Mendis, in Nespharia
Mendis was sparring with one of his swordmasters in a broad outdoor plaza when messengers delivered the doubly bad news of Svarren and giant attacks. He immediately tossed his practice sword to one of his nearby servants and headed for Nespharia’s main keep. “Find Colonel Bailis and have him meet me in the war room. And send a wizard or two along with him.”
The Emperor wasn’t unduly concerned: he’d encountered creatures of all kinds in expanding his empire back home; he was mostly interested in learning about the locations, numbers and strengths of the native, non-human species. He also wanted to understand whether these latest attacks were the coincidental actions of creatures defending their territories, or whether they were somehow allied to the Virgin Queen’s interests. Yes, they’d made a deal. That didn’t mean he trusted her. In Mendis’ experience, the most treacherous of people were those with whom one had agreements. As long as he expected betrayal, he felt, he could never be betrayed.
Upon arriving in the war room, the Emperor demanded a fresh shirt of the first servant he encountered. “This one’s sweated through. And bring me a pitcher of cold water with fruit in it!” He tossed the shirt to the servant and crossed to a chair by the room’s only fireplace. In seconds, he had his boots off and his feet warming comfortably by the flames. By the time Bailis arrived, Mendis had donned his new shirt, quenched his thirst and determined what he wished to say to his captive advisor.
“Colonel!” the Emperor said cheerfully without rising from his seat. “You’re looking hale.”
“Yes,” Bailis blushed. “I’m afraid I’m being fed a little too well by your cooks and getting too little exercise in the bargain.” Mendis laughed heartily at this, and Bailis continued. “But I’m beginning to learn your language, so perhaps one day your wizards won’t be necessary.”
The Emperor offered a sly smile. “Not for translation, perhaps, but they do other things for me, as well.”
“Without doubt,” Bailis conceded.
Around the room, one of Mendis’ ubiquitous servants was lighting wall sconces and candles in order to stave off the gathering gloom. The colonel stepped into a new pool of light so that the Emperor could see him more easily—out of courtesy, of course, but also, Bailis hoped, as a means of making himself appear more trustworthy, as if to demonstrate that he had nothing to hide.
“We continue to have interesting encounters with creatures of your land,” Mendis said casually.
Bailis wasn’t surprised. “Oh?”
“More of your freakish, misshapen savages, as I gather.”
“Ah,” said Bailis. “Svarren.”
The Emperor tested the strange word again on his tongue, “Svarren,” and then washed it down with a sip of water. “I’ve been meaning to ask, are these Svarren thinking creatures, or beasts?”
“They can reason, have language of a sort, I’m told. Certainly they’re ferocious, but we’ve never found them to be a match for good military strategy, discipline and a bit of magic.”
Mendis considered these words a moment before continuing. “And you’re certain they are not allied with any of your local powers? With your Queen, for instance?”
Now, it was Bailis’ turn to pause and weigh the import of what he’d just been asked. The wrong answer might commit him to one side or the other well before he was ready. “I hardly think them any different from wolves, Magnificence.”
“Even wolves can be used in battle.”
“You’re right, of course.”
“Tell me, again, everything you know of them.”
For the next half hour, Bailis told the Emperor everything he knew and had ever heard of the Svarren, after which effort, Mendis still had questions.
“Why has your Virgin Queen never attempted to eradicate these creatures, then?”
“I wouldn’t presume to guess…”
“Indulge me,” the Emperor said forcefully but not without charm. “What do you imagine is the reason?”
Bailis looked about the room, caught one of the wizard’s eyes, and returned his gaze to the Emperor. “It might be that she is preoccupied with running and consolidating her kingdom. Or perhaps the Svarren serve some purpose…”
The Emperor leaned back, stretched his arms over his head luxuriantly. “They provide a distraction, a diversion, a scapegoat, even.” He looked over at his captive and added, “I see these thoughts disturb you, but then you’ve never ruled. Your Queen is up to something, Colonel. I’d pay good coin to know what it is.”
Was that a bribe? Bailis kept his mouth shut, and the Emperor changed subjects.
“Elsewhere, my men have run afoul of giants, and before you ask, no, my Empire has no giants, either. We’ve plenty of other beasties, both fantastical and fell, but no giants, alas. Come,” Mendis gestured. “Sit. I’ll send for our supper, and you’ll tell me all about these giants.”
Again, Bailis told the Emperor all he knew, and again Mendis probed for any possible military threat or advantage giant folk might present. Bailis had never seen more than a few in his life, and two of them had been female. He couldn’t see how even a handful of giants working in unison could pose much of a threat to either side in this conflict.
“But let us suppose,” said the Emperor, “that every force in your land ends up working together by happenstance or intent to expel my legions. Do you think them capable?”
“The Svarren, the Oursine, the giants, the wolves and Mahnus-knows-whatever-else?”
Mendis nodded.
“It seems beyond unlikely, but I imagine that if it happened, it would go hard for your armies. I’ve seen…” Bailis was thinking of the faeries and other fey folk who joined in the battle against the End-of-All-Things. For some reason, he decided not to share this information.
“What?” Mendis asked, leaning forward.
“I was going to say I’ve seen nothing to suggest such a thing is possible,” the colonel lied, “but then I’ve never seen the like of your armies, either.”
The Emperor stared at him skeptically for several seconds and then seemed to lose interest. “Thank you for your time,” he said dismissively. “You may return to your quarters.”
That the Emperor was a canny and dangerous man, Bailis was convinced. He was as different from the End-of-All-Things as a man is from a boy. Mendis might not have possessed the End’s arcane power, but his military might and acumen were unequaled in the colonel’s estimation.
Omeyo & His Svarren, Northern Midlands
Omeyo had traveled both far and wide in his career, but he’d never seen such uniforms, nor heard such a language. Invaders, then.
They had not lasted long against Omeyo’s Svarren, but they’d made an impression upon him just the same. He could tell they were well-trained, well-supplied men of purpose and discipline. In a toe-to-toe battle on an open plain, Omeyo knew his Svarren would eventually be overwhelmed and crushed. The obvious answer, then, was never to engage the invaders on their terms, but only upon his own. In the woods, in the swamps, in the dark, the Svarren would hold the advantage. It was vitally important, too, that he and his pack never attack the invaders’ main force, but ever and always its exploratory scouting parties and supply lines.
At the same time, the land teemed with those who fled the invaders, and the culling of the humans’ numbers, the feeding, would never be better for the Long Teeth. Was it possible to both fight the invaders and slaughter the refugees? Somehow, Omeyo suspected that such greed would only visit disaster upon his new people.
Fortunately, the Woman was of the same mind: deal with the threat first and then tend to the harvest.
Omeyo watched a distant line of soldiers moving up the defile below him and ordered his own fighters to duck out of sight. The men looked like ants down below and, in a strange way, behaved like them, too. Omeyo and his Svarren had wiped out an entire platoon, and yet the invaders simply sent more troops out into the wilderness, clearing the path, perhaps, for greater and evermore frequent expeditions by the invaders’ main force. Omeyo’s pack had little difficulty with an enemy platoon. This larger company, though, promised a much greater challenge. It probably even had Shapers, against whose magics Omeyo had no answer. If the Woman had been present…but no, she’d stayed with the main body of her people.
The general sank onto his haunches, a practice he’d never done much in his life until he’d joined these Svarren, and turned his back to the defile, thinking. It was earlier in the day than Omeyo would have liked, but at least the clouds were providing some shadows. The first task was to identify the enemy’s Shapers and eliminate as many as possible before they could respond. He gestured silently to the brightest of his fighters and the creature bounded noiselessly to his side.
“Shapers,” he whispered, pointing first to his own eyes and then below.
The beast, whom Omeyo had taken to calling “Sage,” blinked in understanding and crept into position for a better view of the approaching company. Several heartbeats later, he returned to Omeyo’s side and held up two elongated and gnarled fingers. He then patted himself atop his head repeatedly, making a soft slapping sound.
Ah. Two with no helmets.
Good, Omeyo nodded. Good. He then turned back to the defile himself and verified what Sage had observed. Yes, the two without helmets were the most likely candidates. Now came the dangerous part. The general caught Sage’s eye again and summoned him back to his side. He picked up a fist sized stone and pointed to the other Svarren, crouching nearby, and then back to the Shapers. There were thirty-some Svarren. If they all focused fire on one of the two Shapers, they might at least cripple the man. Hells, they might even kill him if they were lucky. Sage scuttled over to his fellows and communicated Omeyo’s plan. Whatever happened, the general anticipated those below would come boiling out of the defile’s uphill end, looking for blood. If Omeyo’s pack could lead them back to the main Svarren host…
His Svarren gathered their stones—many taking two or three—lined up along the lip of the defile and, on Omeyo’s signal, hurled them at the two men without helmets. So much for focusing fire. Still, to Omeyo’s surprise, the Svarren were excellent shots. They must have had much more experience than humans using rocks as weapons. One of the Shapers went down immediately, whilst the other struggled with the dual tasks of protecting himself and returning fire. The Svarren let out hoots and whoops of savage glee and had to be pulled from the brink by their human leader.
“They come!” Omeyo yelled. “Back to our people!”
He hadn’t taken enough time to actually witness the soldiers’ reaction, but he didn’t need to. They were under attack and meant to retaliate. His pack, of course, wanted to stay and fight. In their blood lust, no opponent was too great. Omeyo pushed and pulled on his nearest fighters, but it was Sage, again, who got them moving.
“Back to the others!” Omeyo reiterated.
At last, they cooperated and scampered off in the proper direction. Omeyo was hard-pressed to match their pace, but as he knew they didn’t dare return to the Woman without him, he wasn’t overly concerned about being abandoned. Behind him, the invaders snarled and cursed.
The chase was on.
Kittins, Spirk & Ron, Lunessfor
Kittins was taking inventory in the royal armory when Spirk and Ron appeared out of nowhere and knocked a pile of breastplates off a table, causing such a terrible racket that even the normally stoic Dead One was momentarily agitated.
“What in Mahnus’ name are you two idiots doing here?” he barked.
Spirk stumbled backwards in alarm at Kittins’ tone and crashed into a great pile of spears against the wall, sending them tumbling helter-skelter across the floor. Just as he bent down to retrieve one or two, Kittins’ great hand swooped into view and jerked him away from the mess, depositing him in a clear space on the floor some ten feet from where he’d been.
“Stay!” the big man ordered.
“Yessir,” Spirk and Ron said in unison.
“Now,” Kittins rumbled, “did you two just pop in to ruin my day, or is there some extra special hell you’ve cooked up for me?”
As he worked his way over to Spirk, Ron said, “We was told to bring you somethin’.”
Kittins crossed his arms over his chest. “What?”
“This map, here,” said Spirk. He held it out to the captain as if Kittins might eat him if he got too close.
The captain whipped it out of the Shaper’s hand and crossed to a spot where the light was somewhat better. He unrolled the map and stared at it for several long minutes. “Where’d you get this?” he said at last.
“Mahnus—Long Pete gave it to us,” Spirk replied.
Kittins sneered at the mention of Long’s name, but kept his eyes on the map. “And where’d he get it?”
“From the invaders’ camp, so he said,” Ron offered.
Now Kittins looked over at his former companions, his hideous face a mask of intensity and suspicion. “The enemy camp, is it? And why’d he ask you to bring it to me?”
“’Cause o’ all o’ them secret passages it shows and such,” said Ron.
“He’s afraid for Lunessfor,” Spirk added.
“Is he?” Kittins asked, his voice sharp with skepticism. “Then why didn’t he deliver this himself, him bein’ a god and all?”
“On account of Alheria!” Spirk said.
Kittins looked back down at the map and seemed to forget all about Spirk and Ron. After several minutes of this, the Shaper took ahold of his friend’s hand and Jumped away. When they were gone, Kittins crossed to the armory door and called into the hallway. “Lieutenant, have somebody bring me some writing materials!”
The unseen lieutenant replied in the affirmative and jogged off down the corridor, leaving Kittins alone. Once again, he studied the map. It detailed all the obvious ways in and out of the capital city, but featured an astounding number of secret entrances as well. Of course, the whole thing could be a work of fiction, the product of an overactive imagination. But if it was not, if it was genuine…All Kittins had to do was seek out one of its hidden passageways to determine the truth of it. If the map was accurate, he had a much bigger problem on his hands than he’d bargained for. And there was something else to consider: how had this map fallen into the enemy’s hands? Unless the Emperor was a fool—a proposition Kittins sincerely doubted—he’d made copies, just as the captain planned to do.
Lieutenant Torle returned, carrying a roll of vellum, several quills and an inkwell. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“No,” said Kittins brusquely. He’d no interest in chit chat or satisfying the other man’s curiosity. If his men hated him, so much the better.
Torle saluted, did an about-face and left the room.
Kittins got down to work. Ironically, he was able to use the table top recently cleared by Spirk and Ron. He was no artist and the light was not ideal, but an hour’s labor produced a map almost equal to the original. After letting it dry, Kittins rolled up the copy and stashed it inside his doublet. The original, he’d take to…
Or would he? Alheria would already know everything the map contained, wouldn’t she? Of greater interest was how it had fallen into the Emperor’s possession and what Her Majesty planned to do about it.
The captain decided to sit on the original map for the time being, but verify its authenticity through a little exploration. Scanning the map, he found an alleged tunnel leading from his favorite district, South Shore, directly into the castle.
He cracked an unholy grin in anticipation.
Vykers & Co, On the Road
Vykers was practicing his knife-throwing when Ona returned with the Red Knight and the Reaper’s other former slaves.
“I taught it chust came natural to you,” Hjuest called out as he spied Vykers.
“I’m throwing left-handed,” Vykers retorted.
“Why?” Hjuest asked, sliding out of the saddle.
“In case I get my right arm hacked off.”
The Red Knight laughed heartily at this. “So,” he said, “vee go beck on de road!”
“We do. You all supplied?”
Hjuest thumped a hand on his bulging saddlebags. “Vee are.”
“Good,” Vykers said. “Let’s mount up and go.” Without waiting for a reply, he kicked dirt over his meager fire and fairly leapt into his own saddle, a feat at which the Red Knight could only whistle in admiration.
Hjuest and the others fell back into the routine as if they’d been born to it, and Ona envied them. If she had been expecting Vykers’ thanks, she was sorely disappointed. He was used to giving orders, not asking permission. It seemed the Red Knight would ride at Vykers’ side, with the large, dark warrior directly behind him. Ona would have to mix in with the other, somehow-less-important members of the crew. In many ways, she reflected, this made it easier for her to study her grandfather without him glaring back at her. The man was a living impossibility.
At the group’s front, Vykers was excited to be back in motion again. The idea that there might be a puzzle detailing his life to be found in the Emperor’s far-off court both tantalized and vexed him. He wanted his answers immediately. Also, traveling to the Emperor’s court might cause him to miss the bulk of the coming war. But it might present opportunities, as well.
They rode through the day and into the late afternoon, Vykers always taking care to ensure his horse didn’t outpace the others’ mounts, a mix of natural and supernatural ponies. Along the way, they caught sight of refugees more than once and even a few herds of deer and elk charging deeper into the wilderness. Once, they saw a detachment of enemy troops in the distance and the Reaper couldn’t resist moving closer to investigate.
“But master,” Hjuest began, “dey outnumber us ten-to-one. Is dis vise?”
“You don’t have to come along,” Vykers shrugged.
Of course he did! The Reaper would lose all respect for him and his brothers if they remained behind whilst he confronted the Emperor’s men. With a sigh that was more physical than vocal, Hjuest spurred his horse to follow, and the rest of the group did the same.
The invaders’ outriders spotted them almost instantly and doubled back to alert the rest of their company. In no time, the invaders had pulled into a tight, defensive formation, despite their superior numbers.
Vykers pulled up just beyond what he judged to be bow-range. It was a distance he’d observed countless times, and he knew it almost by instinct. Someone yelled something unintelligible at him, whereupon Hjuest translated.
“’E says you must stop and dismount.”
The Reaper didn’t like being told what to do, so he climbed all the way up and stood on his saddle, making a much greater target of himself but also improving his view of the enemy’s force. “Tell them to fuck off,” he commanded.
“Are you sure?” Hjuest asked. A look from Vykers confirmed the command, and the Red Knight winced as he translated.
The Emperor’s men burst into laughter. When their merriment died down, there was more unintelligible shouting.
“Vat is your name?” Hjuest said after a pause.
“That’s all?” Vykers asked. “Sounded like he said a lot more ’n that.”
Again, Hjuest winced. “Vell, he said ‘Vat is your name, stupid vun?’”
Vykers turned briefly to the back of the group, fixed eyes with Ona. “You wanted to come along,” he told her. Then, to Hjuest, he said “I am called ‘The Reaper’.”
The enemy’s response was instantaneous. They broke into a charge.
“Ha!” said Vykers, in obvious delight.
Shit! Thought Ona. What have I done to myself?
Vykers jumped down into his saddle and the rest of his group made ready for combat.
Ona sat motionless in disbelief. We’re all going to die!
“I’d draw my sword if I were you!” Vykers chuckled back at her. How in Alheria’s name could he laugh at a time like this?
At the front of the enemy’s company, scores of foot soldiers raced toward Vykers’ position, while the two ends of their line made as if to wrap around the Reaper’s crew. The enemy’s mounted knights rode just behind the line, waiting to jump in wherever needed. The two sides’ positions were such that the sun was setting behind the invaders, casting their bodies into stark silhouettes, while Vykers’ gang blazed with reds and oranges, the one side shadow, the other, fire.
Vykers drove his horse forward, and it closed the gap faster than the mortal eye could track. One moment, he’d been yards away, the next, he was in their midst, whirling like a bladed tornado. His victims didn’t even have time to scream. Confusion ruled. The rest of the invaders staggered and stumbled to a stop, unable to comprehend what was happening, but unwilling to retreat.
The Red Knight and his companions came galloping forward, hollering and making as much noise as they could. Well behind them, Ona followed half-heartedly. She feared no one in single combat, but this pandemonium was beyond madness. A sword or an axe might come from anywhere. Yet, she could hardly remain aloof, lest the others accuse her of cowardice—assuming any of them survived. Well, there were worse ways to die than in the Reaper’s company.
For Vykers’ part, he was in a sort of battle-mad ecstasy. Never before had he raced into a fight on such a magnificent beast. It was every bit as fast, as instinctive as he, and its movements accelerated his own to the point of rendering his attacks almost invisible. The Reaper felt such power, such invulnerability. Was this how the gods felt? His mind flashed on Long Pete, and he laughed. No, the gods were foolish, conniving creatures; he was Death.
Around him, blood showered and spurted. The air was thick with the heady aroma of it, mingled with sweat, with urine, with the odor of brain fluid, with shit. There was also the discordant music of clashing arms—steel on steel, on flesh, with gasps, grunts and curses aplenty. Here and there a death scream pierced the air, but none of them came from Vykers or his company.
The invaders had overestimated their chances and underestimated their value as fertilizer.
In time, the enemy’s force broke into smaller, more mobile groups and attempted to flee. The Reaper, however, was not feeling merciful. At his example and urging, his men chased and cut down as many of the invaders as possible. One or two might have gotten away, but no one seemed overly concerned about it. Indeed, Ona was elated to count herself still among the living.
As darkness fell, Vykers dismounted and began cutting the heads off the dead. “Can you write?” he yelled over to an exhausted Hjuest.
“Vat?” the Red Knight asked, confused by the non-sequitur.
“Can you write in these bastards’ language?”
Hjuest glanced at the other men for affirmation that he was in fact hearing his master correctly. They all returned his look of confusion. “Yes,” he told the Reaper.
“Good,” said Vykers. “I want you to spell out ‘Reaper’ with these heads.”
“Won’t they just get dragged off by animals?” Ona asked.
“No,” Vykers replied, “’cause you’re gonna stake ’em down for me.”
“But…”
“Do it.”
She understood his thinking: it was a warning, an unmistakable warning to the larger enemy that Vykers was not fucking around. He meant to kill all of them if he could. But his orders to Ona were also a warning, of sorts, that his will was not to be challenged. As she began searching for sticks to sharpen into stakes, she wondered for the hundredth time what she’d gotten herself into.
Long & Short, Midlands
Long sat on a sodden mound of dirt in the middle of an equally sodden meadow, chasing his thoughts around the inside of his skull like a crippled child playing at Blind Man’s Bluff.
“You might not mind the cold and wet,” Short complained, “but I ain’t a god, and it’s chappin’ my ass but good!”
Long waved a hand disinterestedly and the patch of ground between himself and his homunculus caught fire and grew into a cozy, self-maintaining blaze.
“Ah,” said Short, “that’s better.” After a prolonged silence, he added, “Regular chatterbox, ain’tcha?”
“What?” Long asked, as if waking from a dream.
“I say, you’re a regular chatterbox today.”
The captain shrugged apologetically. “I was just thinkin’.”
“Now don’t start that nonsense!” the homunculus warned. “Nothin’ good ever comes of it.”
Long turned his full attention to his companion. “You really are Short Pete, aren’t you?”
“Guess so.”
“Alheria’s teats, but I got a way o’ messin’ things up,” Long lamented.
“Aye.”
Long winced, “Thanks.”
Another extended silence blossomed between the pair, until Long had a sudden idea. “Say, Short…you’ve been dead, right?”
“Dead as yer prick and twice as cold.”
“Thanks,” Long said again. “What I mean to ask is, what’s it like? Was it a feeling? A place? Or just a whole lot o’ nothin’?”
The homunculus sat by the fire, his legs splayed wide like a rag doll’s. “Oh, it’s a place alright. Leastways, it was for me.”
Long felt his heart beating faster and wondered why it was so. “And?”
“I hope you’ve given me immortality too, Long Mahnus, ’cause I never wanna go back. Terrible place, with bodies and pieces o’ bodies lying all around, not an inch o’ soil between ’em, moaning and wailin’ like the huswives after a battle. It was darkish, but I couldn’t see the sky ’cause my face was in some bloke’s armpit, and it’s hard to move with all o’ them other bodies atop o’ you.”
“But it is a place?”
“I just said so, didn’t I?”
“Could you hear anything else, besides the moanin’?”
Short Pete considered a moment. “Rumblin’. Sometimes there were this low hum. Think I mighta heard vultures, too. Why you askin’?”
“I dunno,” Long sighed.
Short let him stew for a good while, before he interrupted the silence a third time. “So, what’s the plan, Cap’n?”
Long laughed. “Plan? You think too highly o’ me if you think I’ve got a plan.”
“Maybe that’s why I’m here, then, Long. To help you make one. What are you thinkin’?”
The captain stretched out, ’til his posture mimicked that of his diminutive friend. “One, there’s a war settin’ in, and I got friends I wanna protect. Two, assumin’ I ain’t lost my mind, Alheria killed me before I was born…” Long laughed again, and the sound indeed had a tinge of madness in it. “And I need to find out why. Three, I’m guessin’ she still wants me dead, which means four, I gotta get her first. Five, I miss my family. Six…”
“Hold it! That’s enough fer now. Seems to me them first few can all be answered with one simple step.”
“Which is?”
“We gotta go back to Lunessfor.”
“Well, dammit it all, Short! I just gave our map away!”
The homunculus shot Long a reproachful look. “You don’t really need a map, do ya?”
“No,” Long allowed. “I s’pose not.”
“I s’pose not,” Short echoed.
“But surely Her Majesty will…”
“What? She never noticed you there before!”
“Alright, alright! We’ll go!” Long griped. “I’m just not sure where we should…”
“Just pick a nice, quiet spot.”
“Okay. But you asked for it…”
Qansip, Adrift
The rain had stopped at last, but the river remained a great, bloated beast, uninterested in Qansip’s concerns or survival. She hated it and cursed it a thousand times an hour, but the river remained unmoved by her rancor and unresponsive to her threats.
And she was as cold as she’d ever been—not corpse cold, mind, but nearly so—and as wet and as hungry and as sleep deprived.
The palanquin listed unexpectedly to Qansip’s right and seemed for an instant as if it might dump her into the water. When the sideways slope of its deck finally fixed at an angle without getting better or worse, Qansip realized her unlikely vessel had gotten caught on something—an old tree stump, perhaps, or the wreckage of another craft. Once it became clear that the palanquin would never come free of its own accord, Qansip slid on her belly to the very edge to investigate the problem, whereupon an enormous pale creature leapt up at her…
Only, it was not a creature, but a giant arm or, more accurately, a giant’s arm, with a grasping hand the size of a dog. Qansip rolled onto her back and kicked herself as far from the hand as she could while still remaining onboard. The hand reached right across the deck and returned to the water on the palanquin’s far side, bringing the vessel’s back into a horizontal position, if a bit deeper in the water than normal. On the end of the arm, a blast of spray announced the arrival of the giant’s head above water. Without opening his eyes, the huge being coughed and choked and gasped for air. After an eternity of this behavior, his breathing grew calm and he cracked his eyelids, revealing bloodshot and weary eyes. Almost offhandedly, he gazed at his surroundings until his eyes happened upon Qansip.
“Hello,” said he, in the deepest voice the girl had ever heard.
Suddenly, she became aware that parts of her arms and legs weren’t entirely covered, so she pulled her wet blankets more fully around herself. “Good…good afternoon,” she ventured.
“You look drenched,” said the giant.
“Nowhere near as much as you!” Qansip retorted.
“No, you’re right about that.” After a moment’s consideration, the giant continued. “You fancy gettin’ out of this river?”
“Why?” Qansip snapped. “So you can eat me?”
“Eat you?” the giant asked, taken aback. “Scrawny little thing like you?”
“Scrawny?” Qansip squeaked in outrage. “I’ll have you know…”
The giant ignored her and began dragging the whole palanquin towards the near shore, but Qansip could hardly protest since getting to shore had been her dearest wish for days. As long as the giant didn’t eat her. Her savior grew taller as he moved into the shallows. Qansip wondered if she could make a run for it as soon as the palanquin ran aground. She was just on the brink of action when the giant let go and collapsed face-down onto the muddy embankment, his sides heaving like a great bellows, his breath roaring like waves of the sea. Qansip watched from her bundle of blankets, trying to decide whether to wait until the giant fell asleep—as it seemed he might—or bolt immediately, while his back was turned. While she was struggling to decide, his breathing slowed and became nearly inaudible. Perhaps he had fallen asleep after all.
With all the caution of a mouse sneaking up on a fox, Qansip climbed out of the palanquin and tip-toed over to the giant, inching closer and closer to his head. She just had to be sure that he—His huge hand whipped off the ground and seized her in its grip. She yelped in surprise and terror, but before she was able to work up a good scream, the giant shoved her into the cavern between his shoulder and the damp soil beneath.
“Must…stay…warm…” he rumbled.
But she hadn’t heard real rumbling until he began to snore.
She’d been afraid her captor would roll over on her in his sleep, but he did not. And she did warm up, lying next to him. In fact, it was the warmest and, eventually, driest she’d been in ages. She was still worried he’d eat her when he awoke, though, and she fretted for hours about how she might defend herself when that time came. Thus, she was mortified when she opened her eyes sometime later and night had fallen. She could hardly believe that she’d been asleep as well and now understood that her next chance at escape wouldn’t happen until sunrise, at least. What was she to do? What was she to…
When she opened her eyes again, it was late morning under cloudy skies, and the giant had moved off downriver a ways. Her chance had come at last! With her heart pounding in her throat, Qansip leapt to her feet and dashed upriver as fast as her little legs would carry her. She ran unmolested until the river rounded a bend, where she stopped, amazed that she’d gotten so far without being recaptured. Daring a look backwards, she saw that the giant wasn’t after her. Relief quickly turned to indignation. How could the great oaf ignore her so easily? Couldn’t he see she was no mere peasant girl? Anger swelled in her majestic bosom, and she stalked rapidly back within sight of the giant.
“Hey!” she yelled. “Giant!”
He looked up without hurry from whatever it was he’d been doing, saw her, and returned his attention to his task. That was simply too much for Qansip.
“Hey, you big idiot!” she yelled again, “I’m talking to you.”
The giant actually dared to pretend she wasn’t addressing him! Furious, Qansip searched for and found a small stone on the ground nearby. She picked it up, hefted it once, and hurled it in the giant’s direction. Luckily for her, it fell well short of its intended target, because even the effort angered the giant. He surged to his feet, reaching his full height for the first time since Qansip had met him, and the young woman almost fainted from the size of him. Now, he did move towards her, and she turned to run in earnest. One moment she was sprinting over the damp grass, the next, she was dangling by one arm, ten or more feet off the ground. The giant was going to eat her this time, she was certain. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw he face draw near, so she quickly clamped her eyes shut, that she might not witness her own doom.
“What is your name, girl?” the giant’s voice thundered.
“M-m-my name is Q-Q-Qansip,” she replied. “I’m n-n-named after a p-p-princess!”
“They must have piss poor manners in that kingdom,” the giant observed. “My name’s Eoman, and I’m a real king…or was. You want to talk to me, use my name.”
Qansip said nothing, but nodded feebly until Eoman put her back down.
“Now, why don’t you make yourself useful and gather some firewood, while I keep tryin’ to get this fire goin’?”
Ah! So that was what he’d been doing. Now she thought on it, fire seemed like a good idea, an excellent idea. As long as he didn’t use it to roast her alive.
She was not enamored of manual labor, was Qansip, but her distaste for the cold and damp was even worse, so she set about her chore with a zeal her father would never have recognized. Thinking of him, Qansip wondered whether he was still angry with her, whether he’d been searching for her, and whether he was even still living. She felt an unfamiliar pang of…sorrow? Shame? She had never been a particularly introspective creature, and examining her feelings and actions now was not pleasant for her. Fortunately, her arms were now full of firewood, and she was able to return to the giant—to Eoman—with something to show for her efforts.
Eoman said nothing when she dumped her wood next to him. He might at least have thanked her. But he had managed to get a small fire going, and she decided to let his ingratitude pass. In time, the small fire had grown into a healthy blaze. Qansip, no longer shivering and damp, announced that she was hungry.
“So?” asked Eoman.
“I thought you might want to get us some food,” Qansip explained.
“Us? I’m nobody’s lackey, girl—least of all, yours. Besides, I’m still drying out.”
Qansip was not used to being spoken to in such a manner by anyone but her father, but she didn’t see how she could possibly bully the giant into doing her bidding. Frustrated, she lapsed into sullen silence.
The day progressed, and Eoman seemed thoroughly content to remain by the fire, running his fingers through his beard and tossing an occasional stick onto the embers. When he ran out of firewood, he rose and stretched.
“We need more wood,” said he. “Maybe there’s something edible around here, too.”
“You will come back, though?” Qansip asked, trying to keep the worry out of her voice.
“Probably,” Eoman smirked. “We’ll see what we see.” With that, he strode off into the bushes and trees that lined this side of the river.
When they’d first met, Qansip had been afraid the giant would eat her. Now, she was afraid of facing the wilderness without him. Above all, she hoped he’d be back before sunset. In her palanquin on the river, she’d had no fear of wolves or Svarren, but on shore, they posed all too real a threat.
Perhaps she should be kinder to the giant.
Mendis, In Nespharia
The latest report described an attack upon one of his forward companies by a small band of warriors, led by a demon on a nearly invisible horse. The Emperor’s men had been routed, and a subsequent visit to the site revealed a gruesome message from the Reaper. Mendis was paradoxically elated. Wykkerian had revealed himself at last! If he could capture the man himself, Mendis would no longer be bound by his agreement with the Queen and would, therefore, be free to assault her capital…assuming his wizards could keep her at bay. Anyway, he’d no idea how or where to find this Long Pete fellow and was even less certain how to kill him. Indeed, for all he knew, Long Pete might be his best, most natural ally.
Things were going well on other fronts, as well. Messengers from the Tsundi and B’Shar reported little resistance to their efforts at conquering the north and south respectively. It seemed Mendis’ wizards had been correct that this new land was beyond war-weary and its people possessed little stomach for further conflict. Had Wykkerian cowed the whole continent? Such was his reputation, certainly. And it didn’t much matter to Mendis. The point was that imperial casualties were low, morale was good, and only the Queen’s strange magics seemed to pose any concern. And Mendis’ wizards were hard at work deciphering those, as well.
Feeling downright buoyant, the Emperor signaled to his guard that he was ready to hear the petition of the locals who’d dared to remain and made the long climb from the lower city to see him. Now, he would show these people how an Emperor ruled.
He sat in Nespharia’s throne as comfortably as if he’d been there all his life, and he knew he looked the same. He’d been born to rule. Thus, when the small contingent of angry natives entered his presence, they swallowed their hurt and their pride on the instant and fell to their knees. Mendis was most pleased.
His wizards had enspelled this throne room such that anything spoken in any language was immediately made sensible to anyone present. This made Mendis’ job much easier.
“You wished to speak with me?” he called out in his most benevolent voice.
The startled townspeople regarded each other in confusion and then shoved their spokesman forward. He was a solid man of medium height, brown hair, brown eyes and an especially bulbous nose. He looked like someone accustomed to hard work and honest treatment; he looked reasonable.
Mendis felt he could work with him. “What can I do for you?” he prompted.
“Well,” the man began, “we’re, uh…we’re grateful you didn’t kill all of us after takin’ our city, your Highness…”
One of the wizards cut in, “We address the Emperor as ‘Magnificence’.”
“Your Magnificence…” the man amended.
Mendis nodded in acknowledgment. “Go on…”
“But now we got no means to live and no means to make a living.”
Mendis smiled, all understanding. “What is your name, friend?”
“Garret, Magnificence.”
“Garret. A fine name! I can certainly see why you feel as you do, Garret, but it’s possible you misunderstand my motives: I am not here to destroy you, but to build you and your people up. This is why, as you noted, I did not kill your fellow citizens. Instead, I intend to welcome you into my empire, an empire that spans two continents and thousands of years! No longer will you be victim to the petty squabbles of city-states and minor kingdoms. When I have completed my conquest of this land, you will have one ruler, one military, one currency, one faith, one legal system and more. You will know fairness and justice, security and dignity.”
Garret looked to his comrades who seemed unanimously awe-stricken by the Emperor’s statement.
“But I will do more for you, my newfound friend: I will eradicate the Svarren and bring your giant folk to heel. I will make the oceans safe for everyone to travel and, in doing so, I will open up new avenues of trade and exploration.”
Garret was dumbfounded. “I…we…this sounds wonderful, your…Magnificence.”
“And so it shall be,” Mendis beamed. “But in the short term, you’ll be wanting work, food and shelter, no? Say the word, and I’ll assign you to my force rebuilding your city. You’ll have everything you need.”
The natives huddled briefly and Garret reemerged from their number with a great, goofy smile upon his face. “We accept your offer, Magnificence. How can we not?”
“Excellent!” Mendis cried as he stood and spread his arms wide. He looked over to his guards and added, “See that these men are well placed and cared for, and death to the man who mistreats them in any way.”
“Your will, Magnificence,” one of the guards responded.
“And bring me colonel Bailis,” Mendis tossed in on a whim. He was in such a good mood; it was almost intoxicating. While someone went to fetch the colonel, the Emperor crossed the room and sat at a table he often used for private meals. There, he found an ever-full decanter of red wine and a plate of cheese. The locals had a peculiar cheese that seemed to get tastier the more it deteriorated. It didn’t look much like something one ought to put in one’s mouth, and yet it was frightfully delicious. Mendis helped himself to a glass of wine and a generous slice of the cheese whilst he waited for Bailis’ arrival, surprised at how well that wine and cheese complimented one another. He was still pondering this when the colonel and his guards arrived.
“How would you like to work for me, Colonel?” the Emperor asked as soon as Bailis came through the door.
“I’m speechless, Magnificence.”
“Which only increases your value!” Mendis joked. “I’ve got plenty of long-winded advisors and staff as it is. But let me come to the point: I’ll have need of men of percipience and judgment if I’m to win over the natives and successfully assimilate them into my growing empire. I would like, for starters, to put you in charge of those citizens who still remain in this city. You’ll continue its reconstruction and ensure that all voices are heard and sides are well-served and content.”
“You humble me, Magnificence,” Bailis responded, “to think me worthy of such an enormous task.”
“And yet I do. And you shall be well compensated. I’ll name you ‘Lord Bailis, Governor of Nespharia’ and give you this city as your domain when my troops and I leave for the west.”
“Outside of Her Majesty—whose motivations few can guess and none dare question—we’ve known nothing but tyrants and lunatics in this land. I believe…I do believe if anyone can unite us, it is you, Magnificence.”
“Then you accept my offer?”
Bailis got down on one knee and lowered his head. “I do.”
Mendis rested a hand on the colonel’s shoulder. “Then rise, Lord Bailis of the Staurachian Empire. We’ve much to accomplish.”
The Alchemist, Yendor & Co., Lunessfor
Although the Alchemist was doing his best to hide it, Yendor could tell he was drunk. Of course Yendor could tell! Yendor’d spent the better part of his life drunk and he knew every sign and symptom. And there was no question of why the man was pickled, either. He’d succeeded in replicating the magical elixir and had either been celebrating the accomplishment or simply sampling the wares for safety’s sake and gotten carried away. All this Yendor understood the moment he and his friends stepped through the Alchemist’s door; all this was confirmed the moment the Alchemist spoke.
“Victory!” the man sang out, in a far jollier mood than Yendor, Spirk and Ron had ever seen him.
“You’re drunk!” said Ron, somewhat diminishing Yendor’s observational prowess.
“’S what if I am? Am I not the greatest Alchemist in the world?” He held up a rare glass goblet, half-full of pale gold liquid. “But here’s my proof! Let this celestial liquor speak on my behalf.”
“’E’s layin’ it on with a trowel, isn’t ’e?” Yendor muttered to Ron out the corner of his mouth.
“It smells right to me!” Spirk offered.
The Alchemist stooped behind his counter, belched loudly, and lifted a small keg into the light. “I made you a touch more than I agreed to, in thanks for bringing this my way.”
“You like it, then?” Yendor asked, stupidly.
“Like it? Friend, you could rule the world with this—what are you planning to do with it, by that way?”
Suddenly, Yendor became cagey again. “That’s private-like.”
“Is it?” the Alchemist giggled. It was a high, tittering sound that seemed quite ludicrous coming from so pale and dour a fellow. “As you like, then. I’ll have more for you next time.”
Yendor gestured for Ron to accept and carry the cask, not trusting Spirk with the job, and nodded to the Alchemist. “Yes. See you then.”
“Yes!” the Alchemist giggled some more.
Back outside, Yendor quickly herded his friends into an alley. “Did you find a secret place, like I asked you?” he demanded of Spirk.
“’Course I did!”
“Well, what are we waiting for? Can you do your magic trick, now?” he asked the Shaper.
Spirk smiled, and suddenly Yendor’s ears were flapping.
“Not that trick, you whoreson zed!” In a trice, his ears stopped wiggling. “Take us to our new hideout!”
Comprehension slowly crept across Spirk’s visage until, at last, he gestured for his friends to draw closer. He wrapped them all in an awkward hug and instantly everything grew dark.
The air was cooler and smelled slightly musty.
“You can let go of me now,” Rem suggested. “And maybe magic-up some light for us.”
“Not yet,” said Yendor. “I wanna try something.” Lifting the eye patch off his dead eye, he discovered it was still able to see in the dark. “We’re in a storage room ’o some sort. Lots ’o old chairs ’n tables ’n portraits ’n whatnot.”
“How can you tell?” Ron wanted to know.
“Never you mind, my lad. Old Yendor’s gotta have a few secrets, don’t he?” To Spirk he said, “Alright, go ahead and light something up for us.” Apparently, he was still learning the value of specificity where giving instructions to Spirk was concerned, because no sooner had his words left his lips than he, himself, began glowing like a harvest moon. “What in Mahnus’ name…?”
“Sorry,” a now-visible Spirk shrugged sheepishly. “I couldn’t think o’ nothin’ else.”
“Might be there’s some torch-making materials amongst all this other stuff,” said Rem. “We’re going to need a better source of light…”
“What d’you mean, ‘better’?” Yendor bristled.
The men bantered and bickered for a while more, while they cleared a table, surrounded it with a number of mismatched chairs, and placed a glowing vase at its center.
“Looks kinda homey!” Spirk announced with great satisfaction.
Although Yendor was loath to part with his cask, he was unable to carry it a moment longer and so lovingly set it down on the table. “Anybody see any cups or bottles anywhere? We need to uncork this sweetheart and have a taste of her quality!”
“I thought we had other plans for this batch,” Rem reminded his companion.
“And so we do!” Yendor agreed. “But we can’t unleash it on an unsuspectin’ public ’til we know it’s safe! And besides, there’s more ’n enough here to go around.”
Rem could see from the looks on his friends’ faces that he’d be alone if he chose to abstain. With a sigh of resignation, he pulled a flask from inside his vest. There was still a bit of brandy in it, but it may as well have been horse piss compared to what was coming. Without a word, Rem uncorked the flask and poured its contents onto the floor. “We can use this,” said he.
And use it they did. Over and over.
Untold hours later, they awakened to find they’d built strange sculptures from the room’s furniture, painted childish images on the walls with dust and spit, and, most inexplicably of all, changed clothes with each other. Despite these oddities, to a man they felt better than they had in ages.
“Ah,” said Rem, “this is grand stuff, this elixir! What shall we call it?”
Yendor, who’d begun disrobing in preparation for a return to own clothing, replied, “It does need a name, doesn’t it? How about ‘Plotz’ Potable’?”
“Remuel Wratch’s Restorative?”
“Can’t be,” said Yendor. “You’re dead, remember?”
Ron, in endeavoring to get out of Yendor’s trousers, instead tripped and fell onto his side. Nevertheless, he offered, “Nessno’s Magical Drink?”
“Not very catchy, that,” Rem answered. “Rem’s Remedy?”
“Nah,” said Yendor.
Spirk, who’d pulled his shirt over his face, mumbled, “Long Pete’s Happy Stuff?”
“Long’s Old Peculiar!” Rem shouted enthusiastically.
In the end, they voted on it, and Long’s Old Peculiar won out, with Yendor being the only no vote. It wasn’t that he didn’t think Long worthy, but Yendor’d been the one to save enough of the liquor to have it reproduced and he damn well wanted some credit. Still, he consoled himself with the knowledge that more beverages were in the offing, and he’d certainly be able to name one of those after himself.
Once everyone had managed to reclaim and restore his own clothing, the group got down to business.
“What’s the next step in this plan of yours?” Rem asked Yendor.
“Well, first we gotta spruce this place up a bit. Then we gotta make sure nobody can get in here but us. After that, we hafta rob the city’s biggest brewery.”
Apparently, Ron and Spirk were already aware of Yendor’s plans, but Rem remained confused. “A brewery? Why don’t we rob a bank? They’re certain to have more coin on hand…”
“’Cause it ain’t coin we’re after, Rem. We’re lookin’ to steal the brewery’s ale.”
Driegan & his Escort, Midlands
In his exhaustion, Driegan didn’t see or hear the enemy’s scouts approaching until they were within hailing distancing of one another, and, by then, it was too late to run away, and he and his men certainly didn’t have the energy to give chase. As Driegan watched the scouts wheel about on their mounts and gallop off, he knew his only hope of remaining free was through negotiation. He sat on his own horse, dejected but not defeated. There was a way out of every predicament.
He figured if he offered the invaders some of his treasure, though, they’d take it all. If he tried to hide it amongst his men, the enemy would find it. Thus, there was only one thing to do: forsaking his chests of coin, Driegan located his three largest gems and swallowed them. They went down painfully, even with large gulps of wine to ease their passage, but the effort brought Driegan a certain peace of mind all the same. He would always have something to bargain with.
In the meantime, he instructed his men to march, double time, in the direction opposite the scouts’ retreat. No sense in making his capture easy for the enemy, after all. And perchance he’d think of something, some useful stratagem while he awaited their return.
Or not. Too soon, he heard the thundering of cavalry at his back. Quickly, he slid from his saddle and summoned one of his men to his side.
“Take my cloak and climb into my saddle,” he commanded.
The soldier, not nearly as stupid as Driegan suspected, said “Nah, nah. I ain’t takin’ your place just for shits and giggles. You’ll have to pay me.”
“Right,” Driegan said, and stabbed him in the gut with his dagger. Hastily, Driegan dressed the still-dying man in his cloak, jammed a couple of rings on his fingers and then kicked him in the face ’til he died. The other men were so shocked by this action than none found the strength to speak. “Good,” Driegan snarled at them. “And if you know what’s best for you, you’ll keep your mouths shut.”
When the enemy force arrived, everything suggested Driegan’s company had pulled their leader from his horse and killed him for getting them caught. The enemy commander barked out a series of harsh, unrecognizable words, and his fellows began to surround Driegan’s men, who, despite the language difference, knew enough to stand still and offer no resistance. In the middle of the pack, Driegan kept his eyes down and feigned absolute submission. He believed he and his men would be taken captive and marched back to wherever-it-was these invaders had chosen to station themselves. It was possible they would execute him eventually, but not, he hoped, before they attempted to question him. At that point, he would bargain with them. He possessed gems, after all, and probably useful information, as well.
No, Driegan Deda was a long way from finished.
Kittins, Beneath Lunessfor
The passageway was not especially well-hidden, but it did require a great deal of strength to access it. Fortunately, Kittins had more than enough for the task. He stretched his great arms and placed a hand on either side of the false fireplace and pulled. He wasn’t sure which way it was meant to move, and, at first, it didn’t budge. Eventually, though, he felt it give in his direction, and he persevered until it came free of the wall. Behind it, as he’d suspected, a dusty and fully cobwebbed passage led off into darkness. The smell of the Aumbre wafted out of the hole, suggesting the way forward was damp at the very least and perhaps even submerged. Well, Kittins had drowned before, if it came to that. He knew what to expect.
On the fireplace’s far side, the captain once again grabbed ahold and dragged until the entrance was sealed behind him. Then, he paused to take stock and let the darkness envelop him. He heard no telltale dripping, no lapping of waves and was almost disappointed. Using his flint and steel, he struck sparks to the torch he’d brought along and, satisfied with the flame this produced, walked farther into the tunnel. He doubted anyone had come or gone this way in ages, but he reckoned he’d know better soon enough.
He’d chosen this particular passage because it seemed to connect to others barely hinted at on his map. If there were more, who knew where they might lead? And who knew who had built them? In the past, Kittins had not been a particularly curious man. In recent years, however, he’d learned the error of his ways, as astounding revelations piled up faster than he could count them, and all of them, all of them, intimating a larger and more elaborate design then he’d previously been aware of.
In some ways, this mystery and his growing desire to try Vykers in combat were all he had left. He understood, as he’d told Rem, that the opportunity to have a family of his own had passed him by; he understood that service to and promotion with Her Majesty was fool’s gold, a meaningless exercise in self-abuse, under an unknowable being who cared little or nothing for his own needs and desires. Oh, he would kill her, if he could. If only he knew how to begin…
The passageway descended slowly at first and then got steeper as Kittins moved along. Still, there was no dripping or other signs of moisture. Yet the Aumbre’s aroma persisted, like a bad thought that would not be banished. The possibility that there were hundreds of thousands of tons of water coursing overhead bothered the captain not at all. When death finally came for him, it would be a sword through the back, a barrage of arrows, or some other, equally martial act.
Down he traveled, and down and down some more. He’d no way to gauge the passage of time in these lightless depths, no hourglasses, no candles, no bells. But his gut told him he’d been descending for over an hour. To his surprise, he suddenly arrived at an old steel door, crusted with rust at its edges and locked with an equally rusty lock and chain. Kittins hated the thought of having traveled so far, only to reach a dead-end. He lashed out at the door with his right foot, but though the object of his scorn boomed in the darkness, it remained otherwise unchanged by the blow. So be it. Kittins found a dry patch on the floor on which to place is torch, and then he backed away from the door a good twenty paces. Like an enraged bull, he charged the door, turning his left shoulder into it at the last second, and blasted the thing right off its hinges and into the hallway beyond. Kittins stumbled a few steps farther and fell to his knees, wincing in pain.
“Bastard,” he groaned.
His shoulder crunched and crackled a little as he rolled it forward and back, but seemed to remain in working order despite the impact. The door, however, was finished.
After a brief respite, during which the captain retrieved his dwindling torch—another problem he’d have to deal with sooner or later—Kittins passed through the now-open doorway and continued on his journey, ruminating on the door’s purpose and what might lie beyond it. Gradually, he became aware of a high whining noise, almost above the range of human hearing. The farther he walked, the more intense the sound became, until it was actually painful to his ears. And then, unexpectedly, the passageway ended, and Kittins found himself staring at a stone wall, not much different from those to his left and right.
The whine continued.
Kittins drew his sword and banged its pommel against the wall directly in front of him, resulting in a dull knocking sound. He tried the walls on either side, and his sword rang, but the stones beneath it made little sound. So, the passageway was meant to continue but someone had sealed it off and made it look like a dead-end. Not very clever, really, as Kittins thought about it. Who guards a dead-end with a steel door? What was beyond this false wall, though? Even as he pondered the question, the whining increased in volume and urgency, to a point where it almost seemed like a cry for help.
But Kittins was nobody’s savior.
Still, he was curious. Again, he glanced at his torch and estimated that even if he left now, he’d lose his light well before he returned to the surface. And what was a little darkness to him? The more pressing question was how he might break through the wall. Unlike the door before it, the wall did not look or feel like anything that could simply be kicked in or demolished without tools. He had his sword and long knives, of course, but they seemed hardly suited to the task. Nothing for it then, but a long climb back to the surface to fetch a hammer and chisels.
The whining and wailing beyond the wall continued.
Vykers & Co., the Forest
The Reaper was behaving very strangely, from Hjuest’s perspective. They’d ridden hard for a particular forest, and, when it came time to make camp, he’d instructed them to build their fire on a bed of stones, using only deadwood for fuel. He was adamant that nothing be carved or cut from living trees or bushes. It was all very odd, if easy enough to accomplish. Then, when night fell, Vykers said he needed to wander off alone for a spell. The rest of the men turned their heads almost in unison to stare at the Red Knight, but what could he tell them? He’d no idea what the Reaper was up to.
Just before he vanished from sight, Vykers called back, “And keep your hands off the girl!”
The object of his comment was clearly insulted by it, but she was safe. She didn’t look the kind of wench one tangled with, anyway. As if she could read the Red Knight’s mind, Ona scowled in his direction and made a very overt display of placing her hand on the hilt of her sword.
“I am no fool,” Hjuest chuckled, trying to make light of the situation.
“All men are fools,” Ona retorted.
“I have heard dat before,” he grinned.
“I am sure you have.”
Hjuest gave up. The woman wanted a fight—or something—and he wasn’t disposed to cooperate, especially with Vykers’ words still ringing in his ears.
There was no one in the world like Tarmun Vykers. Perhaps there’d once been others, but he was alone, now, unequaled and beyond definition. Even the gods existed in numbers, or so she had always been taught. Vykers, though, remained inexplicably singular. She could feel the Reaper’s footsteps on the surface of this same world just as a spider feels a fly in its web, only this fly was much too dangerous for any spider’s liking, and she would sooner have killed herself than him, the last and only of his kind. And what kind was that, exactly? Even her greatest trees had no memory of others like him. For all her newfound senses, Vykers was the one mystery that remained beyond her understanding.
He drew near, and she revealed herself to him, materializing from the forest shadows. “Are you lost, Reaper?” she teased.
If she’d caught him off-guard, he gave no sign of it. “When aren’t I?” he grinned. “Seems I always end up where I’m meant to be anyway. Don’t it, though?”
Aoife smiled. “It does. But will we agree on why you’re meant to be here?”
“Oh,” said Vykers, “I reckon there’s a couple ’o reasons.”
“I’m sure,” the Umaena replied with a hint of light-hearted sarcasm.
She offered her hand, he took it, and without any apparent travel, they were once again within her bower, where the full moon reigned and a million stars blazed down from above. On this occasion, they were quick to bed, tearing at one another’s clothing with an abandon born of insatiable need too long denied. Vykers found that Aoife had changed; there were faint, eldritch tracings on her skin, like the whorls on a leaf or in the bark of an ancient tree. Her hair smelled of flowers, of grass, of endless summers and snowfall. Her irises had become twin whirlpools of nature’s colors and changed from cornflower to indigo to emerald and more at a mesmerizing rate. It was like watching an endless succession of sunsets, and the Reaper was hard put to break eye contact. Had she enspelled him? He could not have cared less.
Vykers had changed, too, and he hadn’t. The grievous injuries Aoife knew he’d suffered throughout their acquaintance had all faded without leaving the faintest of scars behind. It was impossible, of course, but then they were both impossible. They were, in paradox, a matched pair of anomalies. Nevertheless, their goals were antithetical, as the Umaena had often observed. What was it, then, that united them?
Aoife’s need pushed these thoughts aside. Her body wanted what it wanted, and to embrace Vykers, to take him inside, was to embrace a massive, cresting wave, a tornado, a wildfire. His raw, elemental hunger consumed her.
Afterwards, basking in the heat and heady scent of his body, she toyed briefly with the notion of combining their power, their objectives, but as her pulse and breathing slowed and the forest again intruded upon her consciousness, she understood that such a thing could never, would never be. Indeed, she wondered if the day might not come when they’d be enemies, the one forced to kill the other as Alheria had allegedly killed Mahnus.
Vykers snored lightly, ingloriously, in her ear, and she nudged him with an elbow to roll onto his side. Her attention returned to the Greenwood.
“I didn’t just drop by for a little slap-and-tickle,” Vykers admitted as she awoke.
Romance was not amongst his talents.
“I’d have been disappointed if you had,” said Aoife.
The Reaper looked out into the night, gathered his thoughts. “I need your help.”
The Umaena about fell out of her bower and onto the forest floor, below. “The Reaper needs someone?” Aoife joked. “Where are the scribes to record this historic event?”
This time, it was Vykers who took Aoife’s hand, gave it a gentle tug. “I’ve gotta get myself and my men across the sea again. Fast.”
Ah. He wanted to use the Here/There.
“And the return trip?”
For a moment, Vykers looked confused. “This is something I gotta do…a step at a time.”
Aoife could guess. With the Emperor and seemingly every male inhabitant of his distant land currently invading, it left the door to the proverbial henhouse unattended. Vykers could steal inside and then…”Are you plotting murder?”
“What?” he asked, with more of the same confusion. Then, “No; it’s something to do with me, it’s personal.”
Personal? They’d just been as intimate as two people could be, and yet his heart remained impenetrable. “Yes,” Aoife said, “I’ll help you.”
He seemed relieved, kissed her and said, “I s’pose I should go fetch the men…”
Aoife glanced into the night. “Or I could have them brought hither.”
Vykers could well imagine what that might entail and how well it’d be received by his little company. “Best I do it,” said he. “Don’t wanna spook the boys.”
The Umaena wasn’t convinced, but unwilling to say so. “As you say.”
The Reaper was back down on the forest floor, already facing the direction of his camp. There was little that escaped his mistress’ attention in the forest.
When he strode back into the firelight of camp, it was as if he’d been gone just long enough to relieve himself. His men—and Ona—were just where he’d left them.
“Forget someting?” Hjuest asked.
Vykers shook his head. “I need you all to pack up and follow me.”
The Red Knight was about to object on his fellows’ behalf. What was the point in making camp, only to move it so soon? But he kept his mouth shut. His master was not to be second-guessed.
Mendis, In Nespharia
Mendis was down in the lower city, watching his troops drill in the yard and spying on Lord Bailis’ efforts to assimilate the locals when an officer approached.
“Magnificence,” the man said, bowing ever-so-slightly.
“Any news of Wykkerian’s whereabouts?”
“Alas, no, Magnificence. But we’ve captured more prisoners.”
The Emperor sighed. He was fed up with ‘more prisoners.’ So far, only Bailis had been of any value. “And?”
“It was thought you might wish to question them.”
“No,” Mendis replied irritably. “Have Bailis and one of the wizards question them. And tell my staff to bring me no more news that isn’t!”
“Isn’t, Magnificence?”
“News!” Mendis clarified. “News that is neither new nor of interest. What is my staff for if not to handle such mundanities?”
The man bowed again, said a quick “Your word, your will,” and scampered back to wherever he’d been. Mendis ground his teeth at the fellow’s ‘message.’ The worst of it was, he had a meeting soon with that very staff and knowing them as he did, he could already hear what each of them would say. Dabis would argue for an assault on the Queen’s capital. Promartis would suggest moving the Emperor’s base to warmer climes. A third would insist that capturing Wykkerian first was all that mattered. And then the wizards would set to babbling or pontificating, as their moods dictated.
Some men believed that strength, intellect or charisma were a ruler’s greatest assets. Mendis knew patience to be most important, patience with his own forces and patience with the enemy. Through his studies and through personal experience, Mendis knew that too many kings and emperors had been goaded—by their supporters, their enemies, sometimes even themselves—into actions that led to downfalls that might have been prevented with a touch more patience. Often, such rulers recognized the foolhardy nature of their actions, but hadn’t the will to resist pursuing them, anyway. When the end finally came, it was always to the bitter fulfillment of their expectations.
Mendis would not be such a fool. If capturing Wykkerian and conquering this land took him an unprecedented twenty years, he would consider the time well spent, despite the long absence from his court and family. He had been born and trained to rule the world, to unite its disparate peoples under the banner of the Staurachian Empire. He would do no less.
The meeting unfolded precisely as the Emperor had predicted, up until he slammed his pewter mug on the table top and demanded his advisors’ attention.
“Enough!” he commanded and said nothing more until the room became silent. He looked around the table and met the eyes of each of his generals and wizards. “I have said—and more than once—that we shall cut this continent in half, that we shall serve as the anvil upon which the twin hammers of the B’Shar and Tsundi shall break the wills of the native peoples. But I have also said we shall accept and welcome any native man or woman who seeks to join our empire. Let our allies play the villains; we’ll play the saviors and endear ourselves and our empire to these rustics. They’ll come, as I believe Lord Bailis has, to view us as the better choice, the wiser choice for their allegiance than this haggard Virgin Queen they speak of. And yes, in time we’ll march upon her capital—not to make war, however, but to seduce her subjects into joining our cause.” The Emperor looked at every face around the table a second time, ensuring that everyone had both heard and understood his message. “Good,” Mendis concluded. “You have my leave to go—except for Lord Commander Dabis and High Wizard Alsig.”
The Emperor’s advisors filed out of his presence, some making small talk, others lost in thought. In less than two minutes, only Mendis and his closest advisors remained. Even the Emperor’s bodyguard had departed, knowing there was little danger to their lord with Alsig at his side.
Mendis crossed the room, found a decanter of wine on a nearby shelf, and poured himself a cup. “No more questions or talk of strategy until and unless I say differently,” he said to his Lord Commander. “This open debate amongst my counsel smacks of doubt—or worse. Do you mark me, Dabis?”
“Well, Magnificence.”
“Excellent,” Mendis smiled, though whether he was referring to his wine or Dabis’ statement, the Lord Commander could not tell. “Now leave me to speak with Alsig.”
Dabis showed Mendis the crown of his head, and then silently left the room.
“And for what shall I be scolded?” the wizard asked, without effort to mask his gentle sarcasm.
“Your tone, for starters. Beyond that, you know why I’m unhappy. Or you should.”
“Well, as I’ve said, we’re working on the problem.”
“Work better,” Mendis answered. “I don’t want that woman—for want of a better word—surprising us again. We’ll never be entirely free to pursue our plans as long as she can pop in on me whenever she likes.”
“Consider me chastened.”
“You don’t sound it. But you will if she murders me in my sleep…unless of course you fancy the throne yourself.”
This time, the wizard did appear chastened. “Never, Magnificence. My family has served yours for generations, and I have no other ambition than to continue doing so.”
The Emperor seemed satisfied, for he changed the subject. “And what other news have you?”
Now, the wizard puffed himself up like a rooster, happy at the chance to show off what he’d learned. “This continent is smaller than our own by a fifth to a quarter. It is difficult to be more precise without more study. At any rate, this land extends farther north than ours, but ours reaches much farther south. There are, as you might expect, numerous languages and dialects, but, on the whole, the natives believe in versions of the same gods. There are several different types of currency, but Her Majesty is attempting to standardize that; she’s just not managing as quickly and efficiently as we would. We are still learning of the land’s sentient races, as you know, and the study of its birds, beasts and fishes may take years to accomplish. But of greatest interest, as you’ve noted, are these Svarren, these giants and a few other hostiles.”
“Do they—individually or collectively—pose any threat to our cause?”
“Your legions have never been defeated.”
It was an evasive answer, which told Mendis that his wizards were not yet comfortable enough in their research to make guarantees. “Very well,” the Emperor said, subdued. “We’ll talk more of this anon.” The wizard was about to depart when Mendis spoke again. “Have you and your brothers finished with my map?”
“Your map…?” Alsig echoed.
“Yes, the map of Lunessfor’s secret ways. Have you finished with it?”
“Pardon, Magnificence, but I—we—don’t have it. I assumed you’d…”
“I haven’t seen it since I turned it over to you,” Mendis exclaimed. “Find it. Bring it back to me.” This last was not shouted, but said carefully, slowly, so that the wizard could not mistake his master’s message.
“I shall.”
The Emperor turned away, clearly done with his wizard for the evening.