John Helfers is an author and editor currently living in Green Bay, Wisconsin. He has published more than thirty-five short stories in anthologies such as The Sorcerer’s Academy, Faerie Tales, Alien Pets, and Apprentice Fantastic. His novels include Tom Clancy’s Net Force Explorers: Cloak and Dagger, Twilight Zone: Deep in the Dark, Siege of Night and Fire. Recent books include Shadowrun: Aftershocks, co-authored by Jean Rabe, and the illustrated young adult novels ThundeRiders and Nightmare Expeditions.
DIM MOONLIGHT GLEAMS off the alleyboys’ blades as they step out to accost me in the narrow, filthy lane. Their flashing dirks are matched by the feral glint in their eyes, three among both of them. The would-be thieves are dressed in a ragbag collection of leather and fur castoffs, with scraps of cloth wrapped around their feet. Their hunched shoulders and shaking hands tell me they’re either nervous or hoping I might resist. Plumes of white breath congeal from their mouths as the winter night air wraps dozens of chill fingers around us. Although the cool metal of my twin real’gais lies against my forearm, I know I won’t need it.
“Pay and pass,” the taller one says.
“Or fight and die,” his partner chimes in, a wicked grin creasing his seamed and dirty features.
Time dilates for me in that instant, seconds stretching out like tortured minutes on the rack. The Master’s presence stirs in the back of my skull, and I know that what is to come is his doing.
The silver moonlight shifts, turning pale shades of gray, and I now see the bonds holding the two gutterkin together, shackles of fear and greed and desire, invisible to most, but writhing and glow-bright as the sun around this pair. The dark red-and-black strands bind them in an uneasy alliance, one the taller thief will soon end, much to the permanent disadvantage of the shorter. My knowledge of this won’t help, however, as he is unlikely to listen to any warning from me.
Another second slides by, and—as if I was watching a japes play at the crude pit theater on the other side of town—I see how I will kill both of them.
I watch my left hand snake out and grab the taller one’s wrist, yanking him off balance, dragging him to me along with his blade, my true target. I see the iron glint disappear, buried in the belly of the shorter man, his own crude dagger dropping from his fingers, forgotten as he tries to draw enough breath to scream. That blade falls, handle first, into my right hand, and I jerk the taller one’s arm back up, folding it across his throat, while my right arm comes up to the other side of his neck.
Just as the first alleyboy comprehends the end of his short life, I draw both blades through skin and muscle, almost severing his head from his body. I watch it all, the crimson jet of blood, gleaming black in the moonlight, as his body collapses beside the other one, which tries to suck in one last breath, clinging to the little life left in him. I step over and finish it with one precise stab. It would all be over in three blinks of an eye….
With a roar like an earthen dam breaking, my reverie is halted, and I am jerked back to the present. I know that no time has passed, that these two still wait for my purse to fall into their greedy hands.
My traitorous body desires their death, aches with the need of it. The Master stirs again, a dull, hot weight just above the top of my spine. If he does nothing, I very well may spill their blood tonight. My own hands tremble at the thought, every nerve inflamed with the desire to kill them and be done with it.
No. I block the impulse with every fiber of my being, and my quivering fingers still again. With a grimace, I reach up and sweep matted black hair away from my forehead.
The two thugs pale when they see what is there, fear blanching their ruddy faces. They exchange uneasy glances, understanding the mistake they’ve made in choosing me for their night’s work. The shorter one still looks like he’s ready to swing iron, though, no doubt spurred by thal-induced visions of killing one such as I, perhaps becoming so notorious as to have his name strike fear into whomever hears it, much like my Master’s does. I decide to forestall the possibility of anything more from these two.
“Leave. Now.” My voice rasps like a rusted hinge. At this, the two back away, blades held out in front of them; as if that would stop me. Reaching the relative safety of the alley’s far end, they’re off like coneys tearing through the woods, invisible hounds nipping at their heels, though the only predator they’ll see tonight is my face in their dreams.
“That was almost a lovely repast, don’t you think?” the Master’s voice is a silken hiss in my mind. “And here I thought you were actually going to end them, too.”
“Can’t have blood on my leathers when I step into the tavern,” I mutter. I try to speak out loud whenever I must answer to the Master. It is a small victory, given his power over me, but one I savor whenever I can.
“Surely you’ve killed enough now to be able to avoid that.” The Master’s grin is evident in his words. “No? Perhaps you need more practice. That hut on the outskirts of town, the family there—”
“No,” I growl this time, my blood-rage rising even further. “I will follow the trail you have commanded, no other.”
“I would belie that tone of voice when speaking to me, pawn,” the Master replies. “Look down.”
Doing as he bids, I spot the faint blue-white line leading out of the alley and turning right down the street. I feel the slight tug of the strand that connects me, however tenuously, with my target. That is where my fate lies, intertwined with the death of another. That is why the Master chose me for this task, because my tie to him is the strongest.
I walk to the end of the alley, looking up and down the street. At night, in this part of town, the only things roaming are gutterkin like the ones I chased off and victims who don’t know it yet.
The tavern I am supposed to wait in is at the far end of the block. I head toward it, my battered leather boots making no noise on the rough cobblestones. Pulling up my dirt-crusted hood, I reach for the door handle, worn smooth by thousands of thirsty hands.
Judging by the interior, the name of the tavern, the Maid’s Fount, is a beggar’s joke. If I still cared about such things, the stench alone—a palpable combination of sour wine, cheap beer, stale smoke-sweat, and fresh vomit—would drive me right back out again. But this feels almost comfortable after what I’ve been through.
Scarred and battered tables and benches line three of the walls and are scattered throughout the room, all filled with motley men of varying shapes and sizes. A bar that looks like it’s being held up by the pug-faced bald man behind it rather than the other way around stretches the length of the fourth wall. Although the place is crowded, it being the end of the trading season even for freeblades and pursefingers, no one spares me a glance. Everyone here is too busy drowning their various existences in tankards of watered-down drink.
I scan among dozens of feet for the blue-white line, spotting it after a few seconds, and follow it back out the door. It pulses a little brighter to my eyes, indicating that my target is coming closer. No reason not to be comfortable while I wait. Spotting an open small table near the guttering fire, I make for it, ignoring the muttered oaths and glares tossed my way as I elbow my way through the crowd.
I feel a small hand dart for a nonexistent purse that should be on my hip. Without breaking stride, I grab the questing fingers and twist, breaking three of them. Above the general din I hear a strangled yelp, and the hand whips out of my grasp so fast I might have imagined the whole thing if I didn’t have bits of the pursefinger’s skin under my nails. I force myself to keep walking, resisting my hands’ insistent pull to find the thief and finish the job. The Master, his presence still coiled in the back, is silent now, apparently not wanting to waste time with a pickpocket when larger prey is approaching.
Reaching the table, I sit down and wait for a barmaid. I attract a few stares, but I make a point of meeting each one from the depths of my hood, and the message is received soon enough. For my part, I am busy enjoying the feeble warmth of the fire. Although ill weather does not bother me anymore, I am always cold.
At length, a sallow woman with a underfed waif’s body but a face decades older pauses at my table. My hand snaps out again, grabbing her wrist and drawing her down to my face. With my other hand, I push back the hood enough to reveal my face, my muddy eyes pinning her underneath their dead gaze. I don’t need to show her my forehead, as her own blue eyes widen in sudden recognition.
“Ale, no water,” I whisper. She draws back as if my words have just slapped her across the face. Even though she knows she won’t be paid for the drink, she’ll do what I ask, and make up for it out of her own meager wages. A fair price, considering she will still draw breath at the end of this evening.
The Master stirs, restless in the confines of my mind. “Hmm, do you fancy her, pawn? All it would take is a simple look, and she can be yours.” I feel my eyes burn with his shared power. When she returns, all I would have to do is force her to meet my gaze for a moment, and she would be my own slave….
“Of course, there are other…pleasures you could extract from her…much like you did with the last one—” the Master says, always insinuating, always teasing, his glass-smooth tones chipping away at what little self-control I have left. It is only one of the ways he extracts pleasure from my joyless existence, making me kill and rend and destroy at his whim.
“I said no,” I mutter, dropping my gaze to the table. The thought is already there, however, and I feel my hands react, curling into clawed talons, desperate to rend, to crush, to destroy anything they can get a hold of. I could fill this common room with the blood of everyone in it, enough to wade in, and that still wouldn’t be enough for my killing hands. Whatever the Master has done to me, he has filled my hands with a different kind of unholy life, one that exists only to destroy. They never attack me—I am too important to his plans—and are under my command for the most part, but now and again, I wonder just how much control I can exert on them if I must.
The barmaid returns with my drink, serving me before the other customers. Derisive hoots and catcalls cross the tavern floor. The trembling woman almost throws the tankard of ale onto the table, she’s so anxious to get away. I keep my eyes averted until her back is to me, fearful that the Master might make me use his power on her anyway. He has before, when he wishes to punish me. At times like those, he likes to control my hands himself, making them even more terrible instruments of destruction.
I hoist and drain the tankard, the pale amber liquid sliding down my dry throat. I could drink a river of it and not feel a thing. Setting down the empty flagon, I lean over and check the line again. It glows even brighter, the pulsations indicating that my prey is very near now.
The Master claims I am distantly related to the one I have been sent to kill, which is why he is using me tonight. “Most likely the bastard offspring of his father’s dalliance with a pox-ridden whore,” he had told me when he first gave me the assignment, his presence filling my mind with a palpable darkness, blacker than the grave he had torn me out of several months earlier. My target and I are bound to each other by what would seem to be the strongest of bonds, that of blood. I know, however, the fragile strength of that tie; and how it means nothing to me now, save as the way to find and kill my foe, bringing me one step closer to freedom.
I don’t often have time to think about things, and if a spare moment like this one comes, I usually choose not to. Past memories contain nothing but pain. The Master made me kill everyone I’d ever held dear, and whenever I had one of them within my reach, he always made me use my hands. I expect that tonight will be no different, even though I’ve never met this kinsman before.
For that is my power, that is why the Master holds me so dear, above all the rest. When I was first awakened, he told me that he had been looking for one such as I for years. There had been others, and he had reached out with his skills and magic to find them. But they had always died before his legions could get to them, either in the streets or discovered and destroyed by the other side. All before me.
I do not know how this person opposes the Master’s plans; indeed, he has never seen fit to share his unholy designs with me. The visions he sends when he has a new task for me, sometimes carry other images along with them, pictures of war and ruin and terror; of vast armies clashing on blood-soaked fields, and the Master’s crimson-and-black standard—a scaled hand with claw-tipped fingers clutching a sword—rising above the battlefield, or over a large city. Whether this is happening now, or is just a fevered dream of the thing that controls my every move, I do not know.
Nor do I care. To him, I am just a tool, albeit a vital one this evening, but one of many that he has created for this purpose. All of that means nothing to me now, for even if he were to accomplish whatever madness he schemes at, he would still have need of me, to track and kill more men, or anyone who would dare to resist him. But for now, my singular purpose is to end the life of the man at the other end of the trembling, blue-white line that snakes from my feet through the room and out the door.
There is a commotion at the door as a half dozen more men crowd into the packed room. The blue-white line flares with sudden brilliance, and I know he is in here at last.
“You had to pick the table farthest from the door, didn’t you?” the Master mocks.
“They would expect an attempt right away,” I reply. “Better to let them get in, surrounded by the crowd, before attacking. Harder to escape.”
“You have been planning this, haven’t you?” the Master says. “Perhaps I should let you kill him yourself. After all, I have so many other matters to attend to.”
He doesn’t fool me with his seeming nonchalance; I know a trap when I hear one. The Master is very powerful, able to command undead like myself across vast distances, carrying out his desires while staying safe in his keep far, far away. However, his power over me is lessened when he is not in contact, and there exists the small possibility that my target might escape. If that occurred, the punishment would be worse than anything I could imagine. “I know how you like to watch.” Rare enough that I am able to tease him, but the lure works.
“Mmm, you are correct, my pawn. Ah, they approach.”
The group will pass close to my table on their way toward the door of a back room. I crane my neck, fingers digging into the tabletop, trying to see which one is connected to the other end of my line.
They approach in a tight cluster, a ring of out-thrust hands to ward off the tavern’s denizens. Although I should be able to feel my target this near, they are all so close together that I cannot fix on the one I need. The wise thing would be to go for the one in the middle and so…
They pass by, their eyes looking everywhere but down. Picking up my empty tankard, I stick out my foot, tripping the nearest, a blond-haired, callow-looking boy in his late teens. He staggers over my leg and falls against the table next to mine. The three men at that table, judging by the empty tankards littering it, have been there for a long time with nothing to do but drink. As a match set to a keg of ballpowder, they are up and spoiling for a fight.
Which leaves me with all the time I need. Still holding the flagon, I stand up and come around the table. Half of the group is trying to pacify the troublemakers at the next table, the other half is moving toward the entrance to the back room. The presence in my head tenses in anticipation. “Now!”
A boot moves forward, and I see the blue-white leading to a solid, well-built man of about thirty. His stained travel cloak shifts for a moment, and I see the royal crest beneath. It’s him.
Time blurs and stretches yet again, only this time I am moving like lightning in the space between each second. I tap the nearest man, who is looking away from me, on the shoulder. The instant his head turns, I bring the heavy pewter tankard up and catch him square across the face, a spray of blood squirting from his crushed nose. He doesn’t feel it, his eyes rolling back as he drops like a poleaxed steer.
With the boy being held by one of the other ruffians and this one out of the way, I have a clear shot at the man they’re guarding.
Flexing my wrist, I feel my real’gais slip down and lock into place. Before anyone can react, I take one step and drive the twin blades up through the bottom of his chin, deep into his brain.
“Guh—” is all he has time to say before the cold iron pins his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Death is instant, and so should be the severing of the fate line that binds us together. Pulling my blades out of his head, I glance down, expecting to see it dissipate, the way it always has whenever I have killed a member of my own family.
Instead, it flares again and twists on the barroom floor, still leading away from me to my brother. Something is very wrong.
“You imbecilic fool! You killed their decoy! Destroy them all!” the Master shrieks in my mind. That pause, however, is enough for one of the guards to sound the alarm.
“Deadhand!” he yells, and the tavern erupts in panic. Half the patrons and all of the staff scramble for the nearest exit, be it door, window, or even the narrow chimney. The rest produce weapons of various makes and purposes, from coshes to daggers to one swarthy Easterner who ratchets out a real’gais of his own and advances toward me, along with a half dozen newfound allies. When one of my kind is found, all rivalries and grudges are forgotten until I am destroyed. It is the one law all obey Aboveground.
My bloodthirsty hands would love to oblige each one of them, but I only have eyes for my prey, who is still somewhere among the herd of men crowding into the back room. I choose the easy way to get to him.
My own real’gais flicks out, and one of the noble’s bodyguards staggers back, clutching his gaping crimson throat. Two others, seeing this, rush me from both sides, thinking numbers can make up for experience. A stab and a slash later, neither of them will ever think anything again.
I have just reached the doorway to the back room when hands grab my shoulder, my cloak, my tattered tunic. I spin around, slashing fingers off with a vicious upswing. The others fall away, and the rest of the crowd draws back for a moment, working up their nerve.
Knowing where the noble’s party is headed, I leap onto the table once occupied by the thugs that had provided my distraction, and dive through a small window near the chimney, slamming open the crude shutters and just scraping through.
Falling out, I land with boneless grace on the muddy ground. The rest of the noble’s group are mounting their horses, the reins of which are being held by one man; a woodswalker, by his dark leathers and broadsword.
“By the Gods!” he exclaims as I stand up, uncaring of my dislocated shoulder and cut face, and step forward. He brings up a heavy crossbow and looses a barbed quarrel into my gut, a wound that would drop any other man in shrieking agony. I keep walking, the fearful neighing of the horses an unwanted balm to my ears. The woodsman shouts at the others to get the lordling out of there as he swings up onto his own mount. They herd him away, surrounding the white-faced youth in a tight pack, while the hunter faces me. I keep walking forward, but the man is ready, goading his wild-eyed horse straight into me. The animal’s withers strike my chest, bowling me over. It is a minor distraction, but the forester has done his job, buying time for the noble to escape.
Wheeling his mount around, he claps heels to hide and gallops down the alley, racing to rejoin his comrades. Rising, I try to follow, but am suddenly paralyzed, unable to lift even my evil fingers. With my left leg out, I lose my balance and topple over, sinking into the chill mire of mud, horse droppings, piss and vomit. The stench is almost unbearable, even to me.
Cold, hard fury invades my mind like a physical blow, and I know exactly what is coming next. “You pitiful wretch, I send you to do one simple task, and you fail at that. He was right next to you, and you could not even reach out and take his life, a task you have demonstrated you are capable of time and time again.
The Master is so furious he can barely get the words out. “You will lie there until I fetch you again, thrall. Think about your failure, and of the punishment that will be your world when I bring you to me.”
With that he is gone—not completely, but away from my mind, going to another of his vassals to pick up my half brother’s trail. It is a good thing, too, as he will not know the grim smile of satisfaction frozen on my face as I lie limp and motionless in the slime.
Several of the other tavern patrons come outside now and encircle my inert form. I hear muttering as the various criminals and vagabonds decide what to do with me. The general consensus is to burn my body. They carefully reach for my real’gais and try to remove it. The weapon is a part of me now and doesn’t budge. The motion causes my arms to twitch, making everyone leap away. They confer again and decide to burn me right there.
Brush is brought and piled around me, but before a torch can be applied, pounding hoofbeats are heard, and a group of the local constables thunder into the back square, scattering the mob to the shadows and trampling me farther into the mud and filth. It is ironic that those who were doing right would be punished for it if the law catches up with them.
My arms and legs, now bent and twisted, still refuse to function. I know I must leave, but the Master will not let me. I know he won’t sacrifice me because I am too valuable to him. He is trying to scare me, as if that is even possible after all I’ve been through. Even his threat of punishment strikes no chord in me now. The one thing that remains is the smile frozen on my face. All has gone as I had first planned when the Master gave me this task.
At first, when he had ripped me from my final rest and bound my struggling, confused soul back into my lifeless body, he had total control over me—every movement, every impulse. He sought to break my mind and spirit by sending me to my home to slaughter my own family. If he had gotten to me when I had just died, it might have worked. But he was too late, and by the time he raised me, the other side had worked its own designs on me as well, protecting some of my thoughts from his constant prying mind. Now, years later, he has grown complacent, distracted, and that has worked to my advantage.
It was I who attacked too early, I who went after the wrong person. While my hands are no longer a full part of me, true, they are still weapons that I can wield, pointing them in the right direction. It is difficult but worthwhile, especially at times like this.
If my Master wanted this prince dead, that alone was an excellent reason to make sure he survived my ambush. The fact that he is a blood relative is a lesser reason, for I bear as little resemblance to him now as a mouse does to a hawk. But in time, perhaps, someone will defeat the Master, and make sure that I am freed from this unholy condition, this constant unlife. If this man can help that happen faster, then I will do everything I can to help from the other side.
Perhaps, someday, that will happen. But that thought is little comfort to me as I lie in the cold, stinking mud, water and dung filling my eyes and mouth, trying with all my might to make my hands move.