Long & Short, The Fretful Porpentine
Long discovered he was able to make himself appear as anyone else he could imagine and had spent the past several days experimenting with his newest ability. He made similar experiments with Short, but, try as he might, he was not able to increase the homunculus’ size; thus, Short’s options were limited to things like chickens, cats, and tiny dogs. Unfortunately for him, cats and dogs didn’t tend to walk on their hind legs, so he spent most of his time as a chicken. To make matters worse, he made an especially ugly one.
“You got a mean streak. You know that, Long?”
“What? Why do you say that?”
“You brought me back to live out my days like this? I’da never done that to you!”
“Coulda been worse. I coulda made you a potted plant.”
For all his new-found facility with disguises, Long hadn’t managed to wander far beyond the Fretful Porpentine. There were, he told himself, several perfectly valid reasons for this. For one thing, he was curious to see the impact of Yendor’s ale on the community firsthand. For another, well, he was stalling. He hated to admit that about himself, but he still hadn’t come up with a plan that allowed him to confront Her Majesty and survive.
That started to change the moment Hoosh Bindy walked through the inn’s doors.
The man had a visible aura. No one else seemed to notice it, not even Short, but it was as clear as sunshine to Long. Slowly, Hoosh became aware of Long, as well.
It was difficult to get near the Fool, because everyone seemed to know him and, knowing him, expect some entertainment. Long made eye contact with the fellow just enough to establish that a meeting was necessary. The other man didn’t seem to disagree. First, however, he had to discharge his duties as Fool.
The barkeep plied him with Yendor’s ale, and the Fool fairly exploded with exuberance and musical flatulence. Apparently, that was the preferred type of humor for the patrons of the Fretful Porpentine, for the room burst with a raucous jollity that Long had never before noted there. Even Short, in his chicken guise, found reason to laugh, though it sounded to most folks like clucking.
In the middle of this merriment, Yendor himself appeared with Rem in tow, to deliver another, larger barrel of his product, which they brought into the inn on a wheelbarrow. Long hid in the shadows and watched, though he needn’t have gone to such effort. Yendor would never have recognized his friend’s current face. The transaction completed, Long watched his former companions’ departure with a wistful sadness that was only disrupted by the arrival of the Fool at his side.
“We should talk.”
“Aye.”
“In the pantry?”
“An excellent suggestion,” Long agreed.
Hoosh showed the way as if he were employed in the place, and whenever any of the clientele attempted to interrupt or halt his passage, he sprinkled them with dust from a pouch at his waist, and they completely forgot what they’d been after.
“Nice trick, that,” Long observed.
“You flatter me,” said Hoosh. “I can’t even imagine what you’re capable of. Ah, here we are!”
The pantry was a small room, lined with food-laden shelves from floor to ceiling. As he was turning to close the door behind them, Hoosh stopped. “This your chicken?” he inquired.
“He’s mine, yes.”
Hoosh shrugged. To each his own.
Once the door was closed and secure, the Fool spun a tale that shook Long Pete to his core. He wanted to laugh derisively in Hoosh Bindy’s face, to call him a liar or worse. He wanted to kill the man for the news he’d delivered. Yet, when the Fool had finally finished, Long had a hard time finding his voice.
“No questions?” Hoosh prompted.
“None,” said Long. The whole thing made a sort of horrible sense that seemed to put all of his struggles over the past few years into a new and ghastly light. Some truths could not be escaped: his best and happiest days were now behind him, and all that remained was growing torment and eventual oblivion. He knew now why some went mad and was tempted to embrace insanity, himself, to give in to its seductive whisperings rather than suffer a single minute more. But there was one last bit of good he could do for the world. He would not be remembered for it—or anything else, for that matter—but he’d perish knowing he’d done it. He hoped that knowledge would be enough to drive him through the dark days ahead.
“What will you do?” Hoosh asked at last.
“Kill the Queen, I reckon.”
“And how will you do that?”
“Damned if I know. But I’m guessin’ the Reaper’ll play his part.”
“And me?”
Long took a lengthy pause, stared at the Fool without blinking. “I imagine I’ll have to let you win.”
Bindy’s face was a mixture of relief and dread. “But that means…”
The captain hung his head, saddened and bone-weary. “Yes. I’m well aware.”
He’d discovered he could sleep in the owner’s bed during business hours without interruption—partially because the door was locked (no impediment to a god) and partially because the owner and his immediate family were always so busy. The arrival of Yendor’s brew had turned an already popular inn into a boisterous madhouse, in which money changed hands faster than whores spread the clap.
And so Long lay in bed, grappling with a future he’d never foreseen and certainly didn’t want. His choices had been reduced to horrendous or nightmarish. Either way, he’d experience more suffering and death than he’d ever imagined possible, and he’d been in some fucking dire situations.
He rolled onto his side and regarded the homunculus. .
Short Pete looked back at him. “So?”
Such a tiny word, yet so full fraught with import.
Long rolled the opposite way, from which vantage point he was able to watch the sun set. “I dunno.” And, really, how could he know? If he finished, he’d be, in his estimation, simply fobbing the whole mess onto someone else the next time ’round. Alternatively, he could arrange things so that the Fool was last, but then the whole damned cycle would begin all over again, and he’d have abdicated all power to change things. Could they be changed, though? If, say, he, Alheria and the Fool banded together, could they somehow rewrite the rules together?
From everything he’d seen and experienced, it didn’t look as if Her Majesty was open to doing anything differently than she already had. After all, she was in the strongest position, despite the Emperor’s invasion. Indeed, if Long had learned anything, it was that Alheria would use this same invasion to serve her own ends. Whether the Emperor won or lost, the outcome would favor the Queen.
Long wondered if the Emperor understood that. And then he wondered if informing the fellow of Alheria’s plans would make any difference. Men were awfully stubborn when it came to war.
Of course, there was always the Reaper’s option. But the mere thought of it left Long torn. How ironic, Long mused, that they’d all spent so much time and energy over the past few years fighting a lunatic who called himself the End-of-All-Things, when it had been Vykers and only Vykers all along who possessed such power. Left to his own devices, the Reaper would eventually, inevitably clean the slate, put an end to the posturing, the games, and the suffering of innocents. Yet it was the fear of what comes after that end—the undiscovered country, from whose bourn no traveler returns—that gave Long pause. What if whatever came next was worse?
Long considered all the possibilities and found none remotely palatable. The only tiny blessing he could identify was that he had some say in the final outcome.
He wanted a nice mug or ten of Yendor’s brew, but was feeling too dispirited to rise from his borrowed bed. “Say, Short,” he began, “you s’pose you could fetch me a nice pitcher of that special ale they got downstairs?”
The little homunculus grumbled but rolled off the mattress onto the floor. “You gotta open the fuckin’ door!” said he.
And with a thought, Long did.
Vykers & Co, On the Road
His men were full of theories about who or what it was that had rampaged across the countryside, but there was no consensus amongst them, and considering that they were more or less natives to this land, their ignorance was not reassuring. There was, too, the randomness of these attacks, for while many farmsteads, villages and towns had been obliterated, others seemingly along the same path had not.
Vykers rode into one of these miraculously unscathed hamlets and, through Hjuest, confronted the first people he encountered, who were busy, as it happened, planting great stakes in the ground as a defensive measure.
His first question was a stupid one, but Vykers could think of nothing better. “What are you folk doing there?” he yelled from the back of his horse.
Hjuest translated. Vykers waited. The locals responded. Slowly, weirdly, Vykers came to feel he understood their words without Hjuest’s translation.
But that wasn’t possible. Leastways, it had never been before.
Several minutes of heated discussion revealed that these villagers had learned of the fate of their neighboring settlements, but none present had personally witnessed anything. No one could tell Vykers who or what the enemy was. And why did he care, anyway? The locals wanted to know. He was obviously a foreigner. What business had he with any of this?
He might have said as he often had in the past, “Because I’m the Reaper, and I make it my business.” But he looked at these poor, doomed rustics—the very dregs the Emperor had left behind—and understood he’d be doing them no favors by making promises, real or implicit. If he discovered the perpetrator or perpetrators of these attacks and it was in his interest to act, then he would. Oh, he was powerfully curious, no question. He would have loved to ask Arune what she knew or sensed. If Arune weren’t dead. He felt a momentary twinge, a hitch in his breathing, and he moved on. His primary goal was and remained reaching the Emperor’s throne room, there to see the mural detailing his history.
Belatedly, the villagers asked if Vykers’ crew had any news or might be of service in their cause. Oh, fuck it, Vykers thought, and climbed from his saddle. He instructed most of his team to help the locals in crafting and planting their stakes and fortifying their defenses. He had Hjuest ask one of their number to lead him on a tour of the town’s periphery. Ona, of course, wanted to come along, but Vykers wouldn’t have it. It didn’t look good, didn’t feel right to have her trailing after him everywhere he went. Besides, he didn’t need the distraction.
By midday, the Reaper had the whole, meager population of the village at work digging trenches, pitfalls, erecting thorny hedge-barriers, setting fire traps and anything else he could think of. He placed the town’s entire supply of bows and arrows on the roof of its tallest structure. Two men, he set to work cutting a hole in said roof with axes, so that it might be accessed from inside, without exposing the would-be bowmen any more than necessary.
Still, how does one prepare for an attack that may never come, from an enemy one knows nothing about? The questioned both thrilled and perturbed him.
Near sunset, Vykers acknowledged the obvious, that he and his crew would be staying for the night. The villagers seemed glad of his presence; they wouldn’t be, come morning, when he and his packed up and left.
For the time being, everyone seemed content, and the village even acquired something of a festive atmosphere. The locals, who normally spent nights indoors, set up a large bonfire in the village square. They hung a spitted pig over the flames, someone broke out a small cask of wine, and a fiddler appeared, as if from nowhere. There was cheese to be had and fresh bread, too. If the Emperor had depleted his lands of manpower, he’d still left plenty behind worth savoring. Soon, there was singing and dancing and the execution of countless pranks. Vykers was pleased to see his men—and Ona—enjoying themselves for once. He had not been a kind or gracious leader, and though he did not see himself changing, he was glad for the crew’s chance at merriment.
Of course, Vykers neither danced nor sang. But he watched, and that was enough. The local folk were not handsome—perhaps their best and brightest had joined the Emperor’s cause—but they were as real, as genuine as the soil beneath his feet. Good stuff, good folk, good food, good wine. The celebration petered out as the night wore on, as the combined effects of too much food, wine, dancing and laughter took their toll. Vykers alone remained awake and alert.
So he was the first to sense danger.
A short, sharp tremor rattled the ground and was over so quickly that the Reaper nearly thought he’d imagined it. Except the night all around him had become eerily quiet. Beyond the firelight, a vast something seemed to take flight, only to come crashing down nearby with a force that shook Vykers’ being with even greater violence than the first tremor.
Everyone woke up; some of the villagers even screamed.
Vykers and his men found their weapons and formed a large circle around the fire, with their backs to the flames, leaving enough room for the townsfolk behind them. In a second’s time, he inspected his crew and knew them to be ready for whatever was coming. The townsfolk, however, were on the verge of panic. The Reaper barked at them in words they could not have understood, but they understood his tone. They quieted, held their breath and waited.
A horrible growling wail sounded—a noise worse than the death screams of cattle and the raging shrieks of raptors combined. It was polytonal and multi-voiced, and yet it clearly came from one thing, one entity, one furious, mad being whose existence seemed the essence of torment. Some, near Vykers, answered with screams of their own, lesser cries of pain or fear. He didn’t understand their reactions. Anything that made a noise like that was alive and could be killed.
Something mountainous rumbled into view at the firelight’s edge. It blocked out the moon and stars and, for the villagers, seemed to block out hope as well. Many of them bolted for their homes, no longer confident in the martial prowess of their guests. Buildings wouldn’t save them, though, Vykers knew. Steel would.
And then, Vykers heard something he wasn’t expecting, something he could never have anticipated: the thing called to him.
“Reeeaaapeeerrr…”
He felt the eyes of everyone in his company upon him.
The thing slid, slithered, crept closer, without shaking the ground as it surely had earlier, but not entirely without noise, either.
“Reeeaaapeeerrr…”
A huge and unspeakably misshapen face loomed into view, largest on a body of such faces.
“Frog?” Vykers asked, more to himself than the creature before him.
“Reeeaaapeeerr!” the thing screamed back, dragging more of itself into the firelight.
Vykers heard the soft but sudden gasps of shock from his crew, heard their feet nervously stepping ever-so-slightly backwards, smelled the stink of their fear. As he looked up at the Frog, he couldn’t blame them.
The boy, as boy he should have been by the calendar, was now larger than any creature the Reaper had ever seen, larger than the leviathan that had once attacked his ship, larger even than some castles he’d visited. Clouds of vile pestilence seemed to emanate from his form, making him—it—seem all the more gigantic. And his size was only part of his terrible aspect, for, like the chimeras that had inspired him, the boy was an impossible amalgamation of other creatures, other monsters. Without question, he had continued the all-devouring ways he’d begun when Vykers saw him last. Now, the multiple eyes in the Frog’s multiple faces shone with malevolence, reflecting the flames of the dwindling bonfire.
Vykers felt the sword in his grip and wished he’d grabbed his new axe instead. He tried to calculate his chances of getting to his gear before the Frog attacked and decided that even if he made it, his crew might not.
He dropped his sword, eliciting another round of gasps from his fellows.
“Frog, I came back for you,” he lied.
“Frog?” the monster echoed. A different mouth opened and launched a tongue at one of the men. There was a loud thwack, and, in the next instant, that man’s hindquarters were dangling from that mouth.
“Frog!” Vykers roared in fury. He’d no idea what to do, how to attack something so vast. He’d hoped that some part of the boy was still…the boy. “Get back!” he yelled at his crew. He expected another tongue any moment. Or maybe a spiked arm or scaly tentacle might lash out at him.
But it’s never the thing you’re expecting that kills you.
Beesmarch & His Kinfolk, In the Wilds
Beesmarch was busy torturing the prisoner when Karrakan unexpectedly reappeared, angry as a nest of hornets at the bigger giant’s behavior.
“Hold!” he yelled from the trees as Beesmarch bore down on the invader’s chest with a massive foot.
The other giants looked an odd combination of elated to see the shaman and ashamed to be caught displeasing him.
“Hello to you, too,” Beesmarch said sourly.
“What are you doing to that man?”
“Torturin’ him. What’s it look like?”
“Why are you torturing him?”
Beesmarch rolled his eyes. “To get information, what else?”
“Does he speak our tongue?” Karrakan challenged. When he got no answer, he continued, “Do you speak his? No? Then it’s just fer spite, is it?”
Everyone looked down, away, or anywhere but at Beesmarch or Karrakan.
“If you mean to kill him, kill him and be done with it,” the shaman scolded. “Our king would never countenance such behavior…”
“Well now, that’s the thing, you see,” one of the others interrupted. “Bees is our king now.”
“What?” Karrakan shouted back, shocked.
“Bees is king.”
“How? Where’s Eoman?”
“Bees…” one of the Brothers began.
“I can speak fer meself!” Beesmarch cut in. “I challenged ’im, he lost, I’m king.”
“Well, you sucker-punched him when he’d stopped fightin’…” another of the giants said.
“Sucker-punched? Hmph!” Beesmarch roared. “He got winded, I saw an openin’. A real king don’t stop fightin’ ’til he’s won!”
Karrakan let the bickering continue while he tried to make sense of what he’d just heard. His friend had been king for as long as the shaman could remember, and that was a long time indeed. And now the grumpy old bastard Beesmarch was king? “Where’s Eoman?” he demanded of a sudden.
“Dead,” said Whindas. “We think.”
“Dead?” Karrakan slammed his staff into the ground and a swarm of blood-red will-o’-wisps came spewing out the top, zipping and flittering about each of the other giants, who, for all their size, seemed terrified of the little mites. “Explain!”
Beesmarch complied; he could do little else. When he’d finished, Karrakan said, “I will find him, or I will find his body. That is the least service we owe him. Make camp, and let me concentrate.”
“But I am king,” Beesmarch responded, halfheartedly.
“You’ll do as I say, Bees, or I’ll plague you with biting flies for the rest of your days.”
“Humph,” said Beesmarch. But he let his prisoner go and instructed to others to start a fire and forage for food. If anyone could determine if Eoman yet lived, it was the shaman, and Bees was more than willing to let him try.
The shaman sent out his apparently inexhaustible army of will-o’-wisps in search of Eoman. Many flew off in every direction at speeds no raptor could match; others simply winked out as if suddenly extinguished. Karrakan knew better. Will-o’-wisps were of the fey and traveled byways beyond mortal ken. They would find the former king, Karrakan had no doubt.
What to do with Beesmarch, though? The shaman was so furious at the bigger giant, he was tempted to lay down a challenge himself. Much better to have Eoman restored to his proper position. And yet, the other giants had followed Bees and done his bidding without contention. What a mess!
The following day, all of the giants save Beesmarch and the Karrakan decided to bathe themselves in a nearby lake. They invited their king, but he declined, partly to watch over the shaman, who was still engaged in his strange castings, and partly because he hated water. At last, Karrakan seemed to return to the present. The king had been hoping for good news, but preparing himself for the worst as well. The look on Karrakan’s face, however, was not enlightening.
“What news?” Beesmarch asked, endeavoring to keep his emotions in check.
“He lives,” Karrakan said flatly. “A captive of the invaders’ armies.”
The bigger giant nodded, thrust out his chin. “Then I will rescue him.”
“You’re an idiot,” the shaman replied dismissively. “One giant—even a score of us—against tens of thousands?”
Rebuked though he was, Beesmarch would not give up. “It may be we have allies you’re unware of…”
“What, have you made friends with the Svarren?” Karrakan scoffed.
“Well, as a matter o’ fact…”
Mendis & Qansip, In Camp
Finally, Mendis had not needed a sleeping draught; he’d had Qansip—still had her, in fact. Even in sleep, and perhaps especially then, she was a paragon of feminine beauty. Her hair formed a golden nimbus about her head as she slept. Her skin was without wrinkle or blemish. Her lips—gods, her lips!
The Emperor struggled with what he’d done. Certainly other rulers, other Emperors even, had had their mistresses, their concubines. And that was fine for other men. But Mendis had always prided himself on his honor, his virtue. Now? He rested a hand on Qansip’s naked back, felt the warm smoothness of her skin and himself responding to it. Surely no one would begrudge the Emperor this one dalliance, being so far and so long from home, waging such an ambitious campaign on the Empire’s behalf…And, too, it was not as if he were a tyrant. He sighed. He’d been arguing with himself for hours now to no avail, no purpose; it was time to live with his decision and make no apologies for it. He was, he believed, the most powerful, most important man in the world. Why should he not enjoy the rewards that naturally belonged to one of his position?
He rose and requested a bath. His many servants and attendants worked hard to maintain neutral expressions at all times in his presence, but most especially this morning. The Emperor feigned disinterest in their thoughts and opinions with regard to his newest companion, but he scanned their faces, each and every one, for any sign of judgment or censure. He would not have Qansip made to feel badly merely because he fancied her, nor again would he apologize for doing so.
After his bath, he ordered breakfast for two and challenged his staff and his wizards to come up with fresh and fashionable clothing for his mistress. She must have, he insisted, clothing as lovely as she—a tall order, to be sure, in a camp fixing to break up and return to the march, but the Emperor was not to be denied. More, he demanded such attire be found with all haste, that Qansip might be ready to ride with him on his daily inspection of the troops.
Fortunately, Mendis’ wizards came through with a series of beautiful dresses and gowns that his tailors, shorthanded though they were, were able to adapt and adjust to suit the girl. Mendis did not ask the provenance of the dresses. He didn’t care. All that mattered to him in the present was making Qansip happy and seeing her at her best.
She rode behind him on his stallion, wrapping her arms around his waist, and he felt a flush of pride that she should do so. She was his! She wanted him and he, her. He sensed an awkwardness from his staff and everyone he passed. Of course. They were uncertain how to feel or behave around Qansip. But the Emperor held his head high and smiled broadly, thereby letting them know that he felt no so such awkwardness. In time, he knew, his troops would grow accustomed to seeing Qansip by his side and think nothing of it.
It was not possible, in one day, to show his consort the entirety of his forces, stretching as they did from his current location to the eastern shore. But Mendis was able to offer some notable highlights. He was very proud of his lancers, for instance, and his longbowmen put on an archery exhibition that thrilled the young woman. It was his Dread Knights, however, that impressed her most, as he’d expected. Even on horseback, the solid steel monsters were taller than she, and they marched without tiring. Naturally, Qansip was full of questions.
“How do they march?” she demanded playfully. “Is there someone inside them?”
The Emperor laughed at her childlike wonder. “No, sweet. They weigh far too much for that. It’s magic, of course.”
“Is it?” she thrilled. “And is this all of them, or are there more?”
“All?” Mendis echoed in surprise. “Any one of these could conquer a kingdom, and I have eleven!”
For a moment, Qansip seemed confused. “Eleven? Why not make another and have an even dozen?”
A shadow passed fleetingly over Mendis’ face. “I had a dozen, but one of them…suffered an accident.”
“Truly? Tell me more!”
“There’s no story, there,” Mendis answered dismissively. “The point is, with the ones I’ve got, I can conquer the world.”
Qansip was unrelenting. “But why not make another and even them out? Why not make an army?”
Although he enjoyed the girl’s youthful enthusiasm, her focus on the number of Dread Knights had become irksome, so he quickly changed the subject. He talked about the overall number of his troops. He spoke at length about his wizards. Then, he moved on to the magnificent castles of his homeland, the beautiful beaches and bounteous orchards. Secretly, he could not wait for the end of the day’s march, when he could retire to bed with his prize, his treasure, once again. More and more, he wanted her more and more. He’d made his true conquest between the sheets, and nothing else mattered quite so much anymore. Everything he said, everything he did was simply a bid to pass the time until nightfall, until he could be with her entirely once again.
But even in bed, it seemed, Qansip’s curiosity would not abate, much to Mendis’ chagrin.
“You say one of your Dread Knights could conquer a kingdom,” she whispered, trailing an idle finger across his naked chest.
“Yes,” he confessed.
“I’d like to see that.”
There it was, and how could he say no without seeming weak or foolish? “And so you shall.”
“Tomorrow?” she squealed in excitement.
“As soon as the opportunity presents itself.” It was a good answer, he thought. One that allowed him plenty of leeway in the event there were no suitable targets within the next day’s march. He only hoped Qansip was done with the subject for the time being.
Both his wizards and his scouts reported a mid-sized city to the southwest of the column’s position. The Emperor, his consort, a wizard and one of the Dread Knights could be there by mid-day—faster, if the wizard transported them all. Mendis wanted this task, this chore over with and opted for magical assistance in traveling thence. The Dread Knight would perform its task, Qansip would be satisfied, and Mendis could resume focusing on the larger issues at play. As much as he craved constant congress with the girl, he never forgot Her Majesty was out there, somewhere, working on plans of her own.
Dread Knights were keyed to respond only to certain people, but always to the Emperor. Once Mendis gave the command, the thing set off towards the walled city at a brisk pace. Even a half mile away, Mendis, Qansip and their wizard could hear the growing alarm from the city’s guards, atop the wall. They shouted orders and fired warning shots with their longbows, but the Dread Knight moved inexorably forward. Mendis heard the chains on the city’s drawbridge engage and subsequently saw the bridge begin to rise. The Dread Knight continued, undeterred.
“But how will he get across that moat and over the walls?” Qansip inquired.
“Normally, those are problems he’d figure out on his own, but as I don’t want to spend all day here, I think we’ll fly him over.” He nodded to the wizard, who returned the gesture and promptly faded from view. Mendis redirected his consort’s attention by gently turning her chin back to the city, where the Dread Knight was slowly rising into the air. This provoked a great volley of arrows and stones, but none seemed to bother their target in the slightest.
The cries of alarm from atop the city’s walls grew louder and more urgent, and flocks of soldiers could be seen rushing to reinforce the regular guards. Soon, a hundred men or more watched their mysterious enemy pass right overhead and begin its descent into the city proper.
Qansip heard a woman scream, and she smiled, only to frown a few seconds later. Mendis assumed she’d had a change of heart, but he was mistaken. “But how are we to witness this conquest from out here?” Qansip demanded.
Mendis chuckled. “You won’t want to see what’s coming, believe me. The Dread Knight will fight until he’s killed everyone in that city, or they’ve fled. Neither their weapons nor their magics will be of any use.”
“It that so?” Qansip trilled. “He sounds like a real Tarmun Vykers!”
The Emperor’s mood darkened almost instantaneously at this comment, but he managed to keep his frustration out of his face. “Yes, yes…” he said flatly. “But now, would you like to return to my legions, or would you prefer to stay here for a light lunch?”
“Oh, I’d love to stay! I’m just dying to know whether the locals will choose to fight or flee!”
“Stay it is, then!” Mendis proclaimed with flaccid mirth. He unfolded the blanket he’d carried upon his arm and spread it out on the grass. As soon as the wizard returned, Mendis would request a selection of meats, cheeses and fruits from camp. He enjoyed demonstrating the privileges and powers of his office, from the mundane, like lunch, to the extraordinary, like employing the Dread Knight to destroy yonder city.
If the Emperor had any qualms about sacking a city as entertainment for his mistress, he stifled them quickly and well with thoughts of how she’d reward him for his indulgence. He had a moment of clarity, in which he understood there was little he wouldn’t do to earn her amorous attentions, but then he told himself that the ruination of these people could easily be folded into his larger military strategy. He wanted to be a fair, a just ruler. But he also needed to demonstrate his might from time-to-time, lest the natives lose respect for his authority.
It was all rather silly, as far as Qansip was concerned. Everyone in the Emperor’s service seemed bent on treating him as if he were some sort of god; to her, he was a short, adorable little man who took himself far too seriously. His stern facial expressions and grave pronouncements only made her want to laugh. Oh, but he was wealthy and showered her with gifts that beggared anything her father had ever given her. Fleetingly, she wondered if Driegan was still alive, but, because there was no profit in it, she quickly returned to her fantasies involving the Emperor. She’d allowed him to bed her, not because she loved him, but because it was past time she gave vent to her passions, and also because she knew how badly he wanted her. She was flattered at first—he might come to rule the whole world one day, and she was the sole object of his desires. It wasn’t long, however, before she realized that his passion for her was far greater than hers for him; indeed, she could hardly say she loved him and didn’t suppose she ever would. She could make use of his need, though. She suspected that marriage was out of the question, but perhaps he would grant her a realm of her own to rule. Really, there was no telling how far the Emperor was willing to go, and Qansip was certainly eager to find out.
While he blathered on about making a statement to her fellow natives, she listened instead to the crashes, the explosions, and the screams coming from the beleaguered city. It truly was impressive how much damage and terror one Dread Knight could inflict. The drawbridge came down again, so that frantic citizens could escape the carnage. Soon, they began gathering in a field a few hundred paces from the main gate, shocked to discover they weren’t being pursued beyond the city’s walls. One of their number noticed the Emperor and his companion watching them from a distance and made sure that all of his fellows saw them as well.
“I hope my wizard is on his way,” Mendis said, more to himself than to Qansip.
The mob began moving in his direction. He guessed it would take them five minutes, at least, to reach him, but he was in no mood to find out. Worse, he did not want to lose face with Qansip. The prospect of having to turn tail and run was unacceptable. The closer the mob got, though, the more likely this seemed.
“What shall we do?” Qansip inquired, making no effort to hide her excitement.
Luckily, the wizard chose that moment to return from the city’s interior.
“Take us back to our forces,” Mendis commanded. “And let us know when the Dread Knight has completed his work.”
The wizard nodded and did as instructed.
Alheria, Lunessfor
The Emperor had too many soldiers, too many resources. Inevitably, he would conquer the land and probably even succeed in winning the people over to his way of doing things, for whatever difference that made. That was her thanks for saving them all from Eyatu. Some might argue that Eyatu’s predations had been her fault; Alheria did not agree. Is any mother responsible for the actions of her adult children? Granted, Eyatu was a god, but she held that the principle was the same. In any event, the peasantry would all flock to Mendis. And Lunessfor would come under siege…which was just as she’d planned, for it was that siege, she believed, that would finally draw Mahnus out of hiding and allow her to kill him—again and with finality.
Yes, it was all rather distasteful, but she couldn’t very well change things for the better if she didn’t ascend, and she couldn’t ascend unless she was the last. There were some rules by which even she had to abide.
She felt herself scowling, would’ve been surprised if the expression wasn’t permanently etched into this particular face, and then Alheria looked out from her gazebo into her garden. Well, it was all her garden, in truth. But this little one, this immediate garden, brought her more comfort than all the conversations, all the books, all the sweetmeats, all the wine in the world. And yet, she would have to part with it eventually in order to achieve the ultimate more.
Alheria closed her eyes. She felt every one of her countless days. How had the others managed it, the ones before? She doubted any had faced the challenges she had. Ah, but enough self-pity. The Queen focused her thoughts on her remaining bastards, located each, and set to planning their separate dooms.
Every so often, her thoughts wandered to her roses, which bloomed irrespective of climate, season or weather. She shook her head in wry amusement. She cared more for those roses than she did for her own offspring. But then her children were far, far thornier and much less lovely to gaze upon. The swamp witch Croonbasket, for example, had never shown any affection or duty towards her mother, and her actions involving the Dead One had been both insolent and dangerous. Luckily, Alheria had a gift for making the best of other people’s mistakes, and Kittins would play his role in ensuring it was the Queen and not Vykers who triumphed. But Croonbasket had to die, and soon. The only reason she continued to breathe was that Alheria was having second thoughts about the wisdom of keeping Hoosh around for her confrontation with Mahnus. She wasn’t sure he could be trusted, and maybe, the goddess thought, she should just get the Fool out of the way once and for all. She certainly didn’t believe that he was or would be content to come so close to victory and still lose.
So: Croonbasket next, or Hoosh?
A bumblebee buzzed past—the first of the season—and it was everything Alheria could do to avoid perceiving it in some metaphorical sense. Sometimes, things were simply what they appeared to be, and even though the Poet had once written “There’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow,” a bumblebee was often only a bumblebee.
Ona, Hjuest & Co, the Ruined Village
The survivors sat on their asses in the dirt or dew-dampened grass, unable to make sense of what had transpired. They barely moved, even to quench their thirsts or empty their bladders. No one spoke, as there was nothing to be said. They passed an entire day in this manner.
The next, they stood around the body in a broken circle, still struck dumb by the impossibility of the night’s events, struck dumb, too, by their outcome. The Reaper was dead. His purplish-red cadaver, little more than a skeleton swaddled in coagulate gore, lay in a pool of the same sludge the crew had seen elsewhere. Only now, to their infinite sorrow, they understood its significance.
The monster Vykers had named “Frog” had sprayed him with acid—vomited it forth, really—in an area too wide to escape with a simple dive or somersault. The legendary warrior could dodge swords, spears and arrows it seemed, by not geysers of acid.
Hjuest looked up from the corpse and assessed the damage the Frog had done to the town. Many buildings he’d smashed or burned and many townsfolk he’d devoured, but he’d left most of the Reaper’s team untouched. To bear witness, the Red Knight supposed. And then the colossal monstrosity had bounded off into the darkness with a series of ground-shaking leaps. Or perhaps they’d been steps. Or short flights. The Frog’s true shape defied understanding, even by those who’d seen it up close.
And Hjuest didn’t care, anyway. Tarmun Vykers was dead. Hjuest’s mentor and tormentor, his hero, and his curse was dead. Hjuest had no idea how to proceed. “Vat do vee do vid…vid him?” he asked Ona.
She knew why: the Red Knight considered her next-of-kin. She hoped this deference ended with this one question; she’d no interest in leading this group of men—or anyone—anywhere, for any purpose. She could not replace her grandfather and would not try. “Burn him?” was all she said. The big Ntambi warrior muttered something about making a pyre, which surprised Ona, because she’d underestimated his grasp of her language.
Somewhere, a woman sobbed in despair. Someone else cried out feebly in pain or for help, even a full day after the attack. Ona had no hope for them, with the Frog roaming the countryside. Without the Emperor’s legions and Shapers to protect them, the locals were doomed.
In time, the pyre was ready—a great heap of a thing just beyond the town’s outermost buildings—and Hjuest asked for volunteers to help him lift and deposit Vykers’ remains on top. A few of the men stepped forward, but only one other was needed, so wasted was the body. Ona insisted that she be that other.
She’d seen a mummified body once in her youth, something the Sholdorn had found in a cave near their capital. The body of Vykers was similar, except for the bloody coloring. He looked like nothing so much as a skeleton wrapped in leather and then drenched in red, brown and purple waxes. For the first time, she really saw his claws and canines. How could this thing ever have been her grandfather?
His body creaked and gurgled as Hjuest and she hefted it first to waist level and then up and onto the pyre.
A soft, prolonged groan came from its mouth.
Ona leapt backwards in fear.
“It is only gases,” Hjuest assured her. “It happens all de time.”
Yes, of course. Ona knew that.
The body groaned again, louder.
This time, Ona approached the body. “That doesn’t sound like gas to me.” She reached out and put a hand on Vykers’ left arm. She felt a faint trembling and gasped in shock. “I think,” she panted, “I think he’s alive.”
At this pronouncement, Hjuest and the other men surged forward and examined the Reaper more closely. From their angle, they could not fully see his face, but, like Ona, they touched his arms or legs.
The body groaned.
“Gods!” the Red Knight cried. “How horrible.”
“Light the pyre,” the Ntambi commanded.
It was unthinkable. “He’s alive!” Ona protested.
“We cannot help him. He only suffer,” the warrior countered.
The body groaned.
The Ntambi warrior approached with a branch from the town’s dwindling bonfire. Ona and Hjuest seemed paralyzed with uncertainty, so the warrior moved the flames closer to the pyre, whereupon the flames extinguished. The Ntambi seemed frustrated for a moment, until the various twigs, branches and logs that made up the pyre began moving. In seconds, they transformed into bark-and-leaf colored arms, large and small, that embraced the Reaper even as they held the Ntambi warrior at bay. He, not being a fool, stepped away from the pyre with all haste.
“Do not touch him!” warned a voice from the within the pyre. “On pain of death, I charge you stay away!”
“I know dat voice,” Hjuest whispered to Ona.
Part of the pyre shifted, shaping itself into the form of a woman, standing over Vykers’ body. Green vines and creepers sprouted and wove their way up the woman’s legs and torso. Soon, a recognizable face developed, even as moss, grasses and tiny leaves continued to fill in the details.
“Stand back!” Aoife commanded. “Tarmun is alive and will continue to be, if I have anything to say about it.”
Within the cage of arms at the woman’s back, a greenish-gold light began to pulsate with the rhythm of a heartbeat. But whose, Ona wondered, the Reaper’s or the woman’s? As the men in Vykers’ crew seemed too stunned to speak, Ona stepped into the void. “Even if you’re right, what sort of life can he have from this day forward?”
Aoife scoffed at the question. “That is not for you or anyone save Tarmun to determine.”
“And will you be the one to nurse him back to consciousness?”
The Umaena stood strong. “You know I will.”
“And us?” Hjuest inquired.
“Stay, go. I care not.”
Hjuest glanced at his fellows, considered their mood, and answered. “Vee stay.”
Whereas Vykers’ men had spent the previous day or so wondering how it was possible he’d been killed, they now struggled even more to understand how he hadn’t. It was the kind of conundrum that drove men mad. Fortunately, Ona was a woman and, thus, far more practical.
“Let’s don’t waste our time sitting around, waiting for the Reaper to wake up. There are folks here who need attention. There are homes that need some rebuilding. There’s food that has to be fetched, and firewood, too.”
Even the Umaena smiled at this.
He heard a horrible belching sound, followed by a pain so thorough, so pure, it was unlike anything else he’d ever experienced. He was on fire, and then he was numb, and then he was on fire, and then numb again. He lost his sight, his hearing, his sense of smell, and finally all sense whatsoever. He drifted in a lightless, colorless space, barely able to string two thoughts together. He became aware of his own heartbeat, though he knew not what it was. He felt himself breathing, understood there was effort involved, continued anyway, without knowing why. He became aware of a word, a single word: reaper. It echoed almost continually until he finally grasped its meaning. He was the Reaper.
He slept.
There were sounds. Buzzing, droning, incoherent mumblings. He responded. Soon, he felt jostled, and an unpleasant creakiness came upon him. He wished to go back to sleep…but the noises wouldn’t let up. They were talking. Who they were and what they were talking about eluded him. He yelled, or thought he did. He felt a brief pressure on his arm, then heard more buzzing. The pressure disappeared, but left behind a dull ache. More pressure, more aching. The noise around him grew in volume. He was about to scream when everything fell silent, mercifully silent.
A soft, warm sensation washed through him, and he returned to sleep.
Everything hurt. He’d been aware of a general pain throughout his body, but it was building, building, ever so slowly, getting worse with every breath. He imagined it would continue to grow until it consumed him, or he died. Somehow, this did not frighten him.
He recalled being in pain, in agony, before. Once, he’d had a spear thrust through his back. Another time, he’d been peppered with arrows. On one occasion, he’d been poisoned, and had vomited and shit blood for days and days. There was a time, too, long forgotten but suddenly remembered, when he’d had burning oil poured all over him from above. He also remembered having been partially flayed, before escaping his tormentor. He’d been smashed in the left side of his face with a mace, once as well. When he thought about it, what hadn’t he experienced? He’d been crushed, drowned, burnt, ripped apart, sliced open…why had he forgotten all of this? And was it his current pain that jogged these memories free now?
He was the Reaper. He’d fought in countless battles and wars and been mortally wounded a thousand times.
And yet he had no scars and no memories.
The pain was so horrible, all he could do was scream himself into unconsciousness. He’d barely the strength to twitch his extremities, but he could scream. Another man might have begged for an end to this misery, for death. The Reaper simply didn’t know how—how to beg, how to quit, how to die. That, and he wanted revenge. He wanted to inflict this same pain and worse upon who-or-whatever it was that had injured him.
He screamed and screamed until it was the only sound he could ever remember making or hearing. A cool hand landed gently on his chest, and his pain abated to some degree. It was not gone, but it was tolerable, bearable.
This time, sleep was a choice, and that was progress.
He was Tarmun Vykers, the Reaper. He’d been drenched in a vile substance that ate away at his flesh, his muscles. He’d been carrion…but now he was recovering. He’d like to have laughed at that, but hadn’t the energy. He was still battling the pain with every heartbeat, and it seemed that each time he thought he understood it and its limits, some new catastrophe befell him and showed him yet more of its quality. Vykers’ thoughts drifted to the End-of-All-Things, Eyatu, who’d turned out to be the god of winter. Was there a god of pain? Or was it instead a free-acting force, like sunshine or darkness? Whether divine or natural in origin, Vykers felt like its conduit, for all that he’d suffered, for all that he’d delivered.
The hand was back, accompanied by a familiar, soothing voice. The Reaper awoke—or thought he did. Maybe he continued dreaming. It was some time before he realized that he could not open his eyes because he had none to open. He dimly remembered the fear he’d once felt at the prospect of losing his hands and feet. They had grown back, though, and he held the same hope for his eyes. Already, his hearing had improved.
He was the Reaper, and he was alive. If he concentrated, he could pick individual words out of the sing-song noise surrounding him. He even believed he smelled smoke, the first odor of any kind he’d noticed in some time.
Someone lifted his head; he grew dizzy. A cool, sweet fluid came into his mouth and ran down his throat. Gods, he was thirsty! The drink disappeared long before he’d had his fill, and he wanted to complain, to insist he could handle more. His head returned to its previous position.
He slept.
Eoman, In Chains on the March
Once, he’d been a king, roaming the land to his heart’s content; now, he was a slave, measuring the same land in miserable chain-bound half-strides. The Emperor’s magicians had done their part to render him docile (though he was more resistant to their arts than they knew), and his every day was an endless march of drudgery and shame. At least the invading soldiers did not mock him—their leader wouldn’t allow it. Still, it was fair to say they did not treat him kindly or with any sort of respect. They feared him, yes, but not nearly as much as they might have if he’d been free, which occurrence he dreamt of daily. Oh, wouldn’t he love to smash their little iron heads together? To toss them fully-armored upon a fire and watch them squirm and pop like crabs?
It was a dream, though, for theirs was the largest army he’d ever seen. Striking out at his handlers would be suicide, and he hadn’t quite fallen so low just yet. He expected that the invaders would encounter resistance eventually. In his experience, the native humans had never been the sort to surrender or appease anyone. He’d seen their queen in action, and he’d fought alongside Tarmun Vykers. When the native response inevitably came, he could either aid its progress from within the invaders’ forces, or he could perhaps use the distraction to escape. Time, he felt, was his greatest ally, and patience his greatest asset.
There was still, however, the matter of the human girl, Qansip. After all he’d done for her, she’d abandoned him to his fate without making the slightest effort on his behalf, whereas she was clearly doing quite well for herself, as evidenced by her parading around with the invaders’ leader as if she’d gotten a new toy. Did the man even realize his predicament? Eoman thought not. And it served the bastard right. Sooner or later, the girl would drive him mad, force him to do something he’d regret almost immediately. Eoman grinned when he thought of the damage she might do.
It was his first grin in ages. When he wasn’t slogging along in the invaders’ column, he was pulling their wagons out of potholes, clearing the road ahead of obstacles, or hauling firewood for the army’s myriad campfires. They whipped him if he showed the slightest hesitation in performing these tasks, or the magicians cursed him with biting flies and the ague. None of these punishments was especially vexing; but Eoman wanted his tormentors to think they were, lest they devise more brutal means of motivating him. And so he put on a mummer’s show of flinching when whipped, or grimacing when plagued with phantom pinches and cramps. These foreign bastards had no idea how much pain a giant could handle, and Eoman preferred to keep it that way. He was fascinated, though, with the question of how much pain they could tolerate.
New grass sprouted to either side of the army’s self-made road, and Eoman’s thoughts drifted off to the many things he enjoyed most about spring—the emergence of hibernating plants and animals, the birth of young animals, the blooming of flowers and the fresh growth of leaves, the streams and rivers swollen with sweet, delicious snowmelt, the warm patches of grass in sun-drenched meadows or sun-dappled woods. There were places he liked to be at certain times of the year, but he wouldn’t see them this time around. Not unless something changed and quickly. As he looked about himself, the giant was struck by the contrast in the beauty of his surroundings and the ugliness of his lot. Life had a nasty sense of humor.
He looked up from the fresh mud beneath his feet and noticed one of the invaders’ officers staring at him, a short, broad-chested fellow with an iron grey beard. Rather than look away, the man made a subtle but clear gesture with his hands, the native military’s sign for “Wait.” Eoman checked the man’s face again to be sure he’d seen correctly and was rewarded with a small nod. Why was a member of the invaders’ army using hand signals from the native army? Was he a spy? Had the Virgin Queen infiltrated the invaders’ force? And what did “Wait” mean? Was something supposed to happen? How was he meant to react? Unable to stop and question the fellow, Eoman furrowed his brows in thought and continued pushing himself forward. Wait, indeed.
Bailis, In Mendis’ Camp
Bailis was conflicted. He’d voluntarily abdicated all responsibilities to Her Majesty because he’d believed in and been inspired by the Emperor and his vision. Bailis worried now, though, that he’d done so on too brief an acquaintance. The Emperor’s recent…dalliance, call it…with the local girl was cause for concern. Bailis had seen it too often before, which was one of the myriad reasons he’d never accepted the often-proffered promotion to General, himself: it was hard to lead when the men were either envious or contemptuous of you. Also, the distraction didn’t help. Bailis wanted the Emperor focused on the mission and not the miss.
He didn’t like seeing the giant in chains, either. Of course he’d been prepared to see men captured or killed, and he still dreamt of eradicating the Svarren. But he wasn’t anywhere near as comfortable with the thought of enslaving or murdering the giants—especially after he’d gotten to know Long’s wife, Mardine.
And then there was the fact Bailis had essentially committed treason in joining the Emperor’s side. The thought ate away at the colonel, like a worm in the heart of an apple. He was a traitor. He’d betrayed his own people, his own soldiers, his homeland. And yet, he still wanted to believe in the Emperor, still wanted to believe in a more efficient and equitable government that did more for the common man. He frowned and scratched his beard. Yes, he’d sworn fealty to the Emperor, but perhaps it was still possible to serve Her Majesty, as well. There had to be all manner of little actions he could take to ensure the safety and well-being of his countrymen without incurring the Emperor’s wrath.
He would think on it.
He would think, too, of ways to loosen this Qansip’s grip on the Emperor.
Mendis’ Sentries, Western Midlands
Pulling picket duty in the middle of the night was pulling the shortest of short straws. It mattered little that the men had the world’s greatest army at their backs, especially when that army was asleep and hundreds of strides distant. The enemy’s arrows or spears could fly out of the darkness much faster than reinforcements would ever arrive from camp, meaning that if hostiles were watching, death was almost a certainty. Someone had to stand guard, however; someone had to listen and watch. Someone had to warn the rest.
Most men were not fond of picket duty. Uthen loved it. He loved being out on the edge of the Emperor’s force, encountering the new land by himself (there were always men to his left and right, but they were removed enough that Uthen would pretend he was alone). He enjoyed the odd sounds and unfamiliar aromas of the Emperor’s new land. He thrilled at the idea that he might be the first Imperial soldier to lay eyes on a new animal. The strange sounds that made picket duty so unnerving to others made it all the more thrilling to him.
But he was no love-smitten schoolboy. He’d been fully informed of the dangers that lurked just beyond his field of vision. He’d heard all about the Svarren, the Oursine, the giants and other such creatures. He was not anxious to meet them, but he believed he could spot them before they saw him, thus allowing him to alert the rest of the troops before an attack arrived.
He was only partly correct.
It was a dark, moonless night, but that alone posed no difficulty for Uthen. He liked the dark and savored the challenge of listening for threats that could not be seen. On this occasion, the night obliged him. A single, upward-inflected squeal gradually built to a chorus of shrieks, guttural croaks and eerie cooing sounds. Uthen noted that the men on his left and right heard all of this, too, and one of them set off to warn the army…whereupon the noises stopped. When additional troops arrived, armed for immediate conflict, they heard not the slightest squeak from the blackness beyond the pickets.
After the additional troops had returned to camp, the chorus of cries resumed. This time, Uthen took charge. “Run and fetch a wizard this time,” he chuckled sardonically. “If our hosts want to play, we’ll play.” It came out braver than he felt. There was too much noise to have come from a mere handful of…whatever they were. If they should choose to charge before the wizard arrived…
They did not. In fact, they again fell silent when the wizard trudged into view. He was a short, squat, black-haired fellow named Ademus, and, like many of his kind, had little patience for fools or foolery. “What news?” he demanded.
“The locals are baiting us,” Uthen answered. “Making their presence known only when we guards are alone, but disappearing when anyone else arrives. I thought you might lob some fire at ’em.”
Ademus smirked. “Of course you did. First, let’s see what’s out there, shall we?” He turned towards the night and extended his hands before himself. Uthen caught a brief flash of movement, and the wizard went down, bleeding profusely from a head wound. One of the other guards began furiously firing arrows in the direction from which the blow had come, whilst another of the guards yelled for aid at the top of his lungs. Uthen ducked down and rushed to the wizard’s side. He grabbed the man by his feet and hurriedly dragged him towards camp. During this frantic retreat, he spotted a primitive but nasty-looking spear lying bloodied in the grass. He assumed its thrower had been aiming for the center of Ademus’ head and missed, but it made little difference. Uthen doubted the wizard would survive the blow or the rough journey back to safety.
Then it occurred to him that this had been the enemy’s plan all along, to goad him and his mates into exposing one of the Emperor’s wizards. Could they kill enough wizards to make a difference, though? Uthen didn’t want to find out.
They came in the heart of the night; they came just before dawn. They descended, shrieking, upon the Emperor’s troops; they attacked in deathly silence. They came in sporadic waves; they attacked en masse. They chose a single point of focus; they attacked everywhere at once. It was, the troops understood, a strategy designed to set their nerves on edge and make sleep all but impossible. But knowing all that did little to minimize its effectiveness. The Imperial wizards were hard-put to neutralize the Svarren, who seemed to boast some immunity to their arcane attacks. Sword, spear and arrow were effective, but only if the defenders were awake and facing the proper direction when attacked.
In a quick meeting with his senior staff, Mendis did not seem overly concerned. “They’re trying to force us to stand and fight them,” he announced, “which is utterly idiotic. We would annihilate them in a pitched battle.”
“May I ask, Magnificence, why we don’t honor their wishes in this regard?” General Promartis inquired as gently as possible.
“Because I won’t have them or anything else in this land thinking we can be manipulated. And, anyway, their efforts to engage us make me wonder why they don’t want us continuing our march westward. Are they trying to buy time for some special purpose? Or is there something they don’t want us to see?”
“We’ve found nothing of particular interest in the lands ahead,” Alsig replied.
“No,” Mendis mused. “It doesn’t much seem like an attempt to stop us from moving forward—more an attempt to slow us down, to distract us.” He turned to his wizards. “Double the time you spend scanning the countryside. And double your manpower. I want to know what they’re hiding from us, and I don’t want to lose one wizard more.” To his officers, he said, “Leave some veterans of these attacks on the outer flanks, but rotate the rest of the men inwards. Let’s put some fresh troops, some fresh eyes out there.”
“Yes, Magnificence,” his staff responded.
Mendis rolled his shoulders, working some stiffness out of his neck. He hadn’t slept much or well the previous night, but not for the usual reasons. Qansip kept him rather busy while he was awake, and once he’d fallen asleep, she had an awful habit of monopolizing the bed and its blankets. He’d be hard-pressed to banish her from his bed and expect the same affectionate attention she currently lavished upon him whenever they were alone. He ruled the largest empire the world had ever seen, and yet he could not rule his mistress. On the contrary, he was beginning to fear she ruled him. What could she ask that he dared refuse? He caught a brief whiff of her perfume on his collar and suddenly could not wait for the day’s march to end.
Driegan Deda first sighted his daughter as she rode past him on a horse, alongside a man he now knew to be the Emperor. On another occasion, whilst he was dining with his language tutor, he spied her accompanying the fellow into his pavilion. She never came out again while Driegan watched. Most recently, he’d looked on in bitter frustration as Qansip was paraded around the morning muster as if she were a prize-winning pony. On every occasion, she’d been wearing a different gown. On every occasion, the Emperor seemed more and more enamored of her.
Driegan sucked at his teeth and spat into the grass. There had to be some way he could profit from this turn of events, some way he could recoup what was his by right of fatherhood. He wanted his freedom, for starters. And if the Emperor was bedding his daughter, spoiling her marriage value, Driegan wanted coin, land, a position in the new order of things. How to get it, though, especially when he could not get near Qansip? His tutor was as immune to entreaty as iron to weeping. The bastard simply would not let Driegan out of his sight. Even the army’s pit toilets were subject to patrol. Why this should be, Driegan could not imagine, but it served as the perfect example of the Emperor’s security: nothing was left to chance, nothing was overlooked, everything was accounted for.
Still, it galled Driegan that his daughter should have more freedom, more status than he. After all he’d done for her, all he’d given her…Well, he would find a way. He always had.
It was, ironically, in the pit toilets that the idea finally came to him: he would be honest, direct. It was, for Driegan, a novel approach. He would tell his tutor that the girl was his daughter. His tutor, being a master skeptic, would drag him in front of the girl for confirmation, and she would acknowledge him. But it had to be done at the right time; he had to catch the girl and the Emperor in the proper mood. He recalled how he’d always hated being interrupted in the middle of business; he would not make the same mistake himself.
The People of Lunessfor, Lunessfor
Public sex acts were rampant, as were all the other normally frowned-upon activities. There was, for example, a naked piggyback race involving a score of contestants, right in the middle of Broad Street. One street over, a small crowd was engaged in a literal pissing match to determine who had the best aim and who the greatest reach. Of course, there was a farting contest! How could there not be? One fellow even amazed the crowd by playing the crumhorn through flatulence alone. Over on Fleet Street, a vendor was selling sausages shaped like penises—an item as popular with men as with women. Not all merriment was profane, however. There were hordes of folks with painted faces and bodies, mismatched clothing, silly hats and more. There were jugglers, acrobats and fire breathers. And, perhaps most surprising, those with deformities finally felt comfortable displaying themselves in public. In short, the whole of Lunessfor had erupted into a carnival atmosphere, from the wealthiest neighborhoods to the lowest of hovels. And the best of it was, benevolence reigned. There was not a bitter thought nor a word spoken in anger the length and breadth of the city.
And it was all because of Long’s Old Peculiar.
If it pleased the multitudes, it did not have the same effect on Her Majesty. Once again, she dragged Kittins into her library to question him.
“You asked me to prepare the city’s defenses,” the big man protested, “and that’s what I’ve done.”
“Do you think the city’s current atmosphere conducive to a solid defense?” Alheria snapped.
Kittins had had enough. “What’s it to do with me? Where’s your Lord Mayor? Where’s the Constable?”
The Queen let out a long, exasperated exhalation. “Do not play the fool with me. I’ve one too many as it is,” she scolded. “We cannot afford to be caught with our pants down—literally or figuratively—when the enemy comes a-calling. An alert citizenry is a prepared citizenry.” As Kittins said nothing to interrupt her monologue, she continued. “I want you to quash this festival—or whatever it is—and ban any further celebrations until and unless the enemy is defeated.”
“Just to be clear: the people are happier than they’ve been in ages, and you want me to put an end to that.”
Alheria fixed Kittins with a look so cold it might have frozen fire. “If you don’t do it, I will. I can promise you that you won’t like my solution.”
“If I’m to assume all the duties of the city’s other offices and officers, I would at least like to know why I am so…fortunate.”
This time, Her Majesty smiled. “Because you are a thing of darkness, captain. My thing of darkness. The Lord Mayor, the Constable and all the others are credulous simpletons, without either the brains or the backbone to do what must be done. Their faces are the happy facades of honesty and competence. Your face? A nightmare. And, as you well know, the real work gets done in the shadows, where they all fear to go.”
It had been a strange and unsettling speech, and, for a goddess, she was awfully sneaky. Kittins could think of no other word for it. Instead of revealing herself to the world and simply willing things to be as she wished them, the Queen insisted on scheming and skulking. What was she up to? What in Mahnus’ name…
Ah. Mahnus. Perhaps there were things she didn’t want her former mate to see or become aware of. They had, as everyone knew, once been lovers. In fleeting conversations with the Reaper and his men, Kittins had come to understand that Alheria, Her Majesty, had confessed to killing Mahnus. But then she’d claimed he’d been—what?—reborn in the person of Long Pete. Kittins shook his head. It was like the plot of one of Rem’s plays. Kittins wouldn’t have paid two Shims to see such nonsense…and now he was living it.
And Rem, Yendor and the others weren’t going to like this news, this directive from Her Majesty, but Kittins had to enforce it. Eventually. Alheria couldn’t rightly expect him to impose his will on the entire city in a mere few hours, could she? No, he reckoned, this could take two or three days. By which time, Kittins hoped, he and the boys would have devised an alternate plan for their ale. Kittins might even have the beginnings of an idea, himself.
“What??” Yendor was apoplectic. “Things’ve never been better ’round here!”
“She’s a god. Or goddess. Anyway, you don’t like it, you go argue with her.”
“Damn it all!” said Yendor, throwing his mug onto the floor in disgust. “Who knew the gods were such bullies?”
“Anyone payin’ attention,” Kittins snorted.
Yendor kicked at the fragments of his mug. “And I went ’n busted my Mahnus-cursed drinkin’ mug, too.”
“Might be I got somethin’ even better in mind.”
It wasn’t like Kittins to get involved with the gang, but there was no doubting his say-so when he offered an idea.
“What’ve you got in mind?” Rem inquired.
“This ale o’ yours is bloody addictive, isn’t it? Makes work all but impossible, right?”
The gang stared at Kittins, waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop.
“So, what happens if we put this stuff in the hands of the enemy?”
There followed an extended silence in the gang’s hideout as each of the men thought the question through to its logical end. Spirk, predictably, never made it that far.
“What?” said he.
“What?” Kittins echoed. “Come up to street level and take a gander at yer fellow citizens. It’s a city-wide orgy up there.” After seeing Spirk’s panicked reaction, he amended his statement, “On second thought, just trust me. The whole town’s gone mad. ’Magine if the enemy starts drinkin’ this stuff?”
“It could end the invasion!” Rem proclaimed.
“Could do,” Kittins agreed. “Or at least blunt their progress ’til we come up with somethin’ better.”
“I like it!” said Yendor.
“Glad to hear it,” Kittins replied. “’Cause you’re doin’ the bulk o’ the work!”