Vykers & Co, In the Emperor’s Lands
Once again, Vykers was struck by how much warmer and somehow heavier the air seemed compared to that back home. Always, he could feel it moving across his skin, like a lover’s caress, promising mysterious pleasures and urging him to contentment. But contentment was not Vykers’ way.
He and his band had ridden for two days, encountered no one, and seen little of note. The Reaper was bored. He knew why, of course: everyone from this side of the sea was over on the other side, sacking his homeland. Briefly, he felt envious—the greatest conflict in a lifetime, and he was not involved. Not yet, anyway. Defender or liberator, it was all one to him, so long as he was victorious in the end.
Behind him, Vykers’ heard his men’s whispered conversations in a hodge-podge of different languages. Hjuest could sort it all out, but to Vykers it was flat gibberish. The only person who wasn’t speaking, didn’t ever speak, was Ona, which, from the Reaper’s experience, probably meant she had the most to say. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. She’d chosen to follow him, against his wishes or advice, she could damn well suffer the consequences.
Still…how in Mahnus’ name could she possibly be his granddaughter? Endless hells, his head hurt just thinking about it. He supposed he’d have his answers—and they, their reckoning—sooner or later.
Vykers scanned the horizon. It looked like there was a small forest to the northwest, maybe a good place to make camp or even to summon Aoife, if needs must. He didn’t think she’d come, but he surely enjoyed thinking about it.
A line of trees and shrubs crossing the group’s path indicated the presence of a river. “We’ll follow that,” Vykers announced. “’S gotta lead to a town eventually.”
“And vhy do ve vant a town?” Hjuest inquired. “Isn’t it dangerous to let too many people see us?”
The Reaper looked askance at his Second. “I’m gonna forget you questioning me for now. I want to find a town so I can assess just how bare the Emperor’s left his cupboard. Understand?”
Chastened, Hjuest shrugged. “Ya, ya. I see.”
They rode straight for the trees, where they confirmed the presence of a river.
Vykers leaned his head upriver. “This way.”
It wasn’t long before the group saw little docks here and there and even the occasional rowboat. What they did not see was people.
“So far, it’s looking like dey are all gone,” Hjuest allowed.
The Reaper said nothing.
In time, they came to a small village. The first building—and the one of most interest—was an inn, nestled beneath the boughs of a gigantic tree. Vykers slid from his saddle. “Secure the horses,” he said over his shoulder, not caring who did the task, but confident it would be done.
As he approached the door, Vykers saw that the steps and front door were well-maintained. He reckoned the women were in charge now. He passed under the Inn’s sign without reading it—‘W’-something—gripped the door handle, and pushed inside…
Where he was surprised to see a lone man behind the bar, cleaning bottles with a cloth. The barkeep looked up at him and said, “Leave your weapons outside, if you please.”
“I don’t please,” Vykers responded. “But I don’t need ’em, either.” He popped his head back outside and told his crew to leave their weapons on their mounts. It was then that he realized he’d understood the man inside and had even answered in the same tongue. Rather than let confusion consume him, he shook his head at the impossibility of it all and went back inside. This time, the barkeep had both hands on the bar and a neutral expression on his handsome face. His long, red hair was swept back behind his neck, tied or secured by something the Reaper hadn’t seen yet.
“Welcome to my inn,” the barkeep-now-owner said. “I hope your intentions are honest.”
Vykers wasn’t especially cold, so he eschewed the black stone fireplace for a table near a window. “What we intend and what happens ain’t always one and the same.”
The innkeeper cracked a wry smile. “True enough. Something to drink?”
The Reaper nodded, aware that his men and Ona were watching his every move, scrutinizing his every word. “How is it you ain’t accompanied your Emperor across the sea?”
“He’s not my Emperor,” the other man said easily. “And I don’t share his ambitions.” The innkeeper then went about placing empty mugs in front of all Vykers’ crew, and then came back around with several pitchers of ale that he obtained from a room somewhere in back.
In his absence, Vykers noted a sword on the wall and a lute resting on the far end of the bar. “Those yours?” he indicated with his eyes as the innkeeper filled his mug.
“Yes,” the man said, without elaboration.
“You any good with it?”
“Which, the sword or the lute?”
“The lute. I can already see you can handle a sword.”
“Can you?” the innkeeper demurred. “I favor the lute nowadays. Would you care for a song?”
“No,” said Vykers, matter-of-factly.
The innkeeper paused for a moment, bewildered, and then said, “I see. Well, to each his own. What brings you to town?”
Vykers tasted his ale. “Good stuff, this.”
“Glad you like it. I’m afraid I can’t offer you a meal. I don’t get many groups any more, and I’m not prepared. I’ve got a bit of cold meat and cheese.”
“This’ll do,” the Reaper responded. “Don’t wanna put you out.”
“And, uh, the reason for your visit?”
“Just a little mid-day break on our travels.”
“To?”
“What’s a man like you doing behind a bar in the middle ’o nowhere?” Vykers asked abruptly. “Runnin’ from something, are you?” Around him, his fellows put down their mugs and stopped their chatter, nervous that something was about to transpire.
“You’ve a keen eye, stranger. I guess you could say I’m running from trouble, if you like, which is why I’ve been so nosy about your intentions.”
“Put your mind at ease, then,” Vykers said. “You’ve got nothin’ I want. ’Cept maybe a couple more gallons o’ this brew.” His gang exhaled audibly and fell into laughter. Even Ona seemed to brighten up. Hells, thought Vykers, she’s probably sweet on this red-haired, lute-playin’ devil. And then he thought maybe he could fob her off on him. “You in need of a serving wench?” he asked the innkeeper.
Instantly, Ona was on her feet and out the door, slamming it behind her with authority.
The innkeeper dealt with the awkward silence that followed by refilling Vykers’ mug and working his way around the rest of his fellows. When everyone had enjoyed his fill, the Reaper stood and gestured at the door, wordlessly commanding the men outside. He had no local currency, but he placed a gold Royal on his table to offset that inconvenience.
When he was back outside and had retrieved his weapons, the innkeeper emerged, holding the Royal out, and said, “Whatever this coin is, it’s far more gold than you owe me.”
“Toss it here, then,” said Vykers.
The innkeeper tossed the Royal as instructed, whereupon he saw a brief flash of movement, heard a metallic clinking sound and looked down to see the coin cut cleanly in half, lying in the dust of the road. When he looked back up, the Reaper was grinning at him and sliding his sword back into its scabbard. “You take half, and I’ll take half.”
It had been a worthwhile stop. Vykers had learned that a significant portion of the local population had traveled across the sea, enough to empty at least one village and rob an otherwise thriving inn of its customers. He’d learned, too, that not everyone shared the Emperor’s goals. And all of this was good, because it suggested he’d meet less resistance than he’d expected and, in fact, that he might even find allies.
Hjuest rode to his left. Vykers glanced over at him and smirked to himself. The Red Knight had a thousand questions and was struggling to work them out on his own—out of fear of taxing the Reaper’s patience, perhaps, or simple stubborn pride. It made no difference. There was value in such a struggle, whatever the reasons for it.
Vykers reflected on his own questions, took stock of what he knew and what he suspected. In some ways, it was like having a broken bone beneath the skin. There was clearly something amiss, and he had a general idea of what and where, but the specifics eluded him. For example, he’d become painfully aware of the fact that there was something wrong with his memory. He’d listened to other folks—traveling companions, mostly—recount endless tales of their daily lives, from the present to their earliest days.
Vykers could not remember his parents.
He’d heard many a song about his exploits over the years, but could not recall the details—save one. He’d once had a great love before Aoife. And the woman’s name had been…
Infinite hells! If he hadn’t felt so strong, so limitless, he might’ve suspected that he’d caught some horrible disease. Why could he not remember his own life? He turned in his saddle, pretending to search the group’s backtrail, and stole a look at Ona. His granddaughter? He’d once scoffed at the idea of magic swords—he remembered that much. And he’d been proven wrong. So, the girl could be kin. She did have a certain “Don’t fuck with me” air about her. She was large for a woman, lithe and well-muscled. If Vykers had living grandchildren, he supposed they’d look much like Ona. He drummed his fingers on the horn of his saddle. Sometime, when things calmed down a bit, he’d have to ask the girl more about her mother and grandmother.
Enough of that. Vykers turned his thoughts to the Emperor’s Palace. He reckoned Aoife might have dropped his gang closer, but he wanted some time to get familiar and comfortable with the Emperor’s realm before he went charging into the palace. A wise man scouts the territory before assaulting the throne. Somebody’d told him that once. Hells, he might’ve said it himself.
He and his team continued to travel northeast on the road they’d discovered in the last town. And it was an impressive road—wide, free of weeds, level and well-maintained. Better than anything he’d walked in Her Majesty’s kingdom. Of course, with such a large number of the Emperor’s subjects now overseas, the roads were likely to fall into disuse and deteriorate somewhat. The hidden costs of conquest.
The Reaper closed his eyes and allowed himself to be lulled into a mild trance by the movements of his horse’s gait. He smelled the beast, of course, along with the sweat of his fellows, and the grasses alongside the road. Funny, he was untold miles from home and yet so much was familiar to him.
His men—and Ona—were probably hoping to find another village and inn in which to bed down for the evening. Not Vykers. Give him a patch of grass near a blazing fire beneath a wide open sky, and he was as content as he could ever be…outside of battle. The absence of a village bothered him not at all. Thus, they would again sleep outdoors. Anyway, it was through campfire chatter that Vykers learned the most about his men and their disparate languages and talents. He still hadn’t bothered to learn all their names—and why would he? Their inevitable deaths would only be that much harder to stomach—but he’d learned much about them as men. As for Ona, well, she remained sullen and aloof. He supposed it was time to have that talk.
He caught her eye and waved her over to him, patting an empty spot on the ground on his left. He thought for a moment that she might decline, but he was pleasantly surprised when she got up and joined him. Before she could say a word, Vykers shooed the men to his right and her left with a wave of his hand. His smile told them it wasn’t personal, but he wanted to speak to the girl in private. In truth, it couldn’t be more personal, but they didn’t need to know that.
“What?” she said finally.
“You tell me. You learned what you came to learn?”
“I don’t know what that is, except that you’re a bastard.”
Vykers’ sudden burst of raucous laughter sent a brief ripple of alarm through the others, but when it was evident no anger or violence were forthcoming, everyone relaxed. Ona, however, was not amused.
“See what I mean?”
“A man don’t survive in battle by makin’ friends with the enemy.”
“Not everything’s a battle.”
“Isn’t it?” Vykers challenged the girl. When she struggled to respond, he went on. “Tell me more o’ your grandmother, then.”
Ona looked down at her hands and inspected her fingernails. She’d bitten them all to the quick, Vykers saw. “Nana was small and delicate,” Ona said in a far-away voice. “Even in her age, she had the air of a little girl. Toward the end, she’d walk around, barefoot, in a white shift, clutching a handful of flowers, offering one or all to everyone she met.”
“And her name?”
“Deshira.”
“Huh,” said Vykers. The name meant nothing to him. “She have a nickname?”
“Besides Nana? No.”
Vykers frowned. This is pointless!
“But Deshira was her Sholdorn name. Before that, she was YntOnia.”
That name echoed in the Reaper’s skull. That name he’d heard before, somewhere. He probed. “That where ‘Ona’ comes from?”
Ona’s visage lit up for an instant and then returned to its normal state. “I never thought of that.”
“And this Entonia,” Vykers continued, “was born where?”
“YntOnia.”
“’S what I said. Where was she born?”
“On the northwest coast, somewhere. I can’t remember the name of the village.”
“Fishin’ folk, then.”
“Yes.”
They fell into silence and sat that way, side-by-side, until Ona eventually stumbled off to her bedroll. Vykers watched her go and could not deny a certain familiarity to her movements.
Mendis, Eoman & Qansip, Amongst the Legions
Even on the march, Mendis’ wizards were able to ferry prisoners into his presence for his assessment. Frankly, the Emperor such saw occasions as welcome departures from his otherwise dull routine. Eating the world at twenty miles a day was glorious, tedious work. He wouldn’t have minded a few more battles, but inspecting new prisoners was almost as interesting.
He’d recently interviewed a small band of mercenaries who were only too happy to join his cause for the promise of clean cots, coin and stability. One man in particular, one Driegan, had been particularly eager to sign up, seemed intelligent enough, and though Mendis trusted the fellow not at all, he felt his newest convert might serve in the short term as a go-between of sorts in his dealings with the locals. It was a job Bailis did brilliantly, but one man alone could not do everything that needed doing. Thus, the Emperor had sent this Driegan off to the language tutors, those who would teach him the Emperor’s tongue in the shortest time possible. If Driegan proved worthy, Mendis would happily employ him. If not, the fellow’s corpse would serve as excellent warning to any who would betray His Magnificence.
Today, though, his wizards—and by extension, his troops—had done him most excellent service in bringing him an actual giant and a rather fetching young maiden. Although Bailis could have translated for him, Mendis preferred to speak directly to his newest prisoners and so instructed his wizards to enspell them for understanding.
He felt a moment of indecision as he pondered which of the two to interrogate first, but finally decided the girl would be most impressed in seeing how well he handled the giant—a task made easier, certainly, by the score of heavily armed troops manning the giant’s chains, in addition to the handful of wizards standing nearby. The Emperor gazed into the giant’s eyes and understood that his prisoner would kill him in a heartbeat if given the chance. Mendis approached him, nonetheless.
“What is your name?” Mendis asked loudly, as if the giant were hard of hearing.
“Bugger off,” the giant responded, eliciting gasps of shock from his handlers.
“A funny name, that. Were you named after a favorite pastime, or is that merely a popular greeting wherever you appear?”
The crowd of troops, advisors and wizards laughed merrily at the Emperor’s jest, though the giant wasn’t anywhere near as amused.
“Well, Bugger Off, as you may have surmised, my legions and I are taking over your land. You can either cooperate, or…”
“Bugger off.”
“Yes,” said Mendis, “We’ve established that. What is not so clear to me, however, is whether you’re fully cognizant of the predicament in which you’ve found yourself.”
The giant sneered. “In my experience, big words are the coward’s substitute for action.”
“That’s as may be,” Mendis allowed, “but I’m happy to know you’ve got at least a few of your own.” When the giant said nothing in response, the Emperor continued. “I have several questions for you, as you might imagine. Now, as I started to say earlier, you can cooperate and possibly earn your freedom, or I can extract what I need from you by magic, torture, or both. I prefer not to be so heavy-handed, but I will have what I’m after.”
“And the girl?”
Mendis cast a glance in her direction and saw she was following the proceedings with interest. “And what is your interest in her?”
“I notice she’s not in chains.”
“Well, I think we can handle her. How did you come to be traveling together?”
“I saved her life.”
Mendis spread his hands wide. “That’s between you and her. It has no bearing here.”
The giant offered a mighty frown and stared down at his feet.
A light breeze kicked up, giving Mendis an involuntary shiver that he hoped his prisoner hadn’t seen. “If you won’t give me your name…”
“Eoman.”
“Ah! Very good. Eoman, then. Eoman, how many of your folk, how many giants are there in this land?”
“Hundreds of thousands.”
Now it was Mendis who frowned. “A lie, clearly, by which I conclude there are not enough for your liking, and so I doubt thousands. Hundreds, I might accept.”
Damn the man! He was too clever by half. “I am hungry,” was all that came out of Eoman’s mouth.
“I imagine so. Must take a lot to fill a belly that large,” Mendis replied. He then turned to his advisors and said, “Let’s have some food for my colossal friend, here!” The Emperor said nothing further until a great spit of still-sizzling meat arrived in the hands of two guards. “I’ll deliver it,” he said, much to his retinue’s consternation. The nearby wizards readied themselves for anything, but Mendis was able to hand it off to the giant without incident. Or thanks.
Eoman tore into it, burnt lips and tongue be damned, and stared at his captor from under his bushy brows the while. When he’d finished, he tossed the bare spit aside, careless of where it might land. “And to drink?”
“Oh, yes!” the Emperor feigned embarrassment. “How could I forget? Somebody bring our guest our best vintage!”
Once again, it was only a matter of a few minutes before a cask of wine was produced and placed just within Eoman’s reach. The giant tasted it carefully, deemed it acceptable (and free of poison), and took several prodigious gulps. “Human kings,” he muttered to himself. “They have all the best stuff.”
“I am not a king,” Mendis corrected, “but an Emperor.”
“Yeah,” said Eoman caustically, “and I’m not a king, either. Anymore. You know the difference between a king and a commoner?”
“A king has an army at his back.”
“The better to stick him full o’ knives.”
Mendis offered a small, tight smile at this and brushed the comment aside. “You could be free, you understand, if you’re willing to tell us a bit more about your people, their disposition, and their relationship, if any, to this Virgin Queen.”
“Why are you here?” Gulp, gulp.
“Several reasons, really. I mean to expand my empire, of course, and I certainly enjoy exploring new territory. But I am also looking for a man you natives call Tarmun Vykers.”
Eoman drained the cask and put it down with a satisfying thump. “And I hope you find him,” he smiled cryptically, wiping a purple stain from his beard.
His interrogation of the giant hadn’t gone as planned, but neither had it been a complete disaster. He no longer believed the land’s giants could muster the numbers to threaten his own forces; Eoman’s comment about Wykkerian suggested his quarry was still alive, and, finally, there seemed to be no love lost between the giant and his former traveling companion.
As for the girl, well, she was dirty and disheveled, but there was something about her that piqued Mendis’ curiosity. Not that he had much, mind, but enough to prod him into a decision. Again, he turned to his staff. “See the girl gets a good bath and a clean change of clothing—whatever we’ve got that’s remotely serviceable.”
Yes, he would interview her, too, once she’d had the chance to refresh herself. Perhaps he’d even summon her to dine with him in his personal tent. Just a meal and a nice chat. He’d often found that a pretty face did wonders for the digestion, and there was no harm in conversation.
Having made up his mind, he thought no further about it until dinner.
It was clear the girl thought highly of herself and, in fairness, her outward appearance was evidence enough why she might. The Emperor liked to think of himself as a man of ideas and action, though, and not mere superficial impressions. He would judge her as much or more by her mind, by her character, as he would by her beauty. And, anyway, his immediate task was to sound her for information.
With that in mind, he once again requested that one of his wizards be stationed within earshot, so that his dinner guest’s language was easier to understand and his own easier to communicate. The wizard in place, Mendis thought himself prepared to entertain the young woman.
But he was mistaken.
When she arrived, fresh from her bath and attired in a surprisingly beautiful and well-fitting dress, he inhaled in shock and nearly forgot to exhale again. Here was the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes on.
Not that this was relevant in any way, he told himself. She was, despite her beauty, just another prisoner to be interrogated.
Then why had he invited her to dinner?
Surely, he was just observing decorum, demonstrating his magnanimity and regal nature. After all, there was more to the job than simple butchery. There was diplomacy, for instance. There was also reconnaissance. In short, he had a number of perfectly valid reasons for inviting the young woman to his table.
He doubted his lady wife would agree, however.
Well, he’d done nothing wrong. And, anyway, he was the Emperor.
He stood up from his seat, helped the young woman into hers, and then returned to his own. “I am the Emperor, Mendis Staurachia. And what may I call you?”
His guest’s eyebrows shot up and her mouth formed into the most perfect little ‘o.’
“Yes,” Mendis smiled. “With my wizards’ help, you and I can understand one another…or at least we can communicate, as you saw earlier today.” He chuckled at his joke, but noticed that she did not. So much for understanding.
“I am Qansip Deda, only child of Lord Deda of Eastcliff. I am sure he will be willing to pay most handsomely for my return.”
Mendis gazed at Qansip. Most handsome, indeed. “Of course,” he said. “Before we discuss such details, however, there are things I would ask you. Wine?”
“Yes,” said she.
He noticed she didn’t say please or thank you. Even his children said those words. He poured her a glass anyway and watched her as she took her first sip. She was a rare thing, that was certain. Her hair was the color of honey and, under her fine brows, her deep brown eyes possessed seemingly endless depth. The skin of her face was flawless and fairly begged to be touched, whilst her lips were so luscious that Mendis was nearly entranced by them. Her neck? Gods, perfection! It plunged down past her lovely collarbones to…to…
“And how did you end up in that giant’s company?” the Emperor asked, desperate for something besides his guest’s bosom to occupy his thoughts.
Qansip fixed him with a flirtatious and challenging gaze. “Running from you and your soldiers.”
“And yet it seems I’ve caught you anyhow.”
The girl smiled and quickly glanced away. What an exquisite courtesan she would make…for some lord or other.
Mendis picked up a carving knife and rested its blade against a small roast one of his servants had just delivered. “And how is your appetite?” he inquired.
“Bottomless,” Qansip replied.
Beesmarch & His Kinfolk, In the Wilds
Their party had grown to fourteen, and Beesmarch, as much as he fancied himself the antisocial hermit, was in better spirits than he’d been in years. If only, he thought, if only Eoman could have been there with him. This dampened his mood considerably, but there was naught to be done. He could not change the past, only shape the future. So, fourteen they were. They might have been sixteen, but Beesmarch refused to let a young giant couple join in his quest. Their task, Beesmarch insisted, was to produce children, and as many as possible. In case of the worst, their family would safeguard giantkind against extinction.
It was an odd way of looking at things, but, as King, Beesmarch found himself thinking all kinds of new and unexpected thoughts. Such was the burden of rule. Such was the burden his old friend Eoman had born for ages without complaint. Bees thought of an old quote, “Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown,” and thought more highly of his late friend than he ever had during Eoman’s life.
Well, onward.
Bees was not sure how many more giants he and his followers could round up, nor was he entirely certain what they’d do once everyone they could find had assembled. But he knew they’d be battling the invaders. His challenge was in trying to anticipate where, when and how that might occur. He would, of necessity, consider the views of every one of his subjects. Hopefully, one or more of them would have valuable ideas on the topic. At the moment, their king had none.
Vacillating between euphoria at seeing so many of his kind and regret at the loss of Eoman, Beesmarch found he could hardly concentrate, hardly make a coherent decision by himself. He also harbored some fear of the browbeating he’d receive from Karrakan when the shaman finally caught up with the group and learned what had transpired. Karrakan might even challenge him for the crown, and then what would Beesmarch do? He could hardly afford another conflict. Losing would seem a terrible rebuke, and winning might well result in more tragedy. But what if he offered it freely? Would that make things right, or inspire the contempt of his fellows?
Sod leadership!
The new king was dragged from his introspection by a high, shrieking squeal he recognized as Svarren in origin. Instantly, all of his kin were silent, straining to glean as much from the sound as possible—the direction from whence it had come, the distance, whether it was a cry of rage or pain, from a male or female, along with any other noises that might clarify the potential threat.
“I hear swords,” one of the giants said.
“Which way?” Beesmarch inquired.
“This,” said another giant who’d essentially taken on the role of scout since he’d joined the party. Without waiting for Beesmarch’s say-so, the scout ducked low and pushed quietly through the bushes, mace in hand.
The other giants looked briefly to Beesmarch for reassurance, but the best he could manage was a curt nod, then off they went, in the scout’s footprints.
Fortunately, they were downwind of the invisible combatants. Giants can be surprisingly stealthy in the wild, despite their size, but they can also be rather fragrant. With the wind in their faces, it was much easier to sneak up on the Svarren and their foes…who turned out to be some of the very invaders the giants had planned to destroy. The whole of Beesmarch’s force crouched in the high, brown grass, squinting into the breeze and marveling at the spectacle before them.
Not two hundred paces distant, a large squad of soldiers was engaged by a much bigger force of Svarren. The soldiers, caught in the open, pulled into a tight circle, where they would stand and survive, or be overwhelmed and die. Beesmarch was impressed by their discipline and courage, but could muster no sympathy for their plight. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure whom to root for. He wanted the invaders gone and the Svarren dead. He and his friends could either wait until the fray was finished and attack the victors…or they could join in on one side or the other, tipping the scales whichever way they chose.
“What do we do?” the scout whispered to his king.
In his peripheral vision, Beesmarch could see the rest of the giants watching him, waiting to hear the answer to that question. He turned to them. “What do you fancy? We’ll be on the winning side, whatever we do. I’m thinkin’ we reveal ourselves and negotiate with whoever’s left standing when they’re done.”
“So…no killing Svarren nor humans?”
“I dinna say that…But I do think we need at least one human captive for questioning and such.”
“And maybe a Svarra, too,” one of the other giants offered.
“Let’s stand, then,” Beesmarch said. “See how they like a bunch o’ giants at their backs.”
All fourteen stood, and, indeed, it wasn’t long before the Svarren and their foes took notice and stumbled to an awkward suspension of hostilities.
Native humans might have called out to the giants for aid; the poor souls in the eye of the Svarren hurricane simply stared at the giants and awaited their judgment. One of the Svarren detached himself from his people, however, and began walking towards Beesmarch’s position. To Bees’ astonishment, the Svarra was no Svarra, but a man.
“Who are you, then?” Beesmarch demanded when the man was close enough.
“My name’s Omeyo.”
If the giants had been expecting enlightenment, the man’s name offered none.
Bees gestured towards the combatants in the field. “What’s happening here?”
Omeyo looked at him as if he were an idiot. “It’s a fight, isn’t it?”
Lippy little bastard. “Humph!” said Beesmarch. “I can bloody well see that, Tiny. But what’s a human doin’ fighting with Long Teeth?”
“We’re on the same side: killing invaders.” When that didn’t produce a response, Omeyo said, “What side are you on? Will you help us eradicate these marauders, or do you mean to attack my Svarren?”
Over the man’s shoulder, Bees watched the strangest stalemate he’d ever witnessed, as both sides continued to twitch and snarl at each other, but nevertheless await his decision. “We’ll help you kill them soldiers. But, mark me, leave one or two alive, and get away from here as fast as you may once the fightin’s done. I won’t promise your safety if you tarry.”
Omeyo rubbed the back of his head, pursed his lips and said, “Agreed. We’ll spare two, drag off some dead for eating, and leave you and yours alone.”
The scout cut in, “You mean to eat the flesh of your own kind?”
Omeyo winked at him. “I might do. What’s that to you?” So saying, he spun ’round and headed back to his Svarren. With a whoop, they resumed their attack.
“Let’s finish this!” Beesmarch told his companions. With a great, ear-splitting roar, he raised his cudgel and stormed into the open, with the rest of the giants hot on his heels. The Svarren peeled away from the giants’ side of the circle and allowed Beesmarch and his brothers room to attack. The invaders, brave though they were, experienced though they were, had no answers for this sudden development, and the battle was soon over. For thirty or forty breaths, the giants and Svarren stood panting, sizing each other up and contemplating their chances if they turned on each other. As promised, two soldiers, battered and broken, remained alive in the center of the carnage. Before the Svarren could change their minds, Beesmarch strode forward and swept both into the air and out of the Svarren’s reach, dangling a soldier off the ground in each massive mitt.
“Ye can go now,” he told Omeyo and his Long Teeth.
The man nodded, grunted something to the creatures on his left and right, and began his withdrawal.
Beesmarch spoke to the men still suspended in his grip, as he watched the Svarren drag several corpses away. “Be thankful it’s me holding ya!” said he. They didn’t speak his language, of course, but they seemed to understand anyway.
When the last Svarren had disappeared, Beesmarch dropped his captives and cursed. “Little bastards get heavy after a time,” he complained. “Ye wouldn’t think it ta see ’em, though, would ye?” He looked over at his comrades, who awaited further instructions. “Let’s get away from all this blood and find someplace to make camp, see how fast these little shits can learn our tongue.”
Kittins, the Streets of Lunessfor
Kittins stared down at the naked dead man and felt nothing, in spite of the fact the man’s extremities had been eaten by the very swine he’d been attempting to…what, exactly? Kittins didn’t care. This wasn’t a murder, wasn’t a suicide—who kills himself by pig, anyway?—and yet the captain wasn’t remotely curious.
Until he caught a glimpse of the Alchemist, watching through the gathering crowd. He pretended he hadn’t seen him and told the nearby constable, “It’s nothing to do with me or Her Majesty. Don’t even look like a crime, really. Just some idiot drunkard come to bad end.”
The constable, a warty-face fellow with perpetually sad eyes, said, “And that lunatic smile on his face?”
Kittins shrugged. “Wildside mushrooms? Spiritual nonsense? Who knows. Who cares. There’s a shit storm comin’, and this here’s nothin’ by comparison.” Before the other man could say more, Kittins walked off in the direction of the Alchemist. Behind him, the constable bent down and studied the corpse up close.
The crowd melted away from Kittins, allowing him easy access to the Alchemist. He thought perhaps the man might bolt, but instead he stood his ground and watched Kittins approach.
“Strange to see you out-o’-doors in the light o’ day,” the captain said by way of greeting. “’Specially since you’re s’posed to be dead.”
“And you,” the Alchemist replied. “Though it is nearing sundown.”
“I’m gonna assume your appearance here ain’t coincidence. Who was the fellow?”
The Alchemist didn’t deny it. “A bookseller.”
“’S too bad. I’ve grown to like books.” This seemed to surprise the Alchemist, who studied Kittins with renewed interest. Kittins offered a sly if hideous grin in return and said, “How’s a bookseller end up half-eaten in a pig-sty?”
“Drug problem?” the Alchemist suggested.
“Drug problem,” Kittins repeated. “That your professional opinion?”
“Yes,” said the other man. “I believe he ingested too much of whatever-it-was he was taking, went mad, and, well, you can see the results for yourself.” The Alchemist moved as if the conversation was over, but Kittins grabbed him by the arm.
“This drug,” he said, “ain’t gonna be a problem for Lunessfor, is it?”
“Not from me,” the Alchemist said, offended. “I cannot, however, guarantee that others won’t misuse it.” He looked down at Kittins hand, still locked onto his arm, and dissipated in a cloud of grey dust.
So, he’d been the one responsible for the bookseller’s death. He’d as much as admitted it. And what did one death matter, in the grand scheme of things? The real concern was widespread use of whatever the Alchemist had given the man. Her Majesty had tasked Kittins with securing the city from external threats, but if it was already crumbling from within, Lunessfor might be doomed anyway.
A light, misting drizzle began to fall. Kittins looked up into the darkening sky and decided he’d best continue his subterranean explorations. He needed to prevent the enemy from sneaking into the city, yes, but he was now also interested in finding a suitably secret escape route in the increasingly likely event things went south.
He felt better underground, somehow. More relaxed, more himself. That merited further examination, Kittins thought, but he wasn’t the thinker he’d once wished himself to be. Things had a way of turning out differently than one planned or imagined. He’d once believed he could save up enough coin in the army to buy himself a farm or perhaps some sort of little shop, find himself a wife and have a son or three. He let loose a brief snort of contempt. What a fool he’d been. Well, he was still in Her Majesty’s army, more or less, and though he could probably demand the gold needed to buy himself a farm, he knew now that his fate, his doom, would allow no fantasies.
He’d brought an oil-soaked torch with him, and the flint and steel to spark it, but the more time he spent underground, the more comfortable he felt in darkness. Besides, he knew the main tunnels well enough. He might light his torch when he got to one of the unexplored branches and then again, he might not. There was something weirdly thrilling about wandering blind into the unknown.
After some time, he came to one of those new branches and headed down it, curious to learn what he could hear, smell or feel that could not be seen. He walked cautiously, with a surprisingly light step for someone so large and muscular. He had one hand extended in front of his chest and the other planted firmly on the hilt of his sword—not out of fear, mind, but pragmatism. Anything that got in his way had to die.
There were, naturally, a couple of occasions in which he smacked his forehead or shoulder on a stony protrusion, but he healed quickly and had a high tolerance for pain. The inconvenience of such moments was not enough, yet, to induce him to spark his torch, and he had even less desire to do so after he heard the first footsteps behind him.
Yes, several someones were shuffling his way, attempting silence with middling success. He heard them, but then he’d been listening for such sounds. Now, he wanted someplace to hide. He placed both hands on the wall and quickened his pace, searching, feeling for anything, any crevice that might serve. The sounds behind him grew louder, and he thought he detected a glow back there. Just in time, he found a series of waist-high boulders on his left, between himself and the tunnel wall. There would be room behind them to lie down and, if he remained silent, those approaching would never see him. He felt his way around the boulders and found he could even crouch without being seen, if he pressed himself flat against the stones.
Soon, he could smell torches and hear breathing, in addition to the continued shuffling of feet. They were good, these strangers. No chatter, no telltale clinking of armor or weapons. As they drew near his position, Kittins held his breath entirely. He couldn’t hide his body odor—nor could they—but perhaps they’d have too much on their minds to notice. The seconds crept by like minutes. Kittins filled the time by trying to divine as much as he could about the strangers by the few sounds they did make.
There were five of them, for instance. They were dressed in leather armor. He smelled both the oil on their leathers and on their swords. Two different oils, for different purposes. Their odor and the weight of their footfalls told him they were men. Once they’d passed, he risked a peek at them and saw that he’d been wrong in one respect: there were six of them. He noted, too, that their leathers had been dyed or painted black. That made sense. Two of them carried torches, and the rest were empty-handed, their weapons being sheathed to reduce the chances of banging them on the tunnel walls.
Kittins emerged from his hiding place and followed their light. He let them get far enough ahead that he could see only the flickering glow of their torches, and by this method, he kept up with them without being seen himself. It was more challenging than he might have expected, though. When they stopped, for example, he had to stop as well and immediately. If they slowed their pace for whatever reason, he had to adjust. A couple of times, he heard brief, whispered exchanges between them, but he was unable to make out individual words.
Inevitably, time became a factor. Lunessfor was a large city, but a man could walk across it in less than an hour if he took the right roads at the right time of day. It was, after all, situated on an island in the middle of a river. Thus, Kittins reckoned those he was trailing would emerge into the city or castle if he allowed them to continue much longer.
The spontaneous sound of weapons clashing and strange, inhuman yelling pushed all previous concerns aside and now Kittins worried about what might be coming his way. Accordingly, he drew his own sword and stalked forward into the now-erratic torchlight in hopes of getting a better view of whatever was going on. What he saw confounded him.
Five of the six men were still on their feet, but one was down. Around and between the men, an angry horde of little men swarmed, shouted and shrieked. They could only have been goblins.
There’d been a time before the first battle with the End-of-All-Things when Kittins would have sworn such things were the stuff of children’s fairytales. Now he knew better. And, more often than not, these fairytale creatures were much worse than advertised. The captain stood back in the shadows, watching and wrestling with the question of whether or not he should intervene and upon whose side.
Without really knowing why, he raised his sword and waded into the fracas.
Vykers & Co, On the Road
They came upon the smoking remains of a village, and Vykers immediately dismounted, had to get down on his hands and knees and examine the wreckage for clues as to the attackers’ strength and numbers. What he found—or didn’t find—was bewildering.
“No feets,” said the big Ntambi warrior—the first words Vykers had heard from him in ages.
“Yes,” the Reaper agreed. “Where are the enemy’s footprints?”
Several of his companions joined him on the ground. Only Hjuest and Ona remained mounted. Someone had to maintain a higher vantage point, after all.
Vykers stood, turned in a slow circle. It was a beautiful day in…wherever-it-was…except for the charred and smoking cottages. A light breeze blew the smoke away from Vykers’ crew.
“Where are the dead?” he wondered aloud.
“All the dead,” Ona offered. “I don’t see so much as a dead cat.”
The Reaper walked farther into the village and came upon a well whose stones had somehow been partially melted and turned to sludge. Vykers stayed clear of it. Across the road, he spied some deep depressions in the grass in front of a ruined shop. He went over and stared at them, but could make little sense of it.
Down the road a bit, he entered the bones of a blacksmith’s. It looked almost normal, except that the roof and two of the walls were gone. Tools and weapons were scattered across the straw-covered floor, but the forge still burned, albeit at a much cooler temperature than normal. The mystery engaged Vykers more than the tragedy. He was about to leave when he saw the axe head. It was lying amongst some shovel and rake heads on the far side of the shop. He picked it up and considered its heft and the sharpness of its edge.
“I can fit that for you.” Ona had followed him.
He turned, surprised. “Can you?”
“I’ve done my share of smithing.”
He tossed her the axe head—a nice, soft, underhand throw, to ensure she caught it without incident. Why had he taken such care? He didn’t want to think about it. “Haft’s back on my horse. I’ll go ’n fetch it.”
Along the way, he continued his scrutiny of the buildings. High up on an external wall, a large, round bloodstain suggested a head had been smashed against the stones. How did a head get up there, and where was the body?
When he got back to his horse, he told his men, “We’ll camp here. I wanna know what happened to this place, so we don’t run afoul of it ourselves.”
If any of them were anxious about the Reaper’s pokey pace, none were inclined to challenge him. And, really, they were his men, each and every one. He’d won them in combat, set them free, and returned to give them new purpose. Was there any better job for a fighter than traveling with the best of their kind? If Vykers had commanded them to walk on their hands to the Emperor’s palace, they’d have done it or died trying. Now, all he asked of them was a nice, roaring fire, some water—if any might be found—and any food that might have been left behind by who or whatever had attacked.
Later in the evening, Ona returned with Vykers’ new axe.
“It’s done.”
Vykers took it from her without getting up from his place by the fire and tested its weight and balance.
“It’s a nasty thing, that,” said Ona.
“Oh?” asked Vykers in feigned innocence. “How d’you mean?”
“I can’t say. It’s got all the right qualities. But it feels wrong.”
Vykers ran his fingers over the spot where the haft ran through the loop of the axe head. Ona had secured it with good, iron nails without cracking the handle in the slightest. The whole weapon seemed to hum or throb in the Reaper’s hand. “I like it,” he pronounced.
It was as much thanks or praise as Ona would get, and she took it gratefully. She only hoped she was wrong about the axe.
“What do you men suppose destroyed this village?” Vykers inquired of the group.
One by one, his men offered thoughts and theories, either in some broken version of Her Majesty’s tongue, or through Hjuest’s efforts as translator. They considered the smashed buildings, the strange depressions in the ground, the foul, stinking puddles of dissolved objects, and the complete absence of bodies. Their conclusion: whatever had attacked the village—and they were all in agreement that it was not an army—was unlike anything any of them had ever encountered. On the one hand, Vykers found this bothersome, because it was easier to plan for and fight something they understood. On the other hand, if none of his men had any knowledge of this thing or things, that could mean it was fairly uncommon, rare even. In other words, the land wasn’t rife with these things, which was welcome news. The Reaper had crossed the sea for several reasons, but fighting the local wildlife wasn’t one of them.
The group might’ve slept indoors—there were one or two structures remaining that would have served—but Vykers again refused to consider it. It was nice getting away from the dreary weather back home, and the Reaper was not alone in his desire to bask in the comparative warmth of his new surroundings, and brigands or monsters be damned!
A great shudder roused him from sleep. The ground was shaking—not like an earthquake, but at regular intervals. Vykers noted the fire was fading, so he quickly tossed more wood on the flames and nudged the men closest to him with the toe of his boot. One of those men turned out to be Ona, who got up without speaking, realized what was wrong and quietly drew her sword.
“Dere is someting out dere,” Hjuest whispered once he’d risen.
Vykers glared back at him, and looked over at Ona, who rolled her eyes: no shit. Vykers couldn’t help chuckling softly to himself.
Tense seconds turned into minutes before Vykers judged the threat had subsided, if not passed altogether. “You got any animals over here that’re big enough to make the ground rumble?”
“By demselves?” Hjuest clarified. “No. In a herd, sure, ya.”
“This was no herd.”
“Ya. I know.”
The sober expression on Hjuest’s face was all Vykers needed to tell him this something in the darkness was a problem of unknown dimensions, in every sense of the word. He let loose a sigh that was more like a growl.
It was always some damned thing.
Driegan, In Mendis’ Camp
Driegan was in excruciating pain. He thought he’d been clever in swallowing his gems and thought so still, even though they’d bound up his insides and made him barely able to move. He couldn’t understand it; he’d accidentally swallowed cherry pits before and never had any difficulty. Maybe it was due to the gems’ larger size or sharply angled facets? Gods, if he could just get them out, he’d never be so foolish again.
He needed an A’Shea. Did the invaders have such people, though? He hadn’t seen one and became increasingly worried with every passing hour. He feared he’d have to confess what he’d done, and the enemy would cut him open to retrieve his treasure rather than help in any way. But if he did not tell anyone, he feared he might die from the pressure and painful cramping.
For a while, he’d held out hope that things would work themselves out naturally. Now, he could barely walk, and a cold and constant sweat betrayed his discomfort. What to do, what to do? He couldn’t concentrate.
He and his former servants and guards shared a crude pen under the watchful eyes of a dozen or more soldiers. The allowance for the prisoners’ needs was a rain barrel and a pit toilet in the pen’s far corner. Once, Lord Driegan would have sneered at such primitive accommodations. Now, he only prayed he could use the toilet, audience be damned.
He received no sympathy from his fellow prisoners. They’d seen what he’d done to their comrade when the invaders approached. None of them believed he wouldn’t resort to similar treachery again if the opportunity to spare or elevate himself arose. He wasn’t at all sure they wouldn’t betray him if they got the chance, either. So, how could he control them? He’d no more coin with which to buy their loyalty, and, in his current condition, physical intimidation was out of the question.
As he stood in a half-crouch, pondering the issue, a man in an odd-looking doublet and hose walked up to the pen and pointed at him. “You, come,” he said.
“Me?” Driegan grunted stupidly, surprised at the man’s abruptness.
“Was I not clear?” the man said imperiously. “Come over here, now.”
Driegan gritted his teeth and limped over to the stranger.
The man grimaced and said, “Are you ill?” When Driegan didn’t reply, the stranger placed a cool hand on Driegan’s forehead, moved it to his chest and, finally, to his lower abdomen. A wicked smile came to his lips then, and he spoke a few words in a language Driegan did not understand. Suddenly, his pain grew so intense that he thought himself moments from death. There was a terrible, sharp movement in his lower gut, followed by a short but severe sensation of tautness and, lastly, a warm wet gush behind which his cramps seemed all but gone.
When he looked down, Driegan saw the shapes of his gems in a pool of blood in the stranger’s palm, as well as a great wash of blood down his lower belly, down his groin, down his legs.
His eyes rolled up in his head and he tottered over onto his back.
He woke up on a military cot, disoriented and afraid. A chubby-faced man with a bad haircut and a robe of coarse material attended him.
“What?” Driegan blurted. “What…?”
“Rest yourself. Your wound is healing even now.”
Driegan craned his neck and looked down at his stomach.
“As I said,” the chubby-faced man assured him.
Another voice, behind him, startled the patient. “Ah, the purse-bellied native awakes!” The stranger who’d injured him sidled into view.
“How is it you speak my language?” Driegan asked.
The stranger offered a patronizing grin. “I don’t. You’ve merely been made to understand ours.” He gestured to Driegan’s chubby-faced nurse.
“And is this man an A’Shea?”
“That term is new to me, but if you mean to ask if he’s a healer, then yes.”
“I’ve never encountered a male healer…” Driegan said, trying to forestall any further talk of his gems.
“So, Lord Deda,” the stranger smirked, “what are you doing wandering the country with a Prince’s ransom in jewels in your gut? My friend Meerish here tells me they might have killed you if I hadn’t interceded.”
“And I imagine getting them back is out of the question?” Driegan said.
“Really,” the stranger replied. “I should think I’m due something for saving your life.”
“That would be quite a reward, though…”
“More valuable than your life?”
Driegan had no answer for that. He was too weak to argue anymore and, besides, his interrogator had every advantage. “Are you a Shaper then?”
“I am a wizard. Frankly, the title ‘Shaper’ seems a bit pretentious.”
“And your name?”
The other man straightened. “I can see you’re accustomed to asking the questions,” he said. “But you’ll have to lose that habit. You belong to the Emperor now, and he’ll brook no questions from the likes of you.”
Driegan was at a loss for words—a rarity, certainly, but one he suspected would become more and more common.
“Yes,” the wizard continued. “I know all about you. Your countrymen were eager—eager, I say—to inform against you, and you have rather a loose tongue when under sedation.”
It seemed he was trapped, then. “What are the Emperor’s plans for me?”
The wizard laughed. “Presumptuous, aren’t you? What does a god care for a fly?”
Then why not just kill me and be done with it? Driegan wanted to retort. But of course he was afraid the Emperor and his servants might feel inspired to do that very thing. Resigned, he laid his head back down and let out a long, slow breath.
“For the time being,” the wizard said, “you belong to me. I’ll allow you a few more hours of rest, and then you’ll begin learning the Emperor’s language.”
Ron, Spirk & the Gang, the Hideout
Ron was becoming worried about Spirk. Since they’d all created Long’s Old Peculiar, the young Shaper spent more and more of his day drunk. Having by now passed a great deal of time in Yendor’s company, Ron was not anxious to see his friend follow in the older man’s footsteps. Or stumbles. Sure, Ron had tried reasoning with Spirk, but Spirk always found some silly way to redirect the conversation or distract him. People thought Spirk an imbecile, but he could be quite cunning when it served him.
Talking to Spirk hadn’t changed anything, so Ron resorted to stealing the Shaper’s mug and hiding it…which is futile, really, when dealing with a Shaper. Instead of bothering to look for it, Spirk simply summoned it back into his hand and refilled it.
Ron looked to Rem and Yendor for assistance, but they were occupied with concocting more of their brew for sale and distribution. The Fretful Porpentine alone was ordering it almost faster than Yendor and crew could keep up. Oh, their personal stash was in good shape, but they’d need to pay the Alchemist a visit again, and soon. Anyway, the two older men were of no help in weaning Spirk off their product.
Desperate, Ron decided to piss in Spirk’s drink whenever his friend wasn’t looking. If he could just make the flavor disgusting enough, he reasoned, Spirk would have to swear off it. And so, as the Shaper snoozed away on a dusty old fainting couch, Ron snuck behind a tower of moldering furniture with Spirk’s mug and added his own very special contribution to its contents.
Which is when a large portion of the wall exploded inward, followed by three men who appeared to have been in a bad fight. The subsequent appearance of Captain Kittins in the hole in the wall seemed to explain everything. The men fell onto the floor and struggled in vain to right themselves. Kittins looked about, noticed his old comrades in various states of surprise and said, “What in Mahnus’ name’s going on here?”
“We might ask you the same,” Rem answered.
Pretending to come in for a closer look, Ron furtively returned Spirk’s mug to its former location and pretended a great interest in Kittins’ arrival—not a terribly difficult thing, under the circumstances—whilst really keeping a close eye on his friend, who’d been startled awake by all the commotion.
“What is this place?” Kittins demanded.
“No place in particular,” Yendor replied.
“You want me to take your other eye?”
Yendor was not happy. “There’s no need for threats, old man.”
“It’s our hideout,” Rem cut in, “or was. But it’s good to see you and your…friends?”
Kittins went over and kicked the one who was closest to standing. “No friends o’ mine. I found ’em trying to sneak into the castle. My guess is they’re part of the invadin’ force. We all ran afoul of some Mahnus-cursed goblins, and…”
“Boblins?” Spirk squeaked, bolting into an upright position.
“Goblins, boy. Goblins. Seems there’s a lot more to this city than any of us ever knew.” In the silence that followed, Kittins continued to search the room—old habits and all that—and finally came back to his former associates. “What are you doin’ in here, anyway?”
“Makin’ the most wonderful exclicker!” Spirk declared. Before Ron could react, Spirk grabbed his mug and staggered forward to offer Kittins a taste.
The big man took it and knocked it back, thirsty from all the fighting he’d done. He then made an ugly face—uglier than usual—and declared, “This stuff tastes like piss!”
Ron inched slowly backwards, hoping to lose himself in the shadows.
“It most certainly does not!” Yendor countered. “Maybe the lad’s mug’s at fault. Try this!” So saying, he offered Kittins a taste from his own mug.
This time, the captain sniffed before tasting and, having done so, decided to bolt the rest in one go. “Much better. That first mug musta been the boy’s chamber pot!”
Everyone had a good laugh at that and most especially Ron, who was relieved to know he was not going to die any time soon.
“But about these men…” Rem ventured.
“When I’m done drinkin’,” Kittins insisted, as he held forth Yendor’s mug for a refill. How many fights have been preceded by those same words? Can anyone count so high? This time, however, those words were followed by Long’s Old Peculiar, an ale without precedent or parallel, and whatever fight had been in Kittins when he arrived was quickly quenched. Soon, the big man, like everyone else who’d ever tried the stuff, was feeling better than fine. He became more talkative than the rest of the crew had ever known him and told a variety of jokes, none of which were particularly funny. Spirk loved them, but then Spirk was pickled with the same ale.
“How many Bemites does it take to start a fire?” Kittens called out brightly.
Rem rolled his eyes. “I imagine you’ll tell us, whether we ask or…”
“None!” said Kittens. “They ain’t got the sticks!”
While Spirk howled at this, the other three men exchanged looks of confusion and disbelief.
“Is this how we look when we’re in our cups?” Rem wondered.
“Ah, what’s wrong with it?” Yendor asked. “Let ’im have his fun. Truth to tell, I’m surprised to learn the man knows how to smile.”
Now the captain sauntered around the room, singing an old sea chanty or some such. His diction was so slurred, no one could make out the lyrics, but they all smiled back at him indulgently.
Right before he passed out, Kittins commanded his comrades to take care of his prisoners, who hadn’t dared rise since they’d arrived.
“Spirk!” Yendor called over. “Spell these three so’s they won’t try anything.”
The Shaper rose obediently from his couch, fell back, rose again and negotiated his way over to the still-prostrate prisoners. One was unconscious, one seemed in great pain, and the third watched Spirk nervously.
“Kittens for Kittins!” Spirk giggled and waved his arms theatrically. To everyone’s alarm, the soldiers had been replaced by great, snarling forest cats. Spirk shrieked, waved his arms again, and the men returned to their usual forms.
“Just put ’em to sleep, lad!” Yendor coached.
That, Spirk accomplished with ease, to everyone’s relief and his own most of all.
“Wonder how the captain found us?” Rem asked.
“’S a good question. Sadly, we’ll have to wait ’til he wakes to find out. Meantime, Spirk, you’d best shape that wall, Shaper. Put it back together. Make it better, even, than it was before.” Yendor directed. It was a gloomy, dusty, cobwebby place, but it was their own, and Yendor would allow no one else to enter if he could help it. Besides, he had inventory to protect.
Kittins woke sometime later, to find Yendor and Rem gone and the two younger men asleep and snuggled up against each other—not in the manner of lovers, but of small children who’d drifted off whilst at play. He kicked them awake.
“What in the endless hells?” Ron complained. “What’d you do that for?”
“You sealed up the wall! How do I get outta here?” Kittins demanded.
“Spirk takes you.”
“And these others?”
“Them, too.”
Spirk again began waving his arms, when Kittins stopped him. “Not now, boy. When I’m done with these men, here.” He pulled his long knife, walked over to the still-snoring invaders, and kicked one, just as he had Ron and Spirk. “Wake up, fucker.” He’d chosen the less beaten of the three, but the man remained sleeping. Kittins kicked him harder.
“It’s a magic sleep!” Spirk protested.
Kittins growled and turned in his direction. “Is it? Well, wake ’em the fuck up!”
Spirk did as commanded, because, after all, the captain had been his captain once upon a time. Kittins crouched down next to the closest man and slid the end of his dagger ever-so-gently up the man’s nostril.
“Shaper,” he called over his shoulder. “Can you make ’im understand me?”
“I dunno,” said Spirk, “Never tried.”
“Try.”
For several minutes, Kittins repeated the phrase, “Do you understand me?” over and over whilst Spirk tried everything he could think of, until finally the man on Kittins’ dagger point said, “Yes.”
It was at first, as interrogations go, fairly mundane. There were no great surprises, no questions left unanswered. Kittins didn’t even need to resort to torture. The men were agents of the invading Emperor, who had been gifted with a map by someone on the inside. That much, Kittins had already deduced. The men didn’t know the identity of the traitor, also no surprise. It had to have been someone in the Queen’s inner circle, or perhaps the ruler of one of the city’s Great Eight. And what had these men been planning to do inside the castle? This was the shocker: they were planning to locate and kidnap the Reaper. To the best of Kittins’ knowledge, the Reaper wasn’t in Lunessfor. Unless…the invaders were referring to one of the strange, magical Vykers look-alikes who made up the Queen’s honor guard. The captain could see now that he’d been foolish to let that curiosity go so long unexamined. But there had been and even now was so much else that needed investigation. How could one man, alone, possibly…
“I might need you lot’s help,” Kittins rumbled at Spirk and Ron.
“I been helpin’!” Spirk protested.
“I mean outside o’ here. Longer term. The world’s goin’ to shit, and you’re all holed up in here…doin’ what, exactly?”
Spirk explained, as best he could, with numerous corrections from Ron. At the end, Kittins said, “That’s your big plan? Steal some ale, mix it with magic piss and make yourselves rich? ’Scuse me!” he scoffed. “I was under the impression you lot cared about this miserable hellhole of a city.”
Spirk started to weep. “What can I do?”
“You can start by magicking these bastards out into the wilds somewhere.”
The Shaper looked up, hopefully. “You ain’t gonna kill ’em?”
Kittins held his dagger still, though he gave it a slight twist. “I’d like to, but they might come in useful down the road if they remember I spared ’em.”
Soon, Spirk had pulled himself together, the men had been whisked away, and Kittins was enjoying another, if much smaller serving of Long’s Old Peculiar.
“How’d you find this place?” Ron asked him out of the blue.
“We were stumbling around in the dark. I was herding ’em, really. And we saw some light shining through the cracks in your wall, heard some voices.”
“Well, Spirk’s fixed that. Wall’s better than ever.”
“Good,” said Kittins. “We may have to live here, when all’s said ’n done.”
Mendis, With His Legions
It was a cool night and yet Mendis lay sweating in his bed, in the darkness of his tent. He could not get the girl out of his mind. He’d tried concentrating on his own lovely, faithful and dedicated wife. He thought, too, of his children, his sons…and his daughters. How could he look any of them in the eyes again if he…
No! He would not allow that thought to continue. He had his faults, perhaps, but weakness had never been one of them. From an early age, he’d possessed willpower, self-discipline. Over the years, he’d been able to withstand loss, hunger, physical pain, lack of sleep and more. Many of his trials had been intentionally self-inflicted, as tests of his resolve. He had never wavered, never faltered before. Nor would he now.
He decided to focus on the progress of his invasion. His legions were making excellent time in crossing the continent and had managed to capture a number of larger towns and cities. Hostiles who fled north or south in order to regroup were met and crushed by the Tsundi or B’Shar, exactly as Mendis had predicted. Captives were offered citizenship in the Empire—after service to its Emperor, according to their talents. Lastly, refugees flooded and overwhelmed the still-unconquered cities, again, just as Mendis had promised.
Not that there weren’t challenges and difficulties. The land’s Svarren still swooped in out of the darkness from time to time, savaged the column’s flanks, and disappeared like ghosts. It was like being attacked by a flock of starlings, both in terms of the damage they did and the difficulty in catching them. The giants, too, remained elusive, a threat more imagined than seen, save the one captive. And they hadn’t gotten much information out of him. Qansip claimed—
Mendis thought of the flawless skin of her neck, how delicate it appeared, how beautifully colored. He wanted to plant his lips there, work his way up to her exquisite jawline, or down to her—
He sat up in bed, pushed through his bed curtains, and summoned the wizard who stood in attendance in the far corner of his tent.
“Yes, Magnificence?”
“A sleeping draught, if you please.”
Such manners this Emperor had. The wizard smiled back at him and said, “It is my pleasure,” and produced a vial from somewhere inside his doublet.
“How much do I drink?”
“All, Magnificence.”
Mendis was unconcerned about poisoning. He’d been enspelled against almost every contingency, except for those things he did to himself by choice. He took the stopper from the vial and downed its contents in one swallow. The taste was horrid, of course, but who drank such potions for their flavor? He dismissed the wizard and walked back to bed.
It wasn’t long before he fell into a deep and uneventful sleep.
The next day, he decided to distance himself from the native girl. Eventually, perhaps, he’d even have her sent off to one of the cities they’d conquered. He couldn’t help the occasional surreptitious glance in her direction, just to make sure she was bearing up and all. But by and large, his mind was on his campaign and its next target. As the day wore on, he caught himself looking for Qansip too often and reprimanded himself for doing so. She was just a girl, after all, and the first one he’d met in this land. Surely, she was not as exceptional as he’d imagined. Perhaps all women her age were as fetching. And, then again, perhaps Mendis was just homesick and missing his wife.
Only, it wasn’t his wife he was picturing naked.
He spurred his horse and rode farther ahead in the column. Maybe one of his officers would have an interesting tale to tell.
In his bed, Mendis lay awake and listened to the rain on his tent. It was a hard, relentless rain, but the tent was well-oiled and not a drop reached the Emperor. But the sound, loud though it was, could not lull him to sleep nor distract him from his thoughts of Qansip. For the second night in a row, he requested a sleeping draught. The wizard, a different man from the previous night, obliged without hesitation. Again, Mendis drank it off and returned to his bed to sleep.
In the morning, Qansip’s face was the first thing that came to the Emperor’s mind. As he sat on the edge of his bed and stared at his bare, knobby knees, he wondered if he hadn’t been poisoned after all, for Qansip was like a poison in his mind and in his blood. He could dismiss the greatest atrocities with nary a backward glance, but flush Qansip from his mind? Not so far.
He considered whether sending the girl away would be enough. Perhaps he should have her disfigured? Killed?
No; he was not a tyrant. The problem was his, not the girl’s. Still, he had to rule and to do that well, he needed to keep his wits about him. He would send her away. Now he’d decided, he couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t done it already.
Perhaps because he hadn’t wanted to.
Somehow, over the course of the day, he failed once again to banish the girl from his presence. He returned to his mage for a third night running. The first man who’d supplied him with a sleeping draft was back on duty and frowned ever-so-slightly when Mendis ordered another draft.
“Speak!” Mendis told the man. “I would know your mind.”
“Speak, Magnificence? But there is nothing in particular on my mind.”
“Do you think me a fool? You’re worried I’m becoming dependent upon your potions, aren’t you?” Mendis demanded. “Nothing could be further from the truth!”
The wizard remained silent. One does not interrupt the Emperor in his anger.
“Give me what I’ve asked for, and let me worry about whether it’s a problem or not,” Mendis concluded.
“Of course, Magnificence,” the wizard replied.
This time, Mendis waited until he’d passed through his curtains to drink the draught. For some reason, he felt self-conscious, drinking the stuff in front of the wizard—which struck him as preposterous. He was the Emperor. If he declared that skunk spray was perfume, then so it was and so it would be and none would dare to contradict him.
He slept again without dreams and awakened feeling as though he’d been cheated. He felt his thoughts wandering towards Qansip, and he forced himself to think of breakfast instead. Breakfast and exercise, he decided, would do wonders for him.
It had been some time since he’d walked with and amongst his foot soldiers. That seemed just the thing. After a nice meal of sausages, local eggs and potatoes, Mendis strapped on the rest of his armor and sought out one of his legions. There was discipline within the ranks, but also comradery, and the occasional joke—so long as it was only occasional—was more than welcome. The Emperor reveled, too, in the looks on the men’s faces as he worked his way amongst them. He knew his presence bolstered their spirits, and theirs did the same for him.
The day was approaching lovely. What clouds remained in the sky were of the pillowy white variety, and the almost-warm breeze brought with it the scent of new growth, of grasses, of leaves. There was even a hint of spice that intrigued the Emperor, and he determined to learn more when the opportunity presented itself. The exercise was invigorating, too. It was so good to stretch the legs and work up a healthy sweat. Everything seemed so pleasant, in fact, that Mendis was considering spending the whole day with his foot soldiers…
Until he heard Qansip’s laughter bubbling up out of nowhere. He felt a brief twinge of panic, followed by anger. Not twenty paces away, the girl sat behind one of his officers as they rode by on the man’s horse. Mendis immediately stepped out of the ranks and called to one of his other officers, who answered without hesitation.
“Magnificence?”
“Follow that officer. Tell him his Emperor commands him to take the girl to the back of the column. Tell him that if I see him again today, I’ll have him flogged.” The obedient officer was hard-pressed to conceal his surprise, but Mendis let it go; he just wanted Qansip out of sight and, he hoped, out of mind.
The incident had ruined his mood, though. He stood and watched the men he’d been marching with pull away as they continued on their path. He waited. Finally, his usual retinue approached, including his closest advisors, his horse, and his manservant. He raised his hand and waved to the lot, and the manservant dutifully led his horse in his direction.
For the rest of the day, Mendis rode and brooded in silence.
Following a fourth night of sleeping draughts, the Emperor decided to confront his problem head-on. He asked for Qansip to be sent to his tent, to join him for breakfast. As ever, a wizard stood nearby to ensure both parties understood one another. Mendis wanted to get this over with, but seeing her again, up close, temporarily weakened his resolve.
“You are well, I trust?” Whatever his plans, it was important his subordinates treated his guests with honor and respect.
“I am.” She offered no thanks, but he didn’t notice. He did see all the little things such women do to entice men: brushing her hair back out of her eyes, touching her lips, making eye contact and then blushingly looking away. He saw all those little things, and yet he wanted her. “And you?” she asked.
“Well,” said he. Why was she asking? Surely, she had no real interest in him, an invader. “I am quite well,” he assured her. “As, I hope, everyone is under my rule. Mine, you will find, is a well-run and rather benevolent empire.” He expected a reaction to that, a look of skepticism, a snort, even an argument. Something. She touched her hair, licked her lips, and looked away.
“Where is the officer I rode with yesterday?” she inquired.
Mendis lifted a goblet of wine to his own lips, drank, and replied, “He has been reassigned.”
“But he was merely showing me your troops,” she pouted.
“That is my prerogative,” he answered. Because he didn’t want to appear petty or jealous, he added, “But I can show them to you as well as anyone, if you’re truly interested.”
“Oh, I would love that!” she sparkled.
Had Mendis but known it, this was his last chance, his last opportunity to save himself. Alas, he did not.