First a man, drunk and retching in an alley strewn with waste. He’s no match for my sword so I kill him with a finger through the space behind his jawbone, just below his ear. Messy, but satisfying; I like the feel of blood on my hands.
Next, a group of four men raping a woman. My sword sings songs of death, carving its lyrics into their flesh. One of them actually comes within an inch of cutting me so I leave him alive with his insides hanging out for the rats to gnaw and the deathbirds to pick apart. I kill the woman, too. I don’t want to, she is the victim here, but I do and she dies a victim.
Death and blood invigorate me and I spend the night looking for more. The man called Khirro might arrive this night, but I want him to have his rest. I want him at the top of his skills when the tip of my sword pushes through his flesh, since I’ll be at the top of mine.
I go back to the public house where my foray into death in Poltghasa began. A new woman leans over the porch rail taking the place of the whore I left dead in my room. She should be more respectful of the dead. I push aside the man mounting her and insert my sword where his cock was-she screams briefly before her life flees. He runs.
I burst through the door into the tavern and my blade jumps to life. Some men fight back, some flee. Soon, the floor is slick with blood and none of it is mine. The sticky fluid splashes my arms and face and clothes, soaking into my flesh, each drop increasing the feeling of power coursing through my veins. Every man who falls before my wrath bears the face of the man who raped me and tortured me and ended my life. I make them all pay for his sins.
As the sun rises, I lay down to sleep, my weapons and clothes and every exposed bit of skin tacky with drying blood. I drift off, wondering if I should wash it off or wear it as war paint to strike fear into my enemy. No, if he’s like all these other men, the sight would likely scare him to death and rob me of the joy of doing it myself. If I don’t get to kill him, then what was the point of being brought back from the fields of the dead?
I think of the black-cloaked woman, hoping to dream of her creamy skin and gentle touch as sleep claims me. I don’t need any more reason to kill the man called Khirro, but if anything could encourage me further, it’s the promise of her reward. But what will become of me after it’s done? Will she keep me for her lover and assassin or return me to the fields of the dead? The thought takes me back to the endless blue sky and emerald field stretching as far as my vision. Both options are attractive, each for its own reason. I’ll be satisfied, no matter which is my fate.
As my thoughts become dreams, the pleasant feeling of the field slips away, the ache of desire disappears. All is replaced by his face. His mouth opens and he screams, begs for mercy, then blood spills from his lips in a torrent. An indescribable joy fills me and I don’t miss the desire, don’t long for the field. Soon his blood will be on my hands. What happens after that doesn’t matter.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Graymon’s belly growled. He put his hands on it and scowled, straining to remember the last time he ate. The rattle and bump of the wagon had ceased a while ago-long enough for the guards to light a fire and begin cooking. The aroma of roasting meat wafted through the canvas and brought saliva to his mouth, though he didn’t want to imagine what kind of meat the dead men might have skewered over their fire.
His bum hurt, so he climbed off the wooden bench and knelt on the floor to relieve his aching rump, the movement rocking the wagon. One of the guards snarled. Normally, the sound would have scared Graymon, but the hungry knot in his tummy distracted him from worrying about the guard’s grumbling.
I’m going to die anyway if I don’t eat soon.
It must have been a whole day, maybe more, since they fed him. Never in his life had he gone so long without food.
The canvas flap snapped away from the side of the wagon, startling Graymon, and a man he hadn’t seen before leered in at him. This undead soldier's face showed less decay than the others-he lacked a nose and one cheek sported a green-around-the-edges hole-but his family would have recognized him. One thing was the same with him as it was from one dead soldier to the next-the strange look in their dark eyes, as though they didn’t really see what they looked upon. Graymon scrambled away from the man, the wagon squeaking and groaning with the movement.
“Eat.”
The undead soldier tossed a pewter plate onto the bench where Graymon’s bum had been a few minutes before. A slice of carrot bounced off the plate and rolled the length of the bench before falling to the floor boards; a boiled potato barely stayed put. The meat on the plate was red with blood but smelled delicious.
“Thank you.”
Graymon looked up to meet the man’s black eyes and glimpsed the others huddled around the fire; a stretch of rocky ground beyond them led to the sea. The soldier grunted and dropped the flap back.
Graymon stared at the food on the dull gray plate, wondering if it might be poisoned. He poked the meat, licked the juice off his finger, then picked up the errant carrot and popped it into his mouth. It tasted like a carrot.
Why would they take me away to poison me?
They could kill him anytime, in any manner they wanted, but they probably wouldn’t waste so much time dragging him out here to do it. Strangely comforted, he shuffled closer to the plate. No silverware, no nanny to cut the meat for him. Graymon felt lost for a moment, but the gurgle in his belly prompted him to forget manners and convention.
Wary of what the meat might be, he ate the vegetables first. A tasteless, bland potato and carrots cooked to the edge of mush, but they tasted as good as any other potato and carrots he’d ever eaten. When he finished the vegetables-nanny would be proud of me-he picked up the chunk of meat, eyeing it dubiously. Blood dripped from its edge, spattering on the plate. He sniffed it and, finding nothing unusual to its smell, brought it to his lips. He hesitated for a second before the aroma forced his teeth into the meat, tearing off a piece and chewing it with gusto.
Delicious.
Graymon made short work of it, forgetting his worries of poison and dead men while his stomach grumbled thankfully for having been fed. He sucked juice from his fingers and licked every scrap off the plate before wiping his face on the sleeve of his dirty tunic. He smiled.
If nanny was here, she’d get mad at me for that.
Aching loneliness grasped his heart and melted his smile. Would he ever see nanny or his da again? He clenched his teeth and wiped his hands on the thighs of his breeches.
What would a brave hero do?
He pondered the question as the wind whipped against the canvas. Gorgo, king of the dragons, would roast all the bad men with his fire-breath, but Graymon couldn’t breathe fire. In fact, he didn’t want to kill anyone or know if a man already dead could be killed. They probably could-they needed to eat and stayed close to the fire in the cold-but slaying anyone was out of the question. He thought harder, his eyes narrowing. He couldn’t breathe fire, he couldn’t fly, he couldn’t eat the men or cast a spell. What then?
A brave hero would escape.
Nodding to himself, he crawled across the floor of the wagon and hunkered down in the corner, waiting for the wind to blow again, hoping it would move the canvas far enough to see out. A gust howled across the sea, rippled the wagon’s covering, but it didn’t pull away from the wooden frame. Graymon resisted the urge to curse like he’d heard his father do, somehow convinced that, even as far away as she was, his nanny would know. If the wind wouldn’t help, he’d have to take a chance and move the canvas himself.