eoman was silent. He’d seen so many winters, one was the same as another in his mind. It was a harsh time of year, if occasionally beautiful. This winter, however, would not be beautiful if Eoman had his way.
As they trudged along, Karrakan sent his will-o-wisps out into trees a good fifty strides on either side of the Svarren track. “How many Long Teeth in this pack, you reckon?”
Eoman stopped, stretched his back for a moment. “How many? Too many and not enough.”
It was an old giant saying used only against enemies. It meant too many for one giant to handle and not enough to keep him employed in the happy business of killing them.
“Too many and not enough,” Karrakan agreed.
“When’s the last time you saw Beesmarch?” Eoman asked unexpectedly.
“Hmmm,” Karrakan replied. “Can’t say, really. A ten-year, perhaps? You thinking of inviting him along?”
“Aye,” said Eoman. “If I can find him. Can’t have enough strong hands if it comes to fighting.”
“The Svarren?”
“Or the humans.”
Karrakan shook his head. “Still…Beesmarch? He’s a right grumpy old bastard.”
“I’m not looking for charming.”
The two giants continued in silence a while, and then Karrakan said “Have you thought about what happens if our actions touch off a war with men?”
“It’s always been a war,” Eoman responded. “We’d just bring it into the open.”
“But suppose, while we’re at it, the Svarren come after our goodwives?”
Eoman stopped in his tracks and fixed his friend with his most gruff expression. “I’m killing the scum that butchered Mardine, and that’s as far as I’m willing to think about it.”
Karrakan shrugged. The future had a funny way of playing out differently than anyone planned or foresaw.
*****
Vykers, Under the Castle
Vykers stared at the footprints. He recognized them…and he didn’t. Why this was so bothered him more than the footprints themselves. In the past year, he’d been having more and more experiences like this. He wondered if he wasn’t going mad. Then he figured it didn’t matter. A mad Vykers wouldn’t behave much differently from a sane.
He’d had a particular goal in sneaking into Her Majesty’s castle, but his curiosity got the better of him, and he decided to follow the strange prints. Best to find out who or what else was lurking in these tunnels. And the Reaper was always looking for an excuse for violence.
He trudged up a new tunnel, not caring overmuch if anyone heard him. As it turned out, he was the one who heard things. The passageway was alive with whispers, punctuated every so often by music, by banging, or by laughter or tears. Little gusts of air from his left or right told him there were cracks in the walls on either side, through which sound, scents and perhaps even light might issue from the rooms beyond. Despite the darkness, Vykers was able to find one of the cracks with relative ease – and discovered it was not a crack, but a carefully carved depression, specifically designed to accommodate an ear or eye. Not wanting to expose his own eye to potential injury, he thrust a finger into the space and felt a small hole at its center, which immediately stopped the flow of air into his face. He lifted his finger, and the air resumed. As no light came through the hole with it, Vykers concluded the room or hallway beyond was as dark as the tunnel in which he stood. He wondered how many other such holes he might find and whether the great Alheria knew of their existence. It was hard to imagine she did not.
Vykers moved on. In time, he came to another junction that offered several more tunnels. He chose one at random and continued his journey, fascinated by the complexity of this heretofore unseen world. Forget the holes, was Alheria aware of these tunnels? As a goddess, how could she not be? But then, why did she allow them to exist? How did they serve her ends?
The bitch is too crafty to let something like this escape her attention, Vykers thought.
As he continued onwards, he gradually became aware of a mewling sound somewhere in the darkness before him. Naturally, he drew his knife. The path ahead took an unexpected turn to the Reaper’s right, and he sensed that the source of the mewling was just around the corner. Another man – man? – might have exercised more caution, but Vykers slid to the far corner and held his knife before him, ready to defend himself or attack as the occasion demanded. Worldly as he was, he was unprepared for what he found.
Despite the tunnel’s near-obsidian gloom, the Reaper made out a small, misshapen mass huddled against the closer wall, its face against the stones. Evidently, it hadn’t heard Igraine’s movements over its own weeping, for it continued unabated.
“Hold,” Igraine said quietly but firmly.
The thing looked up and froze, petrified by the unforeseen intrusion.
Goblin, Vykers thought. And then, Mahnus’ balls! How do I know that?
“Please, mistress, do not kill me!” the creature wailed.
Mistress? Ah. Of course. “How is it you speak the Queen’s tongue?” Igraine demanded.
The goblin glanced behind Igraine and then back behind itself as if to make certain no one else was coming. “I live with it, day and night, night and day.” It had even acquired the Queen’s accent.
Suddenly, Vykers understood the origin of the tunnel’s peep holes. “So, you spy on these castle folk, do you?”
“Castle folk?” the goblin echoed, tilting his head in bemusement. “Are my people not castle folk? Do we not live in the castle?”
Out of habit, Vykers reached up to scratch his beard and felt only soft, smooth skin. He grunted in irritation. “Why’s Her Majesty allow goblins to live in her walls?”
“An…arrangement…was reached long ago, before I was born.”
Igraine stepped closer and the goblin flinched.
“Please don’t kill me!”
It was almost funny how many times the Reaper had heard those words throughout his life. The goblin’s pleas meant nothing to him. Still, why hadn’t the little fellow tried to hail his own kind or attempted to run away? And why had he been weeping? “What are you doin’ here, anyway?” Igraine asked.
The goblin wiped his nose with a forearm. “As I said, mistress, I live here.” He then moaned miserably before adding, “For now.”
Vykers ignored that last part. “Where’s this tunnel go?”
“The answer’s rather involved, I’m afraid,” the goblin giggled nervously. Seeing that Igraine did not share his mirth, he quickly continued, “Many places, many junctions, many more tunnels.”
“And how many more o’ your kind are in here with us?”
The goblin hemmed and hawed, until Igraine pointed her dagger directly at the creature’s eye.
“Five thousand – four thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine.” That was an oddly precise answer, and Vykers’ confusion must have shown on Igraine’s face, for the goblin went on, “It would be five thousand, but, as you can see, one of us – me, actually – is with you.”
“Why five thousand?” Igraine asked. Before the goblin could even begin to respond, she cut him off. “Never mind: I don’t care. Why aren’t you tryin’ to escape from me?”
The creature’s face pulled into a frown, and his eyes seemed to tear up again. He looked down in the darkness at his feet. “Because I am lame,” he confessed. “How far would I get? Not very, I’ll wager.”
“But you were cryin’ before I came upon you,” Igraine pointed out.
“Again, because I am lame. My kin ridicule me mercilessly for it, and I have had enough. They act as if mobility is all that matters, as if my brain is of no value to the clan.”
Vykers could see the goblin was intelligent, no question. In fact, he was rather stunned by this revelation. Perhaps, he could make use of the creature. “You got a name?” Igraine asked.
<
br /> “Trrlkktkk.”
“Turr…”
“Trrlkktkk.”
“I’m gonna call you ‘Turley.”
“I would rather that you…”
“So, Turley, you and me are gonna be workin’ together for a while. You try anything, you won’t have to worry about bein’ lame anymore. Understood?”
Turley stepped away from the wall, into the middle of the corridor, and spread his hands wide. “Understood. And what may I call you, mistress?”
Suddenly, Vykers couldn’t remember his new name and, not wanting to look a fool, he simply sputtered, “Mistress’ll be fine.”
“Mistress,” Turley repeated. “And what, mistress, will we be doing?”
“An alchemist told me there’s a man in the castle keeps the keys to all Her Majesty’s warehouses. I wanna get my hands on those keys.”
“Can’t you just break in to her warehouses?”
Igraine sneered at her new companion. “Anything worth stealin’s guarded by magic wards. I need a key that cuts through all of that.”
“May I ask…?”
“No,” Igraine answered sharply. “Now, do you know where this fella can be found or don’t you?”
Turley stared back, a pained expression on his face.
*****
The False Reaper & Omeyo, In Camp
The Pretender, as Omeyo had come to think of his master – the man who would usurp Tarmun Vykers’ name – was strangely subdued. He’d left the celebrations at his army’s communal fire and gone off to his tent, taking his general with him. Once inside, he’d retreated to his chair, where he sat, brooding, as he stared into a candle flame.
“May I be of service in some way, Master?” Omeyo asked. Better to act before being acted upon.
“How many villages have we sacked thus far?” the Pretender asked without looking away from his candle.
Of course he knew the answer. What could Omeyo possibly add? Almost, he said “Just three,” but he knew that ‘just’ would see him whipped. Under the Pretender’s rule, as under the End’s, any news had to be couched in the most glowing of terms. If His Magnificence took a shit, it was incumbent upon all and sundry to ooh-and-ah, as if that shit were a gift from the gods, a work of unsurpassed beauty and genius. “Three!” Omeyo offered, doing his best to sound impressed by the accomplishment.
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