Well, of course, he thought sourly. With utmost caution, he inched his way back to his companions. “They may be female, but those ain’t women,” he said. Again, Spirk moved to investigate, and again Long held him back. “I don’t think there’s any reason to go poking this wasp’s nest.”
“But they don’t feel dead,” Spirk replied.
“All the more reason to leave ‘em alone.”
“But what if the way out’s at the far end of this room?” Yendor cut in.
Long wanted to scream at him. “Don’t you think you’re hurt badly enough? The last thing we need is to tangle with some bizarre religious fanatics. If that’s what they are.” He took several deep breaths, thinking. “Here’s the thing: they’re all facin’ the door, which was locked, no? They look like they’re prayin’. Are they prayin’ the door will hold against some outside threat? We’re outside, which means…”
The two younger men turned towards the darkened plaza, leaving Long in sole support of Yendor.
“I think we better get outta here,” Spirk suggested.
A deep, thunderous boom sounded in the distance, a noise that was more felt in the breastbone that heard with the ears.
“Oh, do you?” Long snapped.
“It’s too bad we blew that door in, we coulda run inside and relocked it.”
Long cast a last glance at the supplicants. “Another bad idea.”
A second, more audible boom shook dust and cobwebs from the still invisible ceiling.
“Let’s go!” said Ron.
“Which way?”
“To the right, to the right!” Long commanded.
Everyone took ahold of Yendor and carried him down to his litter, then the younger men commenced pulling it in direction Long had indicated. The captain strode into the lead, waving his sword back and forth. Now, along with the booming noises, there were other, even less comforting sounds: creaking, skittering, and moaning.
“Sounds like we’ve already kicked the wasp’s nest to me,” Yendor shared.
The other three men said nothing.
As the group scrambled into the unexplored areas of the plaza, shapes began to materialize out of the gloom. The giant mosquito-like creatures floated into view, apparently at the head of a steady stream of their kind. Behind the group, Yendor was unhappy to discover that some of the praying dead were now no longer praying nor dead, but staggering their way in his direction.
“The wasps are coming,” he warned.
“Boys, we’re gonna have to run for it. Follow as fast as you can, and if it comes down to you or Yendor, drop the litter,” Long ordered.
Yendor wanted to object; he so dearly wanted to object, but he realized Long was right: you always cut the deadweight in a crisis.
The field of visibility bobbed up and down and wavered to and fro as the glowing objects in the hands of Long and Spirk were continually jostled in the sprint to safety, making the plaza look even more hellish than it had been in utter blackness. The peekaboo glimpses of flying creatures or mummified pursuers, added to the increasingly loud and frequent booming was almost more than any of the four could stand.
Long switched his sword to his left hand and kept his right on the wall, in case the group came to an intersection or dead-end without knowing it. It was the captain’s plan to dodge into the first opening that presented itself, whether or not it was wide enough to accommodate Yendor’s litter. Indeed, to Long’s mind, the narrower the opening, the better, as narrower was easier to defend.
“Too close!” cried Spirk, as he unleashed a blast of light. Shrieks and squeals filled the air, along with the stink of ozone.
“What was that?” Long asked.
“Bugs!” Spirk answered.
“Run faster! Run faster!” Yendor pitched in. “Those weird women are almost in my lap!”
And they were. Whatever they’d been doing when the captain first inspected them, however long they’d been there, they were moving now and with unmasked animus and minimal difficulty. One of them dove for Yendor’s litter and grabbed ahold of the old campaigner’s foot. He would have lashed out with the other, but that leg was broken.
“Get off me, you Mahnus-cursed bitch!” Yendor screamed, waving his one good arm at the creature’s head.
The break Long had been looking for appeared. Unfortunately, it was not to either side, but down, where an enormous crack split the floor. He could hurdle it. The younger men could hurdle it. But Yendor? Long risked a glance backwards and his heart practically leapt from his chest at the sheer number of supplicants in pursuit of him and his party. Worse than them, though, was the colossal shadow rapidly rising up behind them. Long made a decision.
“Jump, boys! Jump, if you want to keep living!”
The captain was not the specimen he’d once been – or imagined that he’d once been – but he cleared the gap with a couple of feet to spare, rolled onto his side, and hoped to watch Ron and Spirk follow his lead. When they hesitated, he jumped to his feet and yelled, “You’ve gotta jump and jump now!”
Spirk made as if to jump in unison with Ron, but just as Ron’s feet left the floor, the young Shaper pulled back. He sent out another blast of light at the approaching enemy and then turned all his attention at Yendor, who fairly cowered on his litter, stunned by the still-smoking ruin of the thing that had been crawling on him. Suddenly, the whole litter took flight and shot across the gap so rapidly that it knocked both Long and Ron to either side before bouncing and skidding to a stop. With a mighty yell, Spirk jumped the gap himself, throwing a final salvo of arcane energies at his pursuers.
The mosquitoes had been banished, the supplicants had been cowed. Only the growing shadow continued to approach.
“No time to stop and stare, boys. Grab that litter and run!”
And run they did. Only, Yendor could not forget how Long had been willing to abandon him to those creatures, necessary or not. He could not forget how it had been Spirk, the much-maligned Spirk, who’d risked his own life to save Yendor. As the group continued its pell-mell dash into the darkness, Yendor wondered which of his friends had been right.
*****
Arune, Vykers and Turley, In Lunessfor
She was aware; therefore, she was still alive. Of course she was. Vykers would hardly kill his own body. When Arune opened her eyes, salt crystals tumbled into them, making her tear up and squint in pain. She wanted to wipe the salt away, but her hands were pinioned to her sides. More than that, Arune realized, she was covered in salt, wrapped up in canvas or perhaps an old rug, and buried beneath even more salt. She couldn’t move, and she couldn’t shape. A weight suddenly landed on her chest, and, when her eyes finally cleared, she looked up into a pair of the most beautiful brown eyes she’d seen in ages – a beauty that was only slightly diminished by the hatred radiating from them.
“I am and ever will be the Reaper, and I thank you for that final lesson.”
Arune wanted to speak, found there was salt in her mouth, as well – a small quantity, a few grains perhaps, but enough make her tongue feel dry and sluggish. The young woman raised a hand above her head, and Arune knew that although she could not see it, there was a weapon there. “How…” she coughed out.
“How?” the woman echoed. “How what?” The executioner’s hand paused, dangling in the air like an accidental confession.
“How will you recover if you kill this body?”
Laughter. If Arune hadn’t been watching her assailant’s eyes, she might’ve taken the sound for joy.
“I can’t believe you’ve forgotten that Her Majesty has four more copies of me.”
“That is correct,” another, more-familiar voice called from somewhere off to the right. “I do have four more, and I’m planning to keep them.”
In an instant, the weight disappeared from Arune’s chest as her captor rose and backed away.
“Salt,” the Queen said. “Very clever. You’re getting quite canny in your old age, Vykers.”
The youn
ger woman said nothing, and Arune held her tongue, too. The staccato racket of footsteps approaching was the only sound in the warehouse. A shadow crossed Arune’s vision, and she turned her head slightly to see Her Majesty staring at the other woman.
“Oh, come off it!” she snapped. “I can bloody well see which of you is Vykers and which is the Shaper.”
“But…” the young woman faltered.
“But nothing. I’m a goddess. Do you think this salt business applies to me?”
Even in the winter, with a draft running through the warehouse, Arune was becoming uncomfortably warm. She couldn’t say anything, though, and risk reminding the Reaper of how helpless she was.
“What are you doing here?” Vykers asked.
Alheria leaned over Arune, regarding her the way one looks at something dead that’s washed up on the beach. She took her time in answering Vykers’ question, but eventually said, “You’ve been fairly screaming to get my attention – killing my warden, breaking into my warehouse, posting those bills all over town, and stealing my dagger. Did you really believe I wouldn’t connect these events to you?”
Vykers glared at the Queen in sullen silence.
“And speaking of my dagger,” Her Majesty gestured to the young woman’s still-raised fist, “I’ll take that back, if you don’t mind.”
“But I do mind,” the Reaper responded. “The End shoved it in my guts, not yours. By rights, it’s mine.”
Alheria scoffed at this comment. “You’d make too dangerous a combination, you and that weapon, which is why I had it locked in a vault.”
“Is that why you lied about my sword, too?”
This time, Vykers thought he saw the barest hint of surprise on the Queen’s face. “Oh, you saw that, did you? Well, you’re right again: that also is too powerful a weapon to be entrusted to you.”
“Because you say so? I hope all the other gods aren’t as arrogant as you.”
Alheria flashed a quick, cryptic smile. “I’ll make you a deal.”
Vykers watched her, wondering how fast Igraine could throw the dagger at the goddess’ chest and whether or not it would hit home.
“I’ll trade you that dagger for your old body.”
And that was when the Reaper understood the full extent of Her Majesty’s machinations. “You did this!” he cried aloud in Igraine’s voice. “You put me in here and Arune in my body!”
“And what if I did?” Alheria waved her hand dismissively. “I ordered you to leave Lunessfor, but I knew you would not. You’re a stubborn lout, Tarmun Vykers, as bad as Mahnus and only half as charming. I took your sword to disarm you. I took your body to cripple you. But I did not take your life. I’ll return your body for that dagger you’re clutching.”
The silence that followed had Arune half-convinced Vykers had left the warehouse. A black anxiety froze her bowels and twisted her stomach in knots. Surely, in his own body, Vykers would never respond in such a way.
Finally, the Reaper spoke. “What happens to her?”
“The Shaper? I’d put her in the body you’re currently occupying, of course.”
“I have a better idea,” Vykers said, to Arune’s terror. “Turley!” the Reaper called, “You can come out of the shadows now.”
*****
Aoife, the North
She should have known better. The End, or whatever he called himself now, would not be deterred by the loss of a few Svarren, or even a few hundred. He had his plans, as always, and one A’Shea – or Umaena – was not going to stop him. But…she could hector his army’s flanks, forcing him to continually readjust, slow down, and plan for her next attack. Hopefully, that would delay his progress – if progress was the word for it – until help arrived to put him down forever.
She wondered why Vykers hadn’t appeared. He was no people’s champion, whatever his recent history said to the contrary; he was drawn to bloodshed like some savage beast – a wolf, a mountain lion, an oursa. He would come, if he wasn’t already on his way.
Still, for added surety, she could lure him hither. She knew his feelings for her were stronger than her own for him. At least, that’s what she told herself. The very act of thinking on him seemed an accusatory finger pointed at Aoife’s breast. Fool! It seemed to say. You want him. “Nonsense!” she replied aloud. “He’s a just a weapon, and I need every weapon I can find to stop my brother.” But she was not convinced; her denials rang false.
Regardless of her motives, she was sure that the Reaper’s presence, his help, was necessary.
“Where,” she asked a snowy owl, “can the Reaper be found? Do any of your kin know?”
“I shall inquire,” the bird responded, before taking flight.
“Is there any news of the Reaper?” Aoife asked of the rabbits and mice.
“None here,” they told her, “But we shall search him out.”
“You ancients!” she called to the trees, “What have you heard of the Reaper of late?”
“He is not in the forest,” they said. “Of that we are certain.”
Not in the forest? Then in the town. “Where are the rats and the ravens?” Aoife queried the wind, and in time the rats and ravens appeared.
“Your will?” they said.
“Send word to your brothers and sisters in Lunessfor: I seek the Reaper.”
As the rats scurried off into their holes and crevices and the ravens took to the sky, the Umaena returned her attentions to her brother’s host. She would spring up on its far side, kill as many Svarren as she could, and then disappear before the End got close to her. She did not imagine that he’d ever be foolish enough to encamp near the greenwood again, but if he did…
She sent out tendrils of thought, like the nascent roots of a seedling, and found a copse of fir trees not far from the enemy’s left flank. There, she would build her next fort; there she would begin her next assault.
~ EIGHT ~
Vykers, Turley & Arune, In Lunessfor
“I don’t know,” Turley said hesitantly.
Igraine looked from Turley to Vykers and back. “Look,” said she, “you’ll be gettin’ a stronger body. One that’s not lame. You can’t go back to your people, and if you have to spend the rest o’ your life in the world of men, you might as well be comfortable.”
“Yes. I understand that,” the goblin hedged, “but…”
“It’s bein’ a woman, isn’t it?”
Turley fidgeted, gazed at his feet in embarrassment. “Yes.”
“It’s not so bad. Not near as bad as I figured it’d be.” Igraine paused, giving Turley a few moments to sit with the notion. Then, “So?”
The goblin closed his eyes as if in preparation for his own beheading and nodded.
Igraine smirked down at Vykers, turned to the Queen and said “Do it.”
With Igraine’s help, Vykers emerged from his salt cocoon, barely taking the time to dust himself off before leaping exultantly into the air and letting loose with a jubilant roar. He flexed his muscles, extended his claws, and bounced on the balls of his feet from left to right and back again, over and over, seemingly oblivious of the struggles of Turley in Igraine’s body or Arune in her new goblin form. When Vykers had contented himself that he had, in fact, been returned to his proper state, he looked over at Arune with an expression of surprise.
“I thought you’d have tried to run off.”
“To what purpose?” the goblin asked, in as miserable a voice as Vykers had ever heard from that body. “If there’s any fate worse than death, you may well have found it for me.”
Vykers was unmoved. “Good,” he said. “Though I still might kill you one day.”
“About my dagger…” Alheria interrupted.
Frightened to discover it was now on his person, Turley shrieked. Before the Queen could cross to the young woman and take it, Vykers vaulted the distance and ripped the invisible object from Igraine’s belt.
“Not so fast,” he chuckled. “I want my sword back, too.”
The warehouse seemed to grow instantly darker, and the temperature dropped precipitously. “You tax my patience, Reaper.”
Vykers removed the dagger from its sheath and held it out towards the Queen. And then he took a large step in her direction. “Is that a fact?” he sneered. “You’ve been fuckin’ with me for years, and I’m taxing your patience?”
Incredibly, Alheria retreated from Vykers’ unseen blade.
The Reaper squinted at her, suspicious. “There’s a reason you’re behavin’ yourself, your Majesty. What is it?”
The Queen’s eyebrows rose and her nostrils dilated ever so slightly. “Your game has improved, Reaper.”
Turley and Arune watched this interchange with interest and more than a little trepidation.
“Well, of course, I’ve got another war for you to fight, haven’t I?” the Queen said, “Or, rather, the same war.”
“What do you mean, the same war?”
Now, Her Majesty turned away, wandered a bit out of Vykers’ reach, as if she had all the time in the world. “Oh, it seems the End-of-All-Things isn’t quite as dead as we all supposed. And now he’s gallivanting around the north, butchering peasants left and right, and telling everyone he’s you!”
“And they call me coldblooded.”
“He’s terrible, isn’t he?”
“I was talkin’ about you,” Vykers growled. “And you can fight this one without me.”
The Queen stepped aside and watched the Reaper stalk right past her to the door of the warehouse. When he got there, he turned and called out to Igraine.
“Turley, you comin’?”
It took a moment for the goblin to realize the Reaper was talking to him. Lacking a better alternative, he wobbled and bounced across the space to Vykers’ side. Clearly, this being human business was trickier than it seemed.
When Vykers and his companion had left the warehouse, the Queen turned her attention to the discarded Shaper. “The crown has need of Shapers, even those as ridiculous-looking as you. Come!” she demanded, extending a hand to the goblin.
Arune, having even fewer options than Vykers’ goblin friend, did as she was bade, taking ahold of Her Majesty’s fingers and immediately vanishing from the warehouse.
Corpse Cold (Immortal Treachery Book 3) Page 25