Reaper's Awakening

by Jacob Peppers

Clause stared at the man, somehow unable to make sense of his words, and as he fell to the side he didn’t so much as feel the blade slide out of his body. He tried to rise, but his limbs—having been in a state of quiet rebellion or years—decided to give it up as a bad job. You’re dying, he thought, that’s all. You’ve seen it enough to know. Ah Divines, but shouldn’t it hurt more? And then, before the darkness took him, Tam … Phillum … I guess we won’t play horse, after all. I’m sorry.

  Marek stared at the body of his old master lying in a pool of spreading blood, several expressions twisting on his face. Finally, he turned to the other guard. “Congratulations,” he said, “You’ve killed a legend.”

  The sword in the guard’s hands shook, “S-so … you’ll let me go?”

  Marek cocked his head, “Why would you think that?” He turned to the three remaining Bloodless. “Kill him and bring the king. And hurry—he’s supposed to be meeting us soon.”

  The guard’s begging quickly turned to screaming as the Bloodless began their work, but Marek continued down the hall, his mind already on other things.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  “How do we know Marek’s still here at all?” Memory asked, her breath coming in gasps as Cameron paused, studying the two hallways stretching out before them. His work had brought him to the castle on a few occasions, and—like all Harvester’s in training—he’d been taught the castle’s layout. The castle held several secret passages, corridors and tunnels created as a means of escape should anyone come to the castle meaning the king or his family harm.

  The problem, of course, was that it had been years since Cameron had looked at the castle’s plans and even had he remembered them perfectly, they would be of no use to him in catching up with Marek. After all, the leader of the Harvesters knew the castle grounds much better than Cameron himself, had, in fact, been the one who’d drilled him and his classmates on its layout.

  “Oh, he’s here,” Cameron said. “He won’t have left, not until he’s either gotten the necklace back or, at worst, taken the king as hostage. Besides, he’ll expect the Bloodless to have taken care of us.“

  “Even if you’re right,” Memory said, “it’s a big castle. How will we find him?”

  “We don’t have to find him,” Cameron said, looking down first one hallway, then the other, trying to decide what direction to take. “We only have to find the king.” He balled his fists in frustration at his own indecision. Damn it all, but I should have paid more attention during lessons. If Marek found the king before they did, all was lost, but Memory was right—it was a big castle. Which way, Clause? He thought, growing desperate, which way did you take him?

  “Doesn’t the castle have a safe room?” Memory asked, “Would Clause take him there?”

  Cameron considered this then shook his head slowly. “No, it’s too far. He doesn’t know how many there are—for all Clause knows, there could be dozens of traitors in the castle. He’ll want somewhere closer—” he cut off, snapping his fingers. “The northern guard room. Come on.”

  They ran through two more corridors before turning a corner and stumbling to a halt. Three bodies lay sprawled in the hallway. Cameron waved Memory back and knelt to examine the corpses, his heart racing in his chest. The pale skin and gray, lifeless eyes gave the first two away as Bloodless, and he dismissed them immediately, hurrying to the last body.

  Cameron recognized the guard captain immediately, and he slammed his fist on the floor, “Damnit.”

  “Cameron?” Memory asked, walking up beside him, “Ah, Divines help us,” she breathed as she saw the dead man.

  Cameron rubbed a weary hand across his face, his shoulders slumping. He’d not known Clause well, had only spoken to him a handful of times, but the guard captain’s integrity and honor were unquestioned throughout the city. A man who’d dedicated his life to protecting the king, to keeping the city safe, and here he was lying dead in a pool of his own blood, discarded like the broken toy of some careless child.

  Cameron reached out and closed the man’s eyes, unable to avoid noticing that the man looked younger in death, almost as if he’d found some sort of peace, in the end. Bullshit, of course. There were few things less peaceful than a sword ripping its way through your stomach. “At least you made the bastards pay for it, old man,” he said, his breath hitching in his throat. His parents, Falen, Clause … how many more? How many more would die because he was too much of a fool to figure out what the Church was up to sooner?

  “Well,” he said, sitting back in the hallway, “That’s it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He fought back the urge to curse and shrugged instead, “Clause wouldn’t have let them take the king, not while he was alive. Now, they could be anywhere. We’ll never find them i—”

  “Wait,” Memory said, squinting her eyes at something Cameron couldn’t see. “What’s that?”

  Cameron sighed and rose. He saw that she was looking at one of Clause’s hands, and he saw that the blood there looked almost … intentional. Frowning, he knelt down and moved Clause’s hand. A blurred, bloody scrawl of writing had been mostly hidden beneath the guard captain’s hand. It read King cha—before degenerating into an ineligible smear.

  He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, “Clause, you were one smart, tough old bastard.” He snapped his eyes to Memory and nodded once, “Come on—I know where they’ve gone.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  “Quintin,” Leandria gasped, stumbling after the dark-haired man, wincing at the tightness of the grip in which he held her hand. Her vision was blurry, and she couldn’t seem to focus. Each step she took felt as if she were on the pitching deck of some Gods-cursed ship. “Please, I need a break.”

  He ignored her, pulling her along behind him. They rounded a corner, and Quintin jerked to such an abrupt stop that Leandria stumbled into him with a cry and fell to the ground. She looked up and saw a guard standing in the hallway, his sword half-drawn. “Princess?” The guard asked, obviously confused, then he turned to Quintin, drawing his sword the rest of the way and starting forward, “Let the princess go. Now.”

  Quintin drew his own sword from its sheath, and Leandria held up a hand, struggling for breath. “Wait,” she said, “Thomas, stop,” she said, finally remembering the guard’s name, “He’s a friend; he saved me in the ballroom.”

  “Oh,” the young guard said, sheathing his sword, “I’m sorry for that, friend,” he said, nodding his head to Quintin, “I thank you for your help in protecting the princess; I’ll take it from here. Come, princess,” he said, offering her a hand and helping her to her feet, “The guard station is not far. I’ll take you there—the captain would have taken his Majesty there as well.”

  Quintin placed a hand on Leandria’s shoulder, a gesture he no doubt meant to be protective, but it felt all too possessive to Leandria, so she shrugged it off, annoyed. If Quintin noticed, he gave no sign as he turned back to the guard, “I’ll make sure the princess gets there safely. Perhaps you should go and help your comrades? The ballroom was quite bad when we left.”

  The guard frowned, shaking his head, “I will see the princess safe first. Please, my lady,” he said, stepping forward, “Come with me. We need to hurr—”

  Leandria screamed as Quintin’s hand flashed forward and buried a knife hilt-deep in the guard’s throat. Thomas’s eyes snapped wide in surprise, and he stumbled backward, one hand weakly fingering at the hilt of his sword, the other pawing at his throat.

  Quintin stepped forward, a disgusted look on his face. He jerked the dagger out of the man’s throat and buried it in one of his wide, frightened eyes, grunting with the effort. The guard’s body went rigid, and he fell to the ground, dead.

  Leandria continued to scream, shocked at the abrupt violence and bloodshed. Quintin turned to her and slapped her hard across the face.

  “Quintin,” she said, backing away, one hand held to her face, “What … what have you done?”

/>   “I’m sorry, princess,” Quintin said, his hands held up, “but you were hysterical. This man,” he said, nodding his chin at the still-warm corpse, “was an assassin. He was trying to get you alone.”

  Leandria shook her head, her sickness making her thoughts muggy and slow. Could that be true? Could Thomas have really been an assassin? She thought again of Quintin stabbing the man, thought she’d seen an expression she didn’t like on his face—it had looked, for a moment, as if he’d enjoyed it.

  “But … but Thomas has worked in the castle for three years. Clause hand picked him.”

  Quintin nodded, his expression serious, “Whoever’s behind this must have been planning the attack for a long time. We can’t take you to the guardroom, princess. We don’t know who we can trust.”

  You’re right, she thought, I don’t know who I can trust. She frowned, “Thomas said Clause is at the guardroom, and I will not believe he’s a traitor. I thank you for what you’ve done, Quintin, but I’ll make my own way from here.”

  Quintin studied her silently and something about his expression made her forehead break out in sweat. Finally, he nodded, “Alright. If you’re sure I can’t talk you out of it?”

  “I’m sure.”

  He sighed, “Very well.” He moved to the side of the corridor, making room. “Have it your way, princess.”

  She nodded, struggling to hide the relief from her face, and started past. Quintin’s hand flashed up, something held in it, and she had just long enough to gasp in surprise before something struck her in the head and everything went dark.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  “This way,” Cameron said, leading Mira around a bend in the hallway, and he grunted, stopping as he saw a dozen armed men standing halfway down the corridor, a vaguely familiar form in front of them. The woman’s face was ghostly white, and her eyes were a faded gray similar, if not as dark, as those of the Bloodless. Her face spasmed and twitched strangely, but the hand on her sword was steady and unwavering.

  After a moment, Cameron realized who it was, and his breath came out in surprise. “Amille? Is that you?”

  She spat, and what came out was dark and smelled of rot and death, “Traitor.”

  Cameron frowned, “Traitor? Amille, you don’t understand. Marek’s the traitor—he kidnapped the king, and he’s trying to gain control of the Etherstone. It’s not just him either. The Church--”

  The woman laughed, a piercing cackle with no humor in it, “Fool. The Church should control the Etherstone. It has always been a mistake to let the king have it. Still, it’s one that we will remedy. Soon.”

  “Wait, you know?” Cameron asked, stunned, “Divines, Amille why? Your oath—”

  “Was to the Church, not some pompous fool that’s too stupid to realize he’s in over his head. He’s nothing to me.”

  “He’s your king.”

  She spat out another gob of the black, tarry substance, “And what the fuck is that to me? Where was this king of yours when Kate was being attacked and killed, eh Reaper? Where was he when I went four days carrying essence? Losing myself a little bit at a time? Where was he then?” The last came out in a raspy scream.

  “Amille—” he began again, feeling pity as he looked on this once beautiful woman. She seemed to have aged a hundred years since the last time he’d seen her, and her face was twisted with unreasoning hate. He also noticed dried blood around her mouth. “Amille, please—”

  “Don’t Amille me, you bastard. Do you have any idea how much I’ve suffered because of your king? I would have died, Cameron. The High Priestess told me as much. She said my very essence had been corrupted by what I’d carried, that it was a matter of days before it killed me. Do you have any idea what it’s like? Having another’s thoughts in your head? Do you have any idea what it’s like to doubt everything you think, to not trust your own mind? And where was your king then? No, it wasn’t him who offered me his help, but Marek. He was the one that helped me. He’s the one that saved me.”

  Cameron looked more closely at the ragged woman, at her faded, unnaturally gray eyes, anxiety rushing through him. “Amille, what did he do to you?”

  The woman hesitated, a look of uncertainty on her face. She looked at her arms where bulbous, infected sores wept blood and puss, as if seeing them for the first time. Then, she shook her head like a dog and looked back at Cameron, hate filling her gaze once more. “He saved me. I owe him everything.” She turned and motioned to the dozen armed men behind her, “Kill them both.”

  The first man swung his blade, and Cameron knocked it away, kicking him in the stomach and sending him stumbling into his comrades. He grabbed Mira’s hand and they turned, sprinting down the castle corridor.

  They rushed through the hallway, soon outdistancing the sound of their pursuers and were about to turn down another when a man stumbled out of a door in front of them, brandishing a bloody knife.

  “Nicks?” Memory said, “Is that you?”

  The older man’s clothes were covered in blood, ripped and torn in places, and he had to prop against the wall for balance. He bled freely from a long cut along his jawline and his right arm—twisted at a funny angle—was cradled against his side. He saw who it was and let the hand holding the knife fall limply to his side. “Memory? Cameron? Ah, yeah it’s me, or what’s left of me anyhow.”

  Memory tore a piece from the hem of her skirt and pressed it against the man’s jawline, “Are you alright? What happened?”

  The man grunted, taking the cloth, “These nobles really know how to throw a party. But no worries—I’ve had worse than this shaving.”

  Memory looked around, “Where’s Blinks? Is he with you?”

  Nicks shook his head, his worry apparent in his face, “Ain’t got a clue. We split up, figured we’d have a better chance of gettin’ the necklace that way.” He swallowed hard, “I hope the big fool’s alright.”

  “I’m sure he i—” Memory cut off at the sound of approaching feet.

  “There’s no time,” Cameron said, “Marek’s taking the king toward the chapel.”

  Nicks nodded, swaying dangerously as he stood up from the wall, “Alright. Let’s go.”

  Cameron shook his head, “You can barely stand. You’ll only slow us down, and we can’t afford that.”

  Nicks looked like he was going to argue, but finally he sighed, nodding reluctantly, “I suppose you’re right. What do you want me to do?”

  “Hide until they get past then go to the northern guardroom and rouse as many as you can. Just follow this hallway dow—”

  Nicks waved a weary hand, “I know where it is. Me and Blinks used to be on the staff, after all.”

  Memory and Cameron looked at each other in surprise, but the older man waved it away, “Before I met you, and it’s not important. You two go on and get to the king. I’ll bring help.”

  Memory hesitated, hating the idea of leaving the man—one of her only friends—when he was so obviously wounded. Cameron stepped beside her, “We have to go. Now.”

  She nodded then hugged Nicks, kissing him on the cheek. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Nicks grinned, “Me? Nah, I wouldn’t dream of it.” He watched them disappear down the hallway, rubbing his cheek where she’d kissed him. “Well, now that’s a fine thing, ain’t it?” He asked the empty hallway. The hallway didn’t answer or, if it did, it was with the sound of dozens of approaching feet, and he grunted a curse before ducking through the doorway and easing the door closed behind him.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  They saw the first corpse as they drew near the king’s chapel. A man—a servant judging by his white tunic and trousers—lay sprawled in the hallway, a bloody furrow dug across his throat. A castle guard sat slumped against the wall further up the corridor, a sword sticking out of his chest.

  The worst, though, lay within feet of the closed chapel door. Judging by his robes, the man had been a priest, come, perhaps, to commune with his gods. Now, it seemed, he would be
meeting them soon enough and whoever had sent him on his way had not been kind. Cameron heard the sounds of Mira getting sick behind him, and he couldn’t blame her. He’d seen some terrible things during his time as a Harvester, but he felt his own stomach roil unpleasantly at the corpse before him. Someone had chopped off the priest’s hands and feet, leaving bloody ragged nubs. There were two gaping, gory holes where the man’s eyes had once been. “Divines, what kind of men could do this?” Mira asked beside him.

  Cameron thought of the hatred, the rage he’d felt when he’d first awoken in the ballroom, the desperate, hungry need to destroy and despoil. “Not men,” he said, “not anymore.”

  He tried the door and was unsurprised to find it locked. “Stand back.” He took a step back and kicked the door as hard as he could. Pain lanced up his foot and leg, but the wood was well-kept, the frame fitted perfectly, and the door did not budge.

  He was turning to Memory to see if she had any ideas when someone groaned behind them. They spun in surprise and shock to stare at the priest. Cameron stared at the slow rise and fall of the man’s chest with a mixture of horror and pity.

  He looked to Memory and saw her eyes well with tears then he walked and knelt beside the priest. “Relax, priest. Don’t try to speak.”

  The priest turned at the sound of Cameron’s voice and seemed to study him with those two ravaged, bloody sockets. He whispered something that he couldn’t hear, and Cameron leaned over him, so close that he could smell the death on the man’s breath.

  “K-key … my … neck.”

  Cameron frowned and gently checked the man’s neck to find a gold necklace with a key hung from the end of it. He withdrew the necklace and key, hope rekindling in his chest. Maybe they weren’t too late. Maybe. “Thank you, priest. May your gods welcome you,” he said, but when he looked he saw that the priest’s chest no longer rose and fell, and his face was slack in death.