Reaper's Awakening

by Jacob Peppers

  Silence then, a frozen moment, as if time itself had stopped to grieve. Then, a roar of such anger and loss echoed in the room that the soldiers all froze, turning to its source. Cameron followed their gazes and saw his father staring at his mother’s unmoving form, his face so twisted with grief and rage that it was painful to look upon.

  And then, without warning, he exploded forward, the smooth grace he’d displayed before not gone, only let loose, matched with a ferocity that sent half a dozen men stumbling back, wounded or dying, in the time it took the terrified child to suck in three sharp breaths.

  Then rough hands were grabbing the boy, jerking him from the ground, and he cried out in surprise and pain. He turned his head and saw that his captor was bleeding from a deep diagonal cut across his torso from where his father’s blade had raked him. The man bared his teeth in a bloody snarl, “Enough,” he said. “Drop the blade, Paren, or I’ll rip this little shit in half.”

  The sound of steel striking steel stopped, and his father stepped away from the men he’d been fighting. He turned, and the child, Cameron, cried out in fear at the wildness of his visage. The figure standing there was not his father at all, but some avatar of blood and death, his entire body coated with his work as if he’d bathed in it. But then the monster’s face grimaced in a look of hurt at the boy’s cry, jerking back as if struck. The part of Cameron that was an adult felt a deep shame, Divines, I didn’t know, Cameron thought, Father, I didn’t understand.

  The look of hurt left his father’s face, though it did not leave his eyes, and he glanced to where his wife lay dead, a crimson pool gathering beneath her. Then he looked back to the man holding his son, the blood-soaked blade dropping to hang at his side. “You will not hurt him?” He asked in a voice that seemed somehow empty, somehow dead.

  “You have my word,” the man said, and although the child could not see the man who was even now holding him out like a shield, he thought he heard a smile in his voice.

  Then, an expression of resignation on his face, his father let the black-bladed sword fall to the marbled floor and the soldiers, who’d backed up, watching him warily, finally eased forward.

  “No!” Cameron screamed, tearing at the man’s hands on his side. He grabbed a wrist, jerked it forward, his other hand reaching for its owner’s throat. A wave of shock and confusion ran through him as he saw, by the light of a flickering lantern, that the person he held was no man at all, but the woman, Memory. Her face was only inches from his, her eyes bulging wide as his grip tightened around her throat. With a start, he released his hold, and she stumbled back, coughing.

  “Divines, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

  She coughed again, rubbing at her throat and then her wrist, “I will be,” she said, her voice shaky, “I didn’t mean … I was just checking your dressings.”

  “It’s not your fault, it’s mine. What am I doing here? What happened?”

  She studied him for a moment as if expecting him to attack her then eased into a chair beside the bed. “You’re certain you’re okay? Myra is as skilled a healer as I’ve ever known, but you were badly wounded.”

  “I’m fine,” Cameron said, but he was unable to repress a grunt of pain as he sat up in the bed. “How long have I been here?”

  “Two days,” she said, eyeing him with something like wonder in her gaze, “Nicks and Blinks found you in the street, brought you here.”

  “Two days?” Cameron said, starting to rise, “I have to go. My frie—”

  She stopped him with a hand on his chest, pressing him firmly back down. “What you have to do is rest. Myra said she’s never seen a man as badly hurt as you were live, and she has seen many wounded men. In fact, she told me I was being silly for watching you, told me you’d certainly die in the first night if not the day after. She’s spent hours tending you, and I won’t have you kill yourself and waste all of her efforts. The poor woman’s barely slept at all the last two days.”

  “You don’t understand,” he said, “my friend—”

  “Cameron,” she said, her gaze flicking away from his face, “your friend … he’s dead. We sent people, as we did for you but … they didn’t make it out.”

  Cameron stared at her, wanting desperately to argue, to tell her she was wrong. But he knew the truth, and there was no denying it. He could not even remember his friend’s name—there was only one thing that would cause that. Someone had given him the Rites of Sanctification. “Divines no,” he said, slumping back on the bed, suddenly tired and heartsick beyond belief. “It’s my fault. Divines, I’ve been a damned fool, and he died for it.” A consuming rage swept through him, demanding blood, demanding revenge, “I’ll kill them, all of them,” he said, and something in his voice made her recoil.

  He rose again, this time jerking unsteadily to his feet, “Where’s my sword?”

  “Please, wait,” she said, grabbing him by the shoulder and forcing him to look at her, “please. There’s something I need to show you, first.”

  He hesitated, anger and gratitude warring inside him, but when she draped his arm over her shoulders, he found that he did not stop her, found that he didn’t want to. It felt good to touch someone that wasn’t trying to kill him. As she helped him toward the draped cloth that served as the small cavern’s door, he noticed the smell of her, a faint smell of something—flowers, maybe. It was an honest smell, a good one. He saw, on a small stand by the door, that a vase stood full of dead flowers, their stems twisted and bent, the petals darkened and shrunk with rot. “Looks like it’s time someone changed the roses,” he said through teeth gritted at the pain each step caused.

  She glanced at them, “It’s strange. Myra insisted on the flowers—something about them being good luck—but she says they keep dying no matter how many times she or one of the girls replaces them. Something about the air maybe.” She shrugged, and all thoughts of the vase vanished as Cameron felt the warmth of her against him.

  She looked up at him and, for a moment, their eyes met, then she looked away and although he couldn’t be sure in the poor light, he thought she’d blushed. She led him through the opening, and he saw his sword and its scabbard propped against the wall. He reached out and grabbed it, feeling stronger as soon as it was in his grip. He turned and saw her watching him, a look of worried disapproval on her face but she led him through the opening without a word.

  They walked on in silence, and she guided him through deserted tunnels and, finally, out into the city’s dark streets. “Not smart, going out, even if it is night,” he said.

  “No,” she said, “but you need to see this. You need to understand.”

  She led him down an alley and, despite that he knew the city and its people surrounded them, going about their lives as they always did, they saw no one, and Cameron was possessed of the feeling—not an unwelcome one—that they were the only two people in the world.

  As they walked, Cameron thought of the wounds he’d taken and, although each step was painful, he found himself surprised that he was able to move at all, to breathe at all, as far as that went. He’d always been a fast healer, but he’d never been this fast. “Your Myra must be some healer.”

  “She is,” Memory answered, leading him to the alley’s mouth. “Okay,” she said, “We’re here.”

  He looked around at the empty alley, “Wha—”

  “Shh,” she said, her voice low, almost reverent as she pointed a finger, “There.”

  Cameron looked to where she’d indicated and saw a small house. He looked through its window and saw that it was lit on the inside by what appeared to be the sputtering orange glow of a candle. “Alright … so why are we—”

  “Just wait.”

  Time passed. He wasn’t sure how much, for the world seemed wrapped in some eternal slumber, only the two of them awake, and he could no more track the time than he could in a dream. After a while, a small girl of maybe five or six could be seen through the window, and he felt Memory tense beside him.

&nbs
p; The girl squealed in delight as a man chased her around the small room, a grin on his own face despite the fact that he somehow managed to continually trip over his own feet. Cameron and Memory watched, in silence, until the man scooped the laughing girl up and hugged her, carrying her out of their view. “That is why, Cameron,” she said, and he could hear the tears in her voice. She turned to him, her eyes sparkling, “It can’t be about hate.”

  He hesitated, looking in her eyes, seeing the tracks the tears made down her cheeks, and he thought she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. But not a thing you deserve, a voice in his head whispered, They killed him. He’s dead because he was your friend. It’s your fault. “You’re wrong,” he said finally, “hate is the only thing keeping me standing.”

  He turned away, and she grabbed his arm, “Please. You can barely walk, don’t you think I can see that? Give it one more night, that’s all I ask. Myra will look at you again—at least let her change your bandages.”

  He hesitated, studying her face in the moonlight, still feeling the warmth from where she’d pressed against him while they’d walked. But then that voice spoke again. You killed him. You did this. “No,” he said finally, shaking his head, “Thanks for all your help. But they die tonight.”

  She shook her head frustrated, “If you go out like this, you’ll die tonight. Damnit, look at yourself.”

  He glanced at himself, at the bandages on his neck, chest, and arms, then met her gaze for a moment before turning and starting away.

  “Falen.”

  He turned back. “What?”

  “Your friend’s name,” she said, in a low voice filled with sadness, “We keep records. Of any of those who help us. His name was Falen.”

  He stared at her, shocked. Of course. Of course, Falen had known her. “Thank you,” he said, his voice coming in a whisper, his vision growing blurry as if to match her own teary eyes. “Good luck with your rebellion, Memory.” Then he turned and walked into the night, unaware that he gripped his sword’s handle so tightly that his knuckles were white.

  Memory watched him go, wanting to call after him but knowing it would do no good. “And you yours,” she whispered, her heart heavy in her chest.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  A short time later, Cameron stood outside the gate of the Harvester grounds, his sword free and held at his side, the beast of rage roaring inside of him, demanding blood, his temples throbbing at its call. Falen, he thought. I will not fail you.

  The guards noticed him as he stepped out of the nearby alleyway, and their hands went to the handles of their swords as they noted his drawn weapon. “Stop right there!” One of them shouted, peering into the darkness, “Who is that?”

  Cameron stepped into the light of the gate’s lanterns, “My name is Cameron Shale, and I’ve come for Marek.”

  “It can’t be—” One of the guards whispered, but his companion held up a hand to silence him, drawing his blade.

  “Cameron Shale,” he called in a voice well-practiced at demanding obedience, “By order of the Church you’re to be taken into custody for traitorous acts against the city and its people.”

  Cameron bared his teeth, “Come and take me then.”

  The second man drew his own blade, and they started toward him, their steps uncertain. He stood still, waiting for them. They grew more confident at the sight of his stillness, coming forward with more speed. They were fast, well-trained. Men who had spent years honing their craft in practice bouts designed to keep their skills sharp. But Cameron hadn’t been training for years—he’d been training for a lifetime and not in well-drawn circles with padded weapons. For him, there’d been no observers to call a touch, to decide the winner. In his world, the only winner was the one still breathing when the work was done.

  The first came at him with a diagonal slash, his feet spread wide in a common swordsman’s stance. His form was nearly perfect. Nearly. The stance was a touch too wide and, for a moment, his upper body was at an angle to the rest of him, reducing the range of his attack and putting him slightly off balance. A small error, one that a Guard Commander, responsible for the training of dozens of men at once, would overlook, the kind of error a man could usually get away with. Cameron deflected the man’s blade lightly with his own, little more than a touch really, and slid into his guard. His opponent tried to retreat, but the leg was stretched too far, costing him a precious second, and Cameron kicked him hard in the side of the knee. There was a loud pop and the guardsman screamed in pain as his leg gave way beneath him, and he crumpled.

  To his credit, the man’s companion didn’t hesitate, and Cameron caught a glimpse of him from the corner of his eye as he charged. He dropped to a knee, narrowly avoiding the man’s sword, and slid beneath the man’s attack, bringing the butt of his sword’s handle into the man’s stomach. The air left him in a whoosh, and the man stumbled backward, doubled over and only just managing to keep his feet.

  He was still recovering when Cameron rapped him a hard blow on the back of the head with his blade’s handle. The man crumpled soundlessly to the cobbled street, and Cameron limped through the gate, not sparing either of the men a second glance.

  Despite the confusion and shouts of surprise as Cameron came through the gate, there were at least a dozen Harvesters already armed and waiting, forming a semi-circle between him and Marek’s office. Men and women he’d known for years, many since childhood. Maybe not any that he would have called friends, but they’d got along well enough, though you couldn’t tell it now. They stared at him, their weapons bared, many of their lips pulled back from their teeth in anticipation.

  He noticed a familiar figure among those standing there, “Amille,” he said. “Any wo—” he cut off as a wave of dizziness swept over him, and he only just managed to keep his feet. “Any word on Kate?”

  “Don’t speak her name you fucking traitor,” she hissed, leveling her sword at him. He noticed, as she did, that her whole body was taken by minute trembles, and her eyes were sunken, her cheeks hollow. The results of holding another’s essence for too long.

  A sudden, unbearable exhaustion settled on Cameron then and an unfamiliar feeling welled up in him. It took him a moment to realize what it was, so uncommon, so alien it was to the life he knew. Pity. A great unspeakable pity not just for the trembling, cadaver-like woman standing before him, but for all of the men and women who were even now spreading out around him in a circle, longing for his blood, his death.

  Men and women who were taken as children, weaned on violence and apathy. A dog, even a good one, will grow mean and cruel if mistreated enough, and men were no different. They were killers all. Men and women incapable of empathy, defending their own actions, protecting their own consciences with a shield crafted from abstractions of “service” and “self-sacrifice for the greater good.” It was a shield crafted of wind, standing for nothing, meaning nothing, hollow and empty. What little of it there was rotting and ill to the touch and yet they held it up in their own defense even as they bathed in the blood of their people. He looked at them with sadness and pity but no judgment, for was he not one of them? He found that, for them, at least, he felt no anger, no rage. He felt only empty, a great, growing emptiness that threatened to sweep him away. And maybe that would be best, maybe he would let it. There was only the one thing to do first.

  “I’ve come for Marek,” he said, taking them all in with his eyes, “that’s all. I understand why you feel you need to do what you do. I felt the same until yesterday. But I was wrong. You’re wrong. If—”

  “Cameron.”

  Cameron turned at the voice to see the man who’d been like a father to him walking down the steps of his office. Looking at him, Cameron wondered how he could have ever been such a fool. The man’s swagger, which he’d taken for confidence, wasn’t confidence but arrogance, the hardness in his eyes not one born from a lifetime of sacrifice but of cruelty. How could I have been so blind? Then his thoughts turned to those he’d lost.
Falen. His mother. His father. “You killed them,” Cameron said, barely able to force the words out past the sudden rage boiling in him. “You’ll die for what you did.”

  Marek stared at him, took in his blood-soaked clothes, the wounds that were even now bleeding again from his exertions and shook his head. “Don’t be a fool, boy. Put the sticker down. Shit, as blooded up as you are, it’s a miracle you’re standing at all.”

  Cameron’s breath was coming in great gasps now, his vision blurring, from anger or his wounds or both. “You’re a murderer!”

  Marek stared at him for a moment and then laughed, a great booming laugh of scorn. “So I am, boy, and so are you. Just how many is it now, have went down to that blade, huh? Wake up, you damned fool.” He saw that Cameron wasn’t dropping his sword and his face grew red. “You ungrateful little shit!” He roared, “Yeah, we’re killers, it’s the fucking job. I took you in, gave you a purpose, and you say thanks by coming to kill me? To kill your brothers? Your sisters?”

  “No one else,” Cameron said, holding one hand to his head and staggering as a fresh wave of dizziness came over him. “Just you.”

  Marek withdrew his own blade from the sheathe at his side. “Last chance, boy. Put down the blade and tell us where Memory’s little rebellion is. Even now, it’s not too late.”

  Fight cold, Cameron, a voice in his head spoke, don’t give in to the anger. Fight cold, clear. But the voice was so very quiet, drowned out by the roaring fury in his head and, in answer, Cameron screamed, a sound of inexpressible rage and pain that caused even the hardened killers around him a moment’s pause, a moment’s wonder. Then he charged.

  He swung his blade in a two handed overhand stroke, everything in him demanding the man’s blood, demanding his death. Marek stepped to the side almost casually, pivoted on one foot and, with a snarl, drove his own sword through Cameron’s stomach. The length of steel erupted from his back in a shower of blood, and Cameron staggered as the big man pulled the blade free, his own sword falling from hands he could no longer feel. The big man stepped close, bringing his mouth to Cameron’s ear and whispered, almost intimately, “Your mother put up more of a fight. And don’t worry, boy. You’ll have company in the Pit. After all,” he said, smiling, “you found them for us didn’t you? Tonight, the rebellion ends.”