Reaper's Awakening

by Jacob Peppers

  Cameron felt the stir of dread in his stomach. Something was wrong. Someone in one of the balconies screamed, but Cameron didn’t so much as glance in that direction. He rushed to Mira, knocking several unlucky dancers out of the way. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she said as he helped her to her feet, “What’s happening?”

  “Nothing good.” He glanced around the room, but Nicks was nowhere in sight, lost among the crowd of frightened nobles. He heard the king shouting that they must find his daughter. To the guard’s credit, Clause ignored him, grabbing him under the arms and dragging him through the opening that led to the royal passage while the other guard followed, obviously scared and uncertain. Look after him, Clause, Cameron thought, then his head snapped around as a terrible wail of agony rose from somewhere in the ballroom.

  “Cameron?” Mira asked beside him, “What was that?”

  He looked back to where he’d last seen Marek. “Come on,” he said, turning to her, “we’ve got to—” his words were drowned out as another scream—a man’s this time—echoed in the ballroom. Cameron’s gaze snapped in the direction of the scream, but the milling press of people blocked anything from his view. Damnit, what’s happening here? Another scream, then another, until there was a chorus of them, rising up as if from the deepest, darkest abyss of the Pit itself.

  “No,” he said, more to himself than to Mira, “he doesn’t get to escape.” He grabbed her arm and began working his way through the crowd, knocking aside panicked noblemen and women. He finally cleared the crowd and was heading toward the door he thought Marek must have used when he froze, staring in shock.

  The dozens of white-clad servants had discarded their trays and serving dishes and held blades—several of which were coated in blood. They’d surrounded the crowd, neither moving nor speaking, and he knew them at once by the strangeness of the way they stood, the way they held their blades like a child might hold a favored doll, dangling from nearly limp hands. “Divines help us,” he said, “Bloodless.”

  ”All of them?” Mira said, “but … how? Even the stories said there were only a few … ten … ten at the most.”

  Cameron glanced around at the dozens of nightmare creatures surrounding the crowd then he pushed Memory behind him and raised his father’s obsidian sword. “The stories were wrong.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Cameron’s eyes shot one way then the other as he tried to look in every direction at once. For the moment, however, the Bloodless had went completely still, and he was struck again by how much they reminded him of puppets in some mummer’s show, puppets dangling limply on their strings, waiting for someone to come along and pick them up. Waiting on someone to make them dance.

  Then, as if at some silent command, their heads snapped up as one, their dark gray eyes—eyes that reminded him of nothing so much as the way the cloud darkened before an especially bad storm—seemed to come into focus, and, in unison, they each began to walk forward in those great lurching strides, raising their blades above their heads.

  “What do we do?” Memory said at his side, and he could hear the fear in her voice.

  We die, he thought, watching them come. There were too many—a quarter of those in the ballroom would have been too many. “Stay behind me,” he said, “Get ready to run.”

  “What? I’m not leaving you.”

  “You have to.”

  She said something else then, but the nearest Bloodless was upon him, and her words were lost in the ring of steel on obsidian as he parried first one blow then another. He knocked the creature’s sword wide on the third strike and slammed his foot into its stomach. It hurtled backward, landing on the ground, and Cameron shifted, noticing movement on his side. He turned and saw Mira there, a blade in each hand.

  “Damnit,” he said, having to nearly yell to be heard over the screams that were now echoing in the chamber as the creatures went about their bloody work, “I told you to run.”

  “I’m not leaving you,” she yelled back, and despite his anger at her refusal to save herself, he looked at her, standing in her dress, her hair falling about her shoulders, her blades in her hands, and thought that he had never seen something so beautiful. He thought, then, that if the Divines were real—a thing he was less and less sure of—then they were bastards, one and all. Why else allow him to find her only to have to watch her die?

  But she lives yet, a familiar voice said, and it seemed to speak directly into his ear. He spun but found that no one was there.

  She lives, the voice said again, but they do not. They are dead things; they need only realize it. You need only remind them.

  Abruptly, Cameron remembered what had happened with the Bloodless who’d gone after the girl earlier, remembered what he’d done. He held his hand out, tried to remember how it had felt, tried to remember what he had felt. At first, nothing happened, and he watched as the Bloodless he’d knocked down rose and started forward once more with the deceptively fast strides he’d come to know. The temptation to drop his hand, to fight the creature sword to sword, nearly overcame him, but he knew that—should this one fall—there would be another to take its place. And another, and another, until finally he was overcome. And Mira, a desperate part of his mind thought, they’ll kill her too.

  No. It wasn’t enough to kill one or two, he had to kill all of them. They are dead things; they need only realize it. No, not kill them. He needed to remind them. He focused, closing his eyes, trying to visualize them the way he had in the house of Mira’s niece. At first, nothing, then he did see them, saw the swirling storm cloud of gray smoke that made up the essence of the creatures. He reached for it, reached for all of it, but it was as if he was a man trying to lift the corner of a house, trying to carry an impossible load.

  His face broke out into a sweat, and he gritted his teeth, calling to that power, demanding it, expecting at any second to feel the metal kiss of the Bloodless’s blade on his neck. Then, slowly, the power answered, and it was as if he could see all of the essences of the Bloodless in the room, dozens of them, drifting toward him. The creatures used what will they had against him, clutching at what little life they still possessed with something like desperation. Cameron pulled harder, crumpling to one knee from the strain of it, feeling as if his own soul was being ripped from his body. Still, he fought on and, inch by inch, the swirling mist that was the life of the Bloodless drew closer.

  He did not let his hand drop, did not let his concentration falter. Wait, the voice inside of his head said, sounding desperate now, this is not the way. Not onto yourself—do not bring the taint upon yourself.

  Cameron heard the voice, heard the pleading in its tone. But if there was another way to save her, he did not know it, so instead he doubled his efforts, his body shaking, his muscles screaming with strain as if he was being torn apart from the inside. His heart thundered an unsteady rhythm in his chest, and his breath came in ragged gasps and wheezes. Not like this, the voice said, Cameron. You’ll kill yourself.

  But she’ll live, he thought and knew that it was enough, that it would have to be enough. With a roar that echoed and rose over the screams and cries in the chamber, he snapped his fist closed and jerked it back to himself. The power came, streaming now, waving lines of dark gray smoke spearing him, and he cried out, his back arching, his arms stretched out to his sides as the force slammed into him, buffeted him. It’s too much, he thought, Pit, but it’s too much. Then all thoughts left him, and he collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

  He came awake in a rage greater than anything he’d ever known. It was a rage against all living things, a yearning to see the life pulled out of them, to watch them suffer and die and, finally, be still. It was an anger that wanted to rip all the color from the world, to watch it all fade into the lifeless gray of rot and death to which all things came in the end. A woman knelt in front of him, the Bloodless’s blade caught in an X made by her knives. She’d fallen to one knee under the force of the blow and, in an
other instant, the Bloodless crumpled to the ground in a lifeless heap, a puppet whose strings had been cut.

  The woman turned, touching his shoulder, and his hand lashed out, grabbing his sword from where it had fallen. In an instant, the black obsidian blade was against her throat. “C-Cameron,” the woman said, and some small part of him, a part buried beneath a lust for blood and death, to make others feel it the way he did, to know it the way he did, thought that something about this breather was familiar. That, in some way, he knew her.

  “It’s me,” the woman said, a thin trickle of blood winding its way down her neck from the blade’s soft kiss. “It’s Mira. Divines help us, Cameron … your eyes.”

  Something about the name sounded familiar, too, and he cocked his head to the side, trying to understand. The unending hunger whispered to him, demanded blood, but something stayed his hand. Then a voice, alien and strange, rose out of the gray mist covering his thoughts. It is the taint, Cameron. Do not let it take you. You can beat it. It has been done before.

  Cameron bared his teeth in a silent snarl, willing the voice away. The woman lived, and oh how he hungered to take that life, to make her as dead as he, oh, how he hated her for living. “No.” Another voice, rising out of the gray, and one that he knew well. It was his own. In that denial, that refusal, there was strength, and he felt something stir within the gray, felt it pushing against it.

  Memory watched, horrified, as Cameron’s eyes shifted and swirled a smoky gray so like that of the Bloodless—Not like, she thought, the same. His eyes are the same. There was no compassion in those eyes, no life, only roiling storm clouds, nothing left of the man she knew. She watched him cock his head unnaturally and dared not move for the feel of the blade at her throat. She heard the “No,” escape his gritted teeth, and thought—though she might have imagined it—she saw something of the Harvester flash in those eyes.

  “Cameron,” she gasped, “please. I need you.”

  His face twisted and writhed, and she reached a hand up, slowly, and placed it on his. At her touch, his head shot back, though the blade at her throat did not move. She was sure she was about to die then he lowered his head, slowly, and it was the familiar hazel eyes staring back at her. “Mira?” He asked, confusion sweeping over his face as he lowered his blade, “I … I don’t understand.”

  She lunged at him then, her fear and terror forgotten as she embraced him. He hugged her back, tightly, “I thought I lost you,” she said, tears streaming down her face.

  “For a moment,” he said, the memory of those alien thoughts drifting away like a dream, “I think you did.”

  “But I don’t understand,” she said, finally releasing him and glancing around at the fallen Bloodless, “What happened to you? And what did you do to them?”

  He took in the still forms lying about the ballroom, at the noblemen and women watching him with shocked, horrified eyes, then shrugged. “I’m a Harvester.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Clause ran through the castle’s corridors, the king’s arm in one hand, his sword in the other. The old wound in his leg complained with each step, but he ignored it just as he had for the last twenty years, dragging the king onward. He could hear Jared’s panicked breathing behind him and felt a moment of something like shame when he realized that his own breath was rasping in his throat though—unlike the younger guardsman—his problem wasn’t fear so much as it was being too damned old.

  There were times—fewer with each year—that he felt as strong, as confident, as he had in his twenties. Times when he could almost convince himself that he was still that strutting, cocksure swordsman who was whispered about in the streets, who even the city’s finest duelists didn’t dare challenge. That man could have run up and down the royal corridor a dozen times, carrying the king and even poor, terrified Jared on his back and not broken a sweat.

  But then there were other times, most times, if he was being honest with himself, where the years lay heavy on him, and it seemed to him that the Divines strapped an invisible weight onto a man with each season that passed. Another weight, then another until he could barely stand under the pressure of it. A problem his younger self had never considered, nor would he have cared if he had. But, then, to the Pit with that younger man. He’d been an ass anyway.

  “Clause, please,” the king panted beside him, “My daughter. We have to find Leandria.”

  “I’ll find her, Majesty,” he said—and Divines be damned was he wheezing?—” but we must get you safe first.” Speaking of daughters, he wondered how his own, Valerie, was doing. How long had it been now? A year? Two? Yes, two he was sure of it. Two years since he’d held his grandsons on his knee, two years since he’d bucked and played horsey and listened to their shouts of joy and for what? He’d told himself he was doing a service, making a sacrifice, but was that really true? If he didn’t protect the king, someone else would, after all. It wasn’t as if any of the guards in the city wouldn’t give their left hands for such a posting, and he was pretty damn sure those bastards wouldn’t be getting ready to pass out after a little run.

  Why, then? Was it vanity? His wife, Rachel, gone these five long years had certainly thought so and maybe there was a little of that but he thought no more than a little. He’d found that there were few things as good at clearing vanity as time. Proud of your beautiful hair? In time, it would turn to gray if you were lucky and fall out if you weren’t. Proud of the strength of your sword arm? How about when the tremors of age, came? Some days, it was all Clause to do to fasten the innumerable buttons on his cursed uniform. Youth was jogging five miles and smiling gallantly at the end of it. Age, he’d found, was realizing that there wasn’t anything at the other end of that job worth getting your ass out of bed for. Then why?

  He glanced behind him, making sure Jared was still following then pushed on, his breath sounding like the bellows of some maniac blacksmith. Fear, he supposed. Yes, that was it. Fear that without his responsibilities, without his duties, he’d have nothing left. Nothing but to sit around and miss his wife, to lie in bed and remember a time when it hadn’t seemed so huge, so empty.

  But there is something. Tam and Phillum, your grandsons. And Valerie too—you’ve had your differences, sure, but what family hasn’t? Fences can be mended, after all, and if there is any joy in being old, it’s to be found in family. And, by the way, why has it taken an attempt on the king’s life and a never ending run through this Divine’s cursed hallway to make you realize it?

  He thought of one of his wife’s favorite sayings then and, despite his exhaustion, a smile crept onto his face. There’s no fool like an old fool, she’d often said, and Pit take it if she wasn’t right. He promised himself that after all of this mess was sorted out, he was going to turn in his resignation to the king—his Majesty would no doubt breathe a sigh of relief at that. Another year or so, and his Majesty would have to carry his bodyguard around on his back.

  He rounded a corner and his bad leg nearly buckled as he came to an abrupt stop, eyeing the five figures in the hallway in front of him. “Master,” the one in front said, bowing mockingly, “It’s good to see you.”

  “Marek.” Clause said, pushing the king behind him. He fell into a ready stance and didn’t quite manage to keep a wince of pain from his face as his bad leg threatened to stiffen up on him. “I wish that I could say the same.”

  Marek glanced at his leg, still smiling, “The wound bothers you, doesn’t it?”

  Clause grunted, “Something’s always bothering me, I find. The old make do.”

  Marek nodded, “I’m sure. You know, Master, there was a time when my only dream was to make you proud and then, as I grew older, I wanted only to beat you. And now … well, dreams have a way of growing, don’t they?”

  “As do fools, the Divines help us.”

  Marek’s smile vanished at that, and he motioned forward. “Kill him,” he said, “and the other. Take the king.”

  Clause watched as the man—no, not a m
an, with that waxy skin, those dead eyes—stepped forward, raising its blade. Bloodless. He’d heard rumors, of course, but he’d never believed them. No fool like an old fool. He turned to Jared, “Get his Majesty out of here. I’ll give you what time I can.”

  Jared only stared at the Bloodless, his young face—too young, Divines why did I trust him to guard the king?—twisted in terror. “Jared,” he snapped, and the young man finally turned to him, though the fear did not leave his too-wide gaze. “Get him out of here. Now.”

  Motion out of the corner of his eye, and he turned, his sword flashing up before his thoughts processed what was happening, his body remembering the countless hours, countless years of training. The creature was fast, but there was still some small bit left of the man he’d once been, and his third counter-stroke took its head from its shoulders, and it crumpled to the ground.

  He glanced at Marek and saw that the man was frowning in truth now. “Is that all?” Clause asked, toeing the corpse, “I would have expected more.”

  Marek growled and spat, “I’ll give you one last chance, old man. Give the king to me, and I’ll let you live. No one need ever know what happened.”

  Clause rolled his shoulders, where a cramp was threatening to set in. “If you want him, come and claim hi—” he cut off in a gasp as a terrible force struck him in the back. He stumbled, staring down in shock at the length of steel protruding from his chest, at the blood, his blood pouring down the front of his tunic. He turned and saw the boy, Jared, staring at him with wide eyes, his face pale and waxy, not so different than the Bloodless at all. “Wh—why?” He gasped as the strength left his legs, and he fell to his knees.

  The young man shook his head furiously, as if in denial, tears streaming down his face, “I don’t want to die. Not for him,” he said, gesturing at the king, “and not for you.”