UnNamed

by Krista Gossett

  How long had it been since he had a woman? He couldn’t remember and mostly because time had lost measure for him. Before the shopkeeper from his time had propositioned him, it had been months. He’d been too damned wrapped up in finding out about the Flame.

  He had a coin purse filled to the brim now so he didn’t wrestle with the question long before he took her roughly on a table in the back of the bar’s storage room.

  It was still well before dawn, a crisp chill in the air as he stumbled out. He stood akimbo to a fence post before reaching down to relieve himself against it.

  Suddenly, a thought slammed down hard in his head, the wordless sort that pulled far more than reason and he sobered a bit. The streets were empty so he made his way over to a bank of troughs, stripped down and splashed cold water all over himself to try to shock the thoughts away. He stood there naked well past the point he had already dried, shrugging back into his clothes, resigned to answering the wrenching call to action that still nagged at him.

  The roads gave way to rolling hills, tall waving grasses and well-kept plots of farmland, his legs plodding along heavily like a stubborn toddler. He wasn’t quite sure even why he knocked on the door he ended up at, not until he saw the face of the man who opened it.

  The man held a club, angry, wary, eyes puffy from grief, but there was no mistaking it—he looked a lot like Dolly.

  “Ah, sorry, I know it’s early, but your daughter…” he began, hating the vulnerability of his limitations just then, reminding himself once more that a happy little social life was always off limits.

  He didn’t even know her fucking name.

  “My daughter?” the man demanded hysterically. “Where is she?”

  The man was a crushing mix of hopeful, fearful, angry, a battle waged on his tired lined face.

  “She is well. She can’t come home right away, but she is safe. I just thought you should know,” he murmured before turning away.

  He could hear the man rambling behind him, but he was far too swept up in the surreality of where he ended up and the cloying fear that overtook him when his brain started rattling. It wasn’t just trying to remember that caused problems, sometimes his brain would overload on simple tasks and he would fall into the chaos loop of failure screaming through his brain. It would never show on his face, but it made his presence in reality rigid with basic function.

  It was that state that had taken him back to their makeshift camp. He didn’t stop until he stood over Cherry in the dusty purple haze of morning’s first light. She stirred, nearly jumping as she noticed how he towered over her.

  His eyes were narrowed in his confusion and he dropped to his knees beside her. Only a moment’s hesitation marked the moment before they both craned forward in a crushing embrace. Neither would speak at first and Cherry rubbed her hands over his back to comfort him.

  “It’s okay now… I’m here,” she murmured, knowing the words were vague and trite, but the gush of his ragged pent-up breath against her neck told her it was exactly what he had needed to hear.

  Only one beacon of light had appeared in Southern Uther, strangely reassuring after the near-miss rescue of Dolly.

  It wasn’t a place he cared to visit again, even if he was going along with three beautiful women.

  As the city loomed closer, his scars seemed to pulse under his skin, a light sheen of sweat on his brow, and it had little to do with the transformation this time. The Flame God had at least made good on one thing: the thrall of the change when the Rain Maidens had called the beacon had not consumed him so fully. He had been able to shape his own weapon of flame, even change it at will. The only downside being a three-way kiss to cool it away had no longer been necessary. He had smoldered the heat of his battle lust just fine on his own.

  The new control of his power had brought yet another boon. He could see the beacon himself this time. With the ability to wield it, the place between Realms was more like slipping into a warm bath. It also carried the same downside of slipping back out, namely the urge to cuddle into a soft, dry towel and slough away the damp chill that lingered.

  “What do you think the next of us is like?” Dolly mused out loud, her eyes dancing with childlike wonder. Why she was romanticizing this journey so quickly after dancing with death was beyond him.

  “A chef would be nice,” Sunday drawled.

  Her cooking was not inedible, but she had done quite a bit of it and didn’t seem to derive a lot of joy from the task.

  “I am only hoping they are able to break away from their lives to come with us,” Cherry added.

  He tried not to scoff at that, but it was something he hadn’t overlooked. Under other circumstances, it might have been tough to get Dolly away from her family.

  A look passed between him and Cherry, thoughts of the night before clearly surfacing in the exchange between them. She was the first to look away, a rosy blush staining her cheeks. Neither of them had said anything after the embrace and it wouldn’t be said then either. He was okay with it if they never did. Whatever weakness he had felt, it had melted away in those fragile moments and he had been glad to be rid of them.

  What weighed on him now was the wink of Coliseum growing in the distance. He had not been the only poor soul made to fight Gardells or worse. In his time, the columns of the outer walls on the south side had crumbled away from the sheer impact of large stumbling beasts slamming into them. In this time, the pillars still held its symmetrical silhouette, all the more dreadful for how close it came to the wretched place in his fragmented memory.

  He felt a hand on his arm and the muscle involuntarily jumped there as he followed the hand to where it connected to Cherry.

  Her face was grim. He hadn’t told her about the Gardell fight, the origin of his scars, but there was something knowing in that gaze. She seemed to understand that whatever rattled him, pity would be the last thing he wanted.

  “She’s at the docks,” Cherry murmured, her voice shaky with the admission.

  He let out a pent-up breath, not sure why he was so relieved that that was the reason for her apprehension. Sometimes when she looked at him with those eyes, he thought she was reaching deeper into him than even he could go, that somehow she had plucked the source of his own fears.

  The docks of Uther, or most port towns for that matter, were no place for decent people. On the surface, it was like any other market, but being so close to the ocean, it attracted far more outsiders. There were no residences so the old adage of not shitting where you sleep applied to no one and it was damn near close to a public toilet. There were travel docks along the western edge that were certainly not as foul, but the bulk of the stretch was packed with fishermen, smugglers, pickpockets, thieves, and whores.

  Not that he had anything against whores, but the thought of recruiting a Maiden that was a whore struck him as oxymoronic, if not problematic. Perhaps the link of being Rain Maidens was sufficient to bond them but he didn’t see them thrilled at the prospect.

  Cherry’s hand jerked away, that blush returning as she clutched the hand she had touched him with again her.

  He nodded, trying not to smirk.

  “Guess we’ll find out who she is soon enough,” he quipped, rushing ahead.

  It was still afternoon so the worst of the crowds wouldn’t yet be rearing their ugly heads. The air was rife with the smell of fish and smoke, not just from the fragrant cigars, but some of the merchants were charring fish jammed onto wooden sticks as treats for hungry passersby. He bought four, surprising his companions with the offering. He realized he could be a bit of a bastard, but shrugged at the gush of surprised thank-you’s they showered on him. It was well past time for lunch, so it was just practical.

  “What do you think the next of us is like?” Dolly repeated, far more nervously this time. A piece of fish had flaked off and she scrambled to shove it back into her mouth, daintily licking her fingers to salvage the inelegance of the save.

  “I’ll wager she’s no princess
,” he joked, winking at Dolly, who giggled.

  Cherry rolled her eyes.

  “The selection process would hardly be so careless.”

  Detecting sarcasm was not her strong suit.

  “So there’s some sort of criteria in the magic?” he asked, redirecting the teasing towards the better target.

  He enjoyed it far too much that her eyes narrowed on the word ‘magic.’

  “Nothing that I would be able to discern, but I am not privy to the most intimate decisions of gods,” Cherry said, only the set of her jaw betraying her annoyance.

  “More so than most…” he returned, letting the words drift off as he focused his attention on the bustle around them.

  He’d always had a weakness for the majesty of ships at harbor. River barges were a wonder all their own, but the seaworthy ships were magnificent. There were no billowing sails on docked ships, of course, but the ones that departed or dotted the horizon always drew his eyes. He’d done a bit of sailing in his youth, enough to know that those sails were the better part of it. He’d spent more time losing the contents of his stomach than anything else, so he was quite content to watch from afar.

  The ships were hardly the only thing that occupied his attention. For him, focusing was no singular task. He opened himself up to the sights, smells, sounds around him, keeping the Maidens in his sights most of all. He stared straight ahead, learning long ago how to take in the details from the big picture without his eyes darting around in a mad dash. He stored everything like a panorama, poring over the data even as it constantly changed around him.

  The faded beacon following the one it revealed jiggled more as it became clear they moved closer. When the target moved into view, she had the comical look of being under a spotlight.

  The woman it highlighted was no dainty lady and no painted whore for that matter. She was unloading crates, thick corded muscles on tanned arms crisscrossed with scars and the dark blue of tattoos. If not for the lack of an Adam’s apple, he’d never guess she was a she at all.

  He must’ve been staring too hard because he felt Cherry elbow his ribcage, a gesture that nudged him to take action.

  He recognized the stamp that branded the crates, Wriglin Shipping, and thought quickly, approaching her.

  “Good day, miss. You work these docks or do you ship with Wriglin?” he asked.

  The woman’s eyebrow perked with annoyance as she cocked her head to the side. It was clear she wasn’t used to being called ‘miss.’

  “Who’s asking?” she shot back, spitting over her shoulder and wiping her brow as she stood up straight. He was a tall man, but she was eye to eye with him at her full height.

  He resisted the urge to answer her literally and let a smile flicker.

  I’m just a guy looking for a girl who’s a Rain Maiden. That would go over well…

  “I might have work for you, if you’re interested. Above the board, I assure you,” he continued, extracting a small purse fat with coin.

  “I’m not too keen on assurances,” she shot back, but her eyes lingered on the purse nonetheless. “What makes you think I’m the one that can help you?”

  He had no damned clue, but this was hardly the place to be flashing Keys or talking about shadowy assassins.

  Unfortunately, shadowy assassins didn’t have the same qualms and one of those conspicuous bastards bobbed back into view in the distance. For fuck’s sake, they might as well paint it on their foreheads…

  “Perhaps you can’t. But on the off-chance you can, I’d like to buy you a drink at the Razor Fin to discuss it,” he propositioned.

  Her eyes flicked towards where the sun was positioned in the sky before settling back on him again.

  “Couple more crates to unload, but I’ll head over after,” she told him, clearly not negotiating as she shot a curious look at the three women lurking behind him. “Unless you’re some sort of pimp, in which case, I’m not interested.”

  Dolly gasped but Cherry and Sunday just looked annoyed. He laughed and shook his head.

  “Not at all. If anything, I am escorting them. See you soon then,” he said, already exhausted from the cordiality that altered his voice with unrecognizable politeness.

  Either way, it was clear he’d have to have a talk with them about not being so damned visible.

  Cherry was trying not to smile as he led them to where they would meet up with the woman he was already thinking of as Brute.

  “What?” he asked, when it was clear her amusement was steadily growing.

  Cherry laughed.

  “You actually sounded nice back there,” Cherry teased. “Don’t get used to it.”

  He slowed his steps and all three of them turned to throw him a questioning glance. They were at the Razor Fin, a tavern that was barely a stone’s throw from where Brute was finishing up.

  “Head on in. I’m going to keep watch here. Order whatever you want,” he commanded, tossing her a small bag of coin. Sunday and Dolly complied, but Cherry hung back for a moment.

  He shot her his own look of annoyance.

  “You’ve seen something,” Cherry said. She searched his eyes, but couldn’t see anything to comfort her suspicion.

  “All the more reason for you not to draw any attention. Go on.”

  Cherry wasn’t keen on being ordered around and folded her arms, jaunting her hip out.

  “Maybe I’ll wait with you,” she challenged.

  “Sunday and Dolly aren’t exactly bar-savvy like you are, my dear,” he pointed out patiently.

  The softness in his voice was far more effective in throwing her off-guard than butting heads with her. He watched her lips part with with shock before she pursed them again.

  “Fine, just… be careful,” Cherry protested weakly, tugging at the scarf that covered her hair. There was something intimate in that unconscious tugging of the inconsequential gift he had given her.

  When she disappeared into the tavern, he reached into his cloak and drew out a cigar, one he had rolled himself somewhere along the way. He sniffed along the paper, the stale but fragrant smell enticing him as he extracted a flint. He scraped his nail along the surface to ignite it.

  He wasn’t much of a smoker, but there was something about a smoke that made you damn near invisible where standing against a wall would otherwise make you stand out.

  The suspicious asshole from before floated back into view and this time he looked directly at the guy. There was no place in Uther that he could draw the man to avoid attracting attention, so it was better if he took care of it now. He issued a silent challenge and the guy’s eyes seemed to flash before he melted back into the shadows.

  A smarter killer would keep to his target, but this one liked a game. Assassins with egos never lasted long.

  Stepping away from the wall, he turned down the nearby alley. He could feel the thrill of his thrall rippling under his skin.

  “Let’s play then,” he murmured, diving into the Realms between headfirst.

  What the assassin didn’t know was that all it took was eye contact and the thrall had you.

  He pulled the assassin and only the assassin in, the world around them but a simulation of the one they came from. The Maidens would be corporeal there, but he intended to keep them out of it. If the assassin had any sense of the change, it would be little more than a hiccup.

  At the end of the alley, he swung around the building opposite the alley and jumped with inhuman speed and ability onto the roof, feeling where the man approached as the thrall grew stronger within him. Small flaming daggers formed in his hands.

  He hadn’t counted on the assassin’s next move and only the reflexes of his thrall had kept him from hesitation as the assassin leapt onto the roof with the same skill. He blocked a flurry of the assassin’s attacks, hanging back as they cackled, their eyes blood red.

  It wasn’t just the irises for that matter. The orbs of the man’s eyes themselves were like half-dried clots of blood bulging from empty sockets. Th
e slow smile of the man revealed a wide mouth lined with pointed teeth, not white but dark grey.

  “I should have guessed Fajja had a hand in this,” the assassin rasped, the voice having the same hollow quality that the Rain Maidens had.

  Fajja… It was the Melakian word for Flame God and one that set off alarm bells.

  “I take it you’re one of the Sentinels’ bitches then,” he mused.

  The creature did not share his amusement, flipping his own silver white daggers around his hands.

  “Your reasoning is disappointingly human. I do not serve humans, not matter how powerful,” the thing corrected him, taking graceful strides opposite his own as they circled each other.

  The creature lunged in with another furore of slashes and this time, he had to lengthen the swords to keep it at bay. Even the thrall had a hell of a time keeping the vicious bastard from eviscerating him in close combat.

  The assassin tucked the daggers away, drawing their own short swords at the hips.

  He lengthened the flame swords in response, earning a cackle for the precaution. Laugh all you want, bastard, my arsenal is bigger than yours…

  He wracked his brain, trying to think of what this thing was. Not human, arrogant, no servant of the Sentinels or the King. So what the hell did it want?

  “You’re not here for them,” he tried.

  It laughed again.

  “Oh no. I’m here for you, marked one,” it hissed out, hunger making its teeth glisten with saliva.

  Fucking borogs. He remembered now, the creatures that feed on the blood of, as the borog had put it, ‘the marked ones.’ He had no clue why they were so drawn to the blood of those marked by fire, but as far as he knew it was a pretty exclusive addiction.

  It was small relief that it was possible the King’s Guard wasn’t onto them this far to the west just yet. Still didn’t help him figure out how the hell he was getting through this one.

  The one saving grace in all of this was that borogs always hunted alone. He didn’t stand a chance with a pack of them.