The King's Thief

Chapter 12

Beck sat in his room, dark but for the mirror, which glowed faintly. He had spent a useful hour enchanting the metal to receive a visual signal from the brass façade of the Banshee. He had watched with satisfaction as it had traversed the countryside between Theria and Kaliss, travelling in a mainly South-Easterly direction. Their location put them within ten miles of the coast, and he had begun to worry that the Banshee would try to swim the Esterwade, the channel between the island of Rondia and the main continent of Kirone. He had a strong suspicion that the high salinity of that water, which was fed from the Basti Sea, would be fatal to the magicks that supported the Banshee.
However, his fears were averted when it suddenly turned and zeroed in on a source. The image was shaky; the connection was weak, often clouded by static, and the Banshee was moving at incredible speed, moving easily through trees and grass. He sat back for a moment, marvelling at his own success. Suddenly the source of the image was airborne, and then he was looking into the face of his enemy.

*    *    *

Suddenly, Kaliss felt himself falling backwards. His eyes snapped open to see the ground erupting between him and creature; it nimbly backflipped away, while he sprawled on the ground. From his prone position, he shot a look at Winraer; her brow was furrowed in concentration as she orchestrated his escape. The attacking woman, Brass-Helmet, still making that terrible noise, changed direction, heading for the seated Sylvan. A dozen warriors dove for her, their swords flashing, but she ducked and rolled out of their grasp, eluding them with ease. Again she changed target, this time turning on the nearest attacking warrior and drawing her claws across his chest. Blood spurted and he went down. Brass-Helmet turned to the next attacker, ducking under a blade thrust at her from behind that she could not have possibly seen, and simply ripped his throat out. Turning around, with an almost lazy movement, she swiped across the face of the warrior behind her, a young woman with a scar across her left breast. The sword was sent flying as the wailing creature sent her clawed nails across the wrist, then down the face to gouge both eyeballs out. Screaming, the female Sylva fell away.
Kaliss scrambled up and ran to cover Winraer, who was still deep in concentration. She was undefended, her five guardians having gone to intercept the intruder.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got you. I owe you one, it seems,” Kaliss said, turning his back on her to face Brass-Helmet. He brought his dagger up before his face in an underhand grip, laying the blade along his arm in preparation for an attack.
The creature was circling, moving its head left and right as if it could see the expanding circle of Sylvan warriors. They had begun to back off, leaving their wounded writhing on the ground. Then Brass-Helmet cocked its head, as if it were a dog scenting something, then it crouched before running at Kaliss. The thief swung his dagger, aiming for the head, while throwing his body to the right to avoid the claws, but the dagger rang off the helmet, causing nothing more than a slight scuff in the finish. It seemed to stun the creature, which staggered back a single step, before stepping forwards again. There was a creaking, cracking noise from the right, and suddenly a tree was falling towards them from the forest, faster than natural, and then a branch hit him on the back of the head. Everything went dark.
It felt like an eternity later but, in reality, only a second or two could have passed. Kaliss staggered to his feet, holding his hand to a pulsing welt at the back of his head; it had been enough to knock him out, even if momentarily, and the group’s healer would have to check him, assuming he had survived. Surveying the scene, everything was as it had been, except there was no sign of Brass-Helmet, and the trunk of a tree lay before him. The infernal ringing sound told him that it was somehow still alive. The top of the tree now lay somewhere off to the left, the roots sticking up in the air to his right. Grabbing hold of the trunk, he gingerly clambered over it to find the thrashing legs of the creature, connected to the torso with its wide hips and ample stomach, which in turn disappeared under the tree. The entire head, with its helmet, was caught under the trunk. He looked back at Winraer; she was sprawled on the ground, unconscious or dead.
Kinroc Faergaldan walked past the thrashing legs. He drew his sword up to pierce the creature’s heart, then stopped, kneeling to look closer. He fell backwards, stumbling, eyes wide.
“This is foul erg! A child! She bears a child!”
Kaliss half-leapt, half-fell down from the trunk to inspect. It was as the Kinroc had said; what he had first taken to be a bundle of rags was, in fact, the remains of a child, which had been stabbed. The left arm of the creature held it close, as though suckling it to those scratched breasts, and it neatly covered the heart. His gaze was drawn lower, to the stomach with its angry red scar, and the origins of the child became clear. The bile suddenly rose in his throat, but he forced it back down. Walking over to the Kinroc, he took the man’s sword from a nerveless grip and raised it over Brass-Helmet.
“A mother and child!” The voice came from behind, the Kinroc still in shock.
“It must be done, Faergaldan.” So saying, the sword went stabbing down, through the tiny corpse into the heart of the beast, pinning it to the ground. The legs thrashed ever more, the free arm scrabbling to move the blade, and it seemed to be a long time before the limbs trembled their last and were still. The ringing sound finally reached a crescendo, rising in pitch and volume, before being suddenly cut off at the source, echoing into silence within the brass.

*    *    *

Beck stood up; in a sudden anger he kicked the metal of the mirror, succeeding only in bruising his own foot. Stumbling backwards, he tripped over something on the floor and was sent sprawling. Putting a hand down to lever himself up, he found another swelling belly under his arm. His thoughts crystallised, and he spat in the direction of the dark mirror. Removing his dagger from its sheath, he stared at it thoughtfully, then put it away again. The time would come when he would send another of his precious Banshees, but first he needed to make some modifications. The bastard thief would not survive a second such encounter.

*    *    *

The Sylvan warriors heaved on either side of the tree trunk. Kaliss tugged the sword free from the breast of the brass-helmeted woman and joined in the effort to free her from under the fallen tree. The sun was rising and the camp would need to break soon. A tally of the night revealed that, of the twenty-six warriors, one was dead outright, one was blind, one was bleeding from cuts to the chest deep enough to reveal labouring lungs, and Winraer was in a deep unconscious state. The blind Sylva would, he was told, eventually grow new eyes, but she could not continue their journey, for it would require a long convalescence. The other wounded Sylva, a man named Haergane, would be unlikely to make it through the next hour without some major healing, the sort of thing a temple could provide. Unable to do much for them, Kaliss had suggested they get a look at the creature that had attacked them, and several warriors had leant their strength.
The head slid free from under the trunk, and with audible sighs the warriors released the tree. Kaliss knelt to look more closely at what they had unearthed. The helmet had deformed under the sudden pressure, the mirrored image becoming chaotic. It was loose on the woman’s head and, and, being careful not to cut himself, he moved the mangled piece of brass aside to reveal the face underneath.
A wash of memory flooded over him. The eyes were wild, staring things, the mouth drawn back in a snarl and blood had streamed from the nose, but the face was unmistakably that of Sibel Farnweather, the waitress from the Badger’s Demise, back in Theria. What had happened here? Her dirty blonde hair was rimmed with blood and the helmet had at some point been seared to her head; a burn scar travelled the circumference of her face. Kaliss rocked back on his haunches and opened his mind to the images from the past.

*    *    *

Kaliss had entered the inn looking for a place to stay for the night. His first night in Theria had been a cold affair, sleeping rough; the Thieves Collective had taken him in, but he was expected to fend for himself until his testing was completed. He was met at the door by a barmaid of ample proportions, blonde hair made dirty by the air of smoke and beer in the inn, but the smile she gave was genuine as she took his order. The inn was empty apart from him, and before long she was sat at the table with him, her bountiful chest bouncing as she laughed while he told uproarious stories of his thievery.
“Why, sir, I do declare you have quite taken my eye,” she said, matter-of-factly, and that night he found he had a steady supply of cheap drinks as long as he kept catching her eye and winking.
When at last the doors were about to be barred, he was still sat at the table, and she came over to take his hand. She drew him out of his seat and kissed him deeply.
They went through the night, laughing gaily, sometimes slipping into dark alleyways to fumble in a tipsy fashion, he often slipping a hand up under her skirt, she never removing it. Finally they were at her lodgings, a simple affair, for the wages of a barmaid were not plentiful. She brought him inside, he smothering her with tiny kisses up her arm, until finally they were in her boudoir. Almost reverently he removed her clothing, taking her wide thighs between his hands, caressing the fold of skin at her waist, then cupping a breast. Her breath quickened as her own hands tore at his clothing, pulling garments off and throwing them aside. Soon they were naked and fell together into her cramped bed. They made love then, sweaty in the moonlight, her readiness for him simplifying the act. He moved on top, pinning her arms either side of her head and sharing with her the ecstasy of their union.
When they were both spent, they lay wrapped in their embrace, she still enfolding his manhood. She whispered that she loved him, and he returned the thought. Her rooms smelled of mould and damp, but the cocoon of their passion kept all at bay.
Every day for a month they met, he coming to the Badger’s Demise after work to meet her. Then one night, rather than wrapping herself around him as she did most nights, she was distant. She sat with him after work, a drink in front of her untouched. She told him her fears, that she was with child, that it was his, that she wished them to marry.
Kaliss stood, kissed her on the forehead and said “Of course, don’t worry, my dear, I’ll take care of things. Now, if you’ll excuse me a moment, I fear a visit to the jakes is in order.”
Five minutes later, she realised that he had been gone for too long, but continued to hope she had been right about him. Twenty minutes after that, her silent tears rolled down her face, tainting her drink. Kaliss had removed himself from her life as successfully as she had introduced him to hers.
Kaliss, meanwhile, had immediately slipped over the back wall of the inn’s rear, straightened his clothing and jauntily walked off into the night. No woman was going to tie him to her with such a spurious claim, and to suggest it was to immediately lose his interest. He whistled a merry tune as he considered that in the last week he had met a woman he had considered having an affair with; now it would not be necessary to conceal anything.

*    *    *

Sat on the forest floor, Kaliss felt an emptiness gnaw at his insides. The child in her arms had black hair, like his, although there was nothing else to tie it to him. Still, he could not put away the nagging sensation that his own flesh and blood was lying dead in front of him, cradled in the arms of a loving mother. A sharp smell of offal intruded into his nostrils, tinged faintly with effluent and old blood.
Ryn approached from around the tree trunk, touching Kaliss on the shoulder. “You knew her?”
“She was one of my… conquests seems such an empty word, seeing her laid out… I left her, discarded her for another. I don’t know how she ended up like…” His words choked off and all he could do was stare, his eyes brimming with emotion, his gut feeling curiously like a deep hole, slowly filling with sorrow.
Ryn nodded slowly. “If it is of any consolation,” he said, “the Kinroc says that any trace of her humanity would have been burned away some time ago. This is an ergling, a created thing broken in mind and body. Foul magic has been worked here. I am sorry for your loss, though.”
The human remained a moment longer, then pushed the thoughts down into his mind. Right now, he could not afford to feel sorrow or loss; he tried to summon cleansing anger, at the person who had wrought this monstrosity, but it was like trying to light a damp twig. He caressed the matted blonde hair one last time, then turned away.
“Winraer?”
“She breathes still, though I came to say that we are ready to move. We have limited options; we are but ten miles from the coast. We will take Yandria to the settlement where she can stay until her eyes have regrown, but Haergane… his wounds are severe. The Kinroc is giving him the choice between taking a chance on reaching a temple or a quicker death at his hand.”
There was a grunt from behind the bole of the tree. Ryn lowered his eyes. “Haergane has chosen. We will mourn him.”
Kaliss looked mournfully away from Ryn, towards four Sylva who were busy creating two stretchers from tree branches. Yandria, the injured Sylva, was already lying on the first, and Winraer was transferred to the second as he watched. The Sylva hoisted the stretchers onto their shoulders and marched swiftly out of sight, round to the Kinroc. Ryn walked past Kaliss, his eyes dry, and gestured to the thief. “Come, Kaliss, it is time to move on. Our journey today is short, on foot at least.”
“Do you not bury your dead?”
“We allow the planet to reclaim them. They are part of the life-force of the plants they served, and it is only fitting that in death they should continue to help nourish the life of the planet.” Ryn continued walking away as he spoke, and Kaliss followed behind.
The depleted party of Sylva fell in with Ryn, behind the Kinroc, as they walked out of the clearing and back into the forest. Behind them, the fallen tree bisected the open space, and as the wind blew it caused leaves to scurry around the bodies of the two dead Sylva and that which had once been Sibel Farnweather.