Original Submissions by The7DeadlyVenomz of type 'Stories'
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Reaper, The
Added on Jan 4, 2006History of the Reaper, as told by the Historian of Tektolnes.
Author's note:This story is based in both legends and personal knowledge of the killer known as the Reaper. The most important portions of this story did happen, but some sections are a result of my observation of the killer's character and demeanor throughout his history.
In no way do I mean disrespect to the Reaper nor do I seek to judge his motivations. He is what he is. The Reaper is not a man who acts without reason and purpose, and even his daily routines are carried out with an almost unerring calculation.
No one knows now where the Reaper is. It is rumored that he died years ago under the command of a Sergeant Bindoe, in the terrible battle known as the Great War, where the Northern and Southern king-gods clashed for the second time. The southern forces were ultimately thrown out of their forty year occupation of the Northern lands, and the Glorious Highlord Tektolnes suffered a great loss of soldiers, both high ranking and not.
Though the Reaper never officially served the Highlord, it is known that he carried out a number of killings for the God-King. His rank as a sub-human prevented him from truly joining the ranks of the Dragon, but his effectiveness and loyalty were never questioned, and he emerged as one of the most dangerous and yet under-estimated and unknown men in the history of the world.
The Reaper is truly one of the Highlord's greatest losses. This story is only a brief peek into the world of the Reaper. I intend to write a full manuscript at a later time, but at present, I am occupied in the copy of tomes from Steinal. These old books are priceless and are beginning to decompose, and the process of preserving them is crucial.
The full chronicles of the Reaper will have to wait until a later time.
Templar Signus Kinar - Historian of Tektolnes
The Reaper drew near the hallway which led to the Templar's room. He moved with confidence, his senses primed even here in this safe house. No place was truly safe, but the barracks of the templarate of Tektolnes was as close as it was possible to be. Here, no one died but who the templars deigned, and though it had happened before, the act of fouling one's own holy quarters was looked upon with disgust.
The Reaper was the only person in these halls who was not a human. Sub-humans were not accepted into the ranks of the Militia, other than the valuable half-giants, and certainly not into the ranks of the templarate. The Reaper was tolerated solely because of who he was.
No one truly noticed the dwarf, his manner of passage and air of belonging there blinding them to his race or identity. As always, when in public, or when any place where he might be noticed, he wore his mask and cloak.
The mask was an ugly thing, created from the skull of a gith. The back of the skull and the lower jaw had been removed, and the bone was dyed a dull black. On the forehead, a simple, blood red sickle was painted. His cloak was a similarly simple affair, blood red in color and unadorned but for faint black filigree, which served as trim for the cuffs and the hem of the garment.
The Reaper approached the doorway of the Templar's chambers. He glanced about, then listened for a moment. On the other side of the stone door, he could hear two voices. One was the Templar. The other was someone else, and the Reaper did not recognize the voice. This disturbed him, and he stood still, considering turning and leaving.
The thought was extremely brief. As always, the Reaper's mind worked in a simple and coherent manner, and he knew as soon as he heard the voice which he did not recognize that he would go in. He lifted his hand, wrapped in black leather and graced with the claws of an anakore, and knocked shortly upon the door.
The door was opened from the other side by someone he did not recognize, and he knew that this was the voice which he had heard. Sitting in the middle of the room was the Templar, seated at a large marble desk. The top of the desk was covered with various tomes and papers, some quills and ink, and a few sculptures; one a stone thing depicting a Templar in full robes, a ball of light, brought to life by a red ruby stone, clasped in the nad of the tiny figure, aloft and menacing, the other a simple obsidian and jade cross, serving as a paperweight. There were also a few assorted figurines: a mantis in death, a mul and a dwarf locked in combat, and an obsidian dragon, perched atop a metal city.
"Reaper. Come in." The Templar motioned to a chair opposite him, made of wood and black and jade streaked leather. "We'll talk."
The Reaper looked up at the man who had opened the door. The man was a soldier, clad in the garb of the Militia, and a captian by the insignia he wore. He was a hulking creature, tanned darkly, and wore heavy obsidian armor, marked with jade engravings. Across his back hung a huge warsword. He nodded shortly at the Reaper as he looked down at the dwarf, but the Reaper did not nod back. He simply proceeded into the scantily appointed room and took the seat indicated by the Templar.
"This is Captain Rillian, Reaper, and he was just leaving. We will speak in private." The Templar did not say this as a fact, but rather an order. The Captain bowed to the Templar and moved out into the hallway, closing the door behind him. The door clapped hard, the sound of stone on stone, and the sound echoed dully in the room.
The Reaper sat quietly in the wooden chair, his feet dangling above the black floor. His eyes studied the Templar without disguise, observing his hawkish features and his thinning hair, which still retained a glimmer of its former reddish color. The Templar wore the robes of the Red, and it was rumored that he would be next to be awarded the robes of the Black.
After a moment of rifling through his desktop of papers and books futilely, the Templar looked over the desk at the Reaper. He could understand why people who had seen the dwarf felt off-balance. The gruesome death's head where the face should be, the blood red cloak, the unadorned black leather armor, all combined to create an imposing figure, despite the Reaper's short stature. The Templar could call a hundred soldiers right now and this sub-human would be dead, but even he always felt secretly uneasy. A person simply was forced to admit their mortality in the face of this short killer. He had often thought that perhaps this was the Reaper's most useful gift, the way he made people feel off-balance. And it seemed so unintentional on the part of the Reaper.
The Templar swallowed and cleared his throat, easing himself back against the back of his own chair. The Reaper had not bowed to him upon entering. Such insolence was only tolerated because the Templar still had use for the Reaper. The Templar believed that the Reaper's time would soon come to an end. Even now, he had a killer training. Given a few more years, perhaps he would be the equal of the Reaper.
The silence in the room was stifling. The Reaper and the Templar both sat, studying one another. The Reaper did not stir, his clawed hands on his knees. The Templar watched the Reaper in turn. The best way to end these sorts of uncomfortable moments is to speak, and so the Templar did so. "Reaper, I've a task for you. There has been yet another outrage from the magicker Sethose. As you know, I've not been able to obtain his location, and the one time that he was sighted, twenty of the Highlord's soldiers died. I will not have this again."
"I have been awaiting your return from the North. Is the Yargay dead?" the Templar concluded. He sat forward, eyeing the Reaper and clasping his hands before him.
The Reaper's deep voice rolled like distant thunder from under the death's head mask. "Yes, he is." Then he was silent again, watching the Templar.
The Templar smiled, allowing a brief feeling of joy to occupy histhoughts. The Yargay had been a northern warchief, a man who had felt it his personal mission to cleanse the world of the wide-spread Allanaki presence. He had gleaned a small party of zealots from his tribe, the Ankar Dol, and these zealots had taken to the sands. From Tuluk to Luir's to Allanak itself, the warchief had led his followers on a bloody, astonishingly successful series of hit-and-run raids. He had been astonishingly elusive, and would show up anywhere he pleased, striking hard and fleeing. The man had seemed invincible.
But he was dead now. "And his men, the Sand's Own, as they called themselves, what of them?" the Templar asked the Reaper.
"They are also dead, Lord Templar," said the Reaper in a cold, deep deadpan. His claw-graced hands remained where they had the entire time, upon his black-leathered knees.
"Good, good. It is good that you do so well, Reaper. The Highlord is always grateful."
"Of course he is."
The Templar started to frown, but he knew the insolence had not been intentional. He carried on, mindful of the dwarf's impatience. Such foolishness could be tolerated when one was in private. Besides, the use of the dwarf was crucial, for the moment, at least.
"This Sethose, he will need to die, and soon. The Highlord is displeased with our inability to discover him. Although we can, of course, track him to the ends of the world, from the canyons to the Sea itself, it is looked upon more favorably to use others. So I charge you with this."
"He will die."
The Templar did not question the Reaper. He knew that he would not have to. So he only nodded. "Very good. Do you need any information on this man?"
"Where was he seen last?"
The Templar rifled through his cluttered desk again, finally pulling forth a thin leather notebook forth. He opened the book and scanned the pages, utilizing a skill that only those of noble blood possessed legally. Finally he came to the page he desired and stopped, reading down it quickly.
"South-east of Luir's some distance, near the old Conclave establishment. Do you know where that is?" he asked the Reaper, looking up from the words upon the page.
"Yes. There is nothing else of note?"
The Templar shook his head. "No. he did not fight, but faded away. Three units of our troops were headed out that way to escort a supply of Red Storm grain."
The Reaper nodded, a motion that looked less than human with the mask in place. "That is all I need then. I will return in three weeks or less with his head." He stood without preamble, sliding from the chair to the floor.
The Templar only nodded, watching the dwarf. The Reaper turned after giving a short bow of the head and walked to the door. He opened it. Outside, the Captain stood, fiddling with his cloak. He looked up as the Reaper emerged, then moved into the room as the Templar called his name.
The Reaper walked down the hall quietly, and when the Captain looked back after the dwarf, it took him a moment to spot him.
The Templar sighed and rose from the desk, straightening his red robes. "I despise that creature, yet his utility demands that he be kept alive. One day, we will train one of our own, and we will not need a dwarf to do our work. One day, I hope to see them all enslaved again."
The Captain grunted. "That is the Reaper then? He is...unnerving."
The Templar glanced at Captain Rillian. "For you, Captain. But one day, you will see that he is just a man. There is nothing supernatural to him, like the rumors seek to establish. He bleeds like any other man. Sit down. We have some things to go over."
The Reaper moved down the street known as Caravan Way. The road was busy with wagons and commoners, animals and people of all the four major races, and the black-cloaked soldiers of the Allanaki Militia. Tribal elves, regarded with suspicion even by their city kin, dashed at insane gaits through the crowded streets, and half-giants loomed here and there, looking about in their curious way or going about tasks with unerring solidarity. Dwarves, clad in the armors of various Houses or in the garb of the desert, trudged along, their short stature often hiding them among the more prevalent humans and elves.
The insects known as kanks carried their riders through the streets of the stone city in halting gait, and war beetles, inix and even sunback lizards could also be seen, their riders able to survey the street from a more advantageous point. Hulking mekillots, trained from birth to perform their tasks, pulled wagonsladen with gypsy wares, grain, meat, and all manners of stuffs through the seething mass of humanity. The streets of Allanak in the late afternoon resembled an overturned ant nest, all disorder and confusion.
Through it all the Reaper stalked, unnoticed and unhindered. While most were coming in for shelter from the impending Zalanthan night, he was leaving. He liked the solitude of the wilderness, the quietness of it all, and the ever looming presence of danger. He hated mounts, but he was forced to utilize one now, for even on kankback Luir's Outpost lay nearly three days away.
So he entered the stables just off of Caravan Way. The half-giant stablehand led his black kank from the stables, after he had presented the proper ticket and amount of coin. The hulking creature did not bother to even think of the little person's odd appearance, and lumbered off on his feeding duty. The Reaper draped his packs over the kank's back and mounted the creature.
The Reaper rode from the gates just as the soldiers were closing it. Behind him, as he faced the dimming red desert, he could hear the call, "Close the gates." He sighed and looked up at the sky. There was a storm coming, and the desert lay in silent homage to its impending arrival.
As he gazed over the sandy dunes before him, he could see nothing moving. Grunting shortly to himself, he passed under the giant iron dragon perched over the gates to Allanak and turned the black kank to the north-east, his cloak's loose folds snapping in the rising wind as the insect moved over the loose ground.
The Regular named Karl stood at the southern gates of Luir's Outpost, the infamous headquarters of the Kuraci Merchant House. Once the hideaway of the Dragon's right hand man, Luir, so it was rumored, the ancient stone edifice stood on the crest of the Shield Wall, its imposing black walls and sharp spires creating a vision against the sunset.
Karl's heart swelled with pride every time he looked at the Outpost so. Even with the vile Allanaki presence, the Outpost was splendid, in a deadly way. Looking over at the Militia soldier who stood at the gates with him, Karl could see that even this barbarian was impressed. No one could deny the sheer dominating presence of the Outpost.
The sun was setting and the white moon was high in the sky now, with the red moon following closely, as though the two minor bodies were racing one another. Karl's relief would be here soon, and he could go to the Storm's Eye and drink a couple of ales, and maybe even get that serving girl into bed. Shali was her name, and a beauty no less. Dark, raven hair, and skin like the sand itself in color. Huge breasts, wide hips, and a behind that made Karl think of things other than swords. Green eyes, and lips so full...
Karl almost missed the motion of the Allanaki soldier who had been admiring the profile of the Outpost with him earlier. He saw a black and jade swirl from the corner of his eye and turned, casting his gaze on the soldier, whose features were unseen beneath the heavy black helm almost all Allanaki soldiers wore. The soldier was questioning a dwarf who had entered the gates.
The dwarf was unremarkable. He wore a dusty sand colored aba, and his leathers were worn. A spear hung on his back, and he held the reins to a black kank. His skin was black, and his eyes shielded by a pair of worn sunslits. He looked the part of a hunter, or a mercenary. There were plenty of his type here in Luir's.
"I have just come in from the sands, hunting," the dwarf said. There was a odd quality in his voice that sent a shiver down Karl's spine. If the Soldier felt the same, the helm hid his reaction.
"Yeah? You look unfamiliar...and your kank is unusual," said the soldier, his voice reedy and dust ridden. He adjusted his hand on the hilt of the sword at his waist as he looked at the black-shelled kank; to Karl, the motion seemed to be a nervous one.
"I am a hunter. Sometimes these sands cast forth anomalies. I was fortunate enough to capture one of those. I am not from here, at any rate. I am from Red Storm, where your grain is grown. I assure you, I will not be here long. But night approaches, and I wish to rest in a civilized place for a while." The dwarf glanced at Karl, and though he could not see the eyes, he felt unsettled. He made his way to the soldier and the dwarf, straightening his dun colored cloak in an attempt to appear important.
"We do get hunters who are not from around here," Karl told the soldier. "You are new here, but surely even in the great city of Allanak, there are those you do not know."
The soldier looked irritated and waved his hand in a dismissive fashion. "Yeah, yeah, that's so. But I was interested in his kank...the insect's unusual." The soldier turned back to the place where the dwarf was. Karl did as well, snorting softly.
The dwarf was gone. The Allanaki soldier looked around for a while and then shrugged, and Karl's relief came shortly thereafter. Banil was the Kuraci's name, and he clapped Karl on the back with a chuckle, telling him that Shali was in the inn even now...
Life was a circle, thought the Reaper, as he sat atop a dune in the desert, just west of the Salt Flats. Luir's was a day and a half behind him now, and the desert, eternal and imposing, was his and the wildlife's alone. He munched idly on a dry strip of chalton meat, and sipped sparingly from his leather waterskin. His black kank sat beside him, feeding on the grass pellets that the Reaper reserved as feed for the insect.
Far away, treading over the desolate saltlands, wild mekillots could be seen, monsters who could wipe an entire division of unwary Byn mercenaries. Most of the huge lizards were a ruddy red, monstrous creatures with thick necks and mouth full of sharp teeth, Their prey crawled along the same saltflats, huge ugly worms with no conceivable purpose but to feed the mekillots.
Perhaps half a mile away, in a valley between the dune the Reaper sat upon and another smaller dune, a small lizard with shimmering skin gave a shrill squall of pleasure as it snared the scorpion it had been stalking. Vultures circled overhead, ugly creatures with bald necks and heads and cruel curved beaks. They transcribed listless circles in the red sky, searching the waste for a newly dead creature. A variety of other animals, some small, some large, stalked the dunes all around the Reaper, carrying on with their life as their kind had done forever.
Yes, life was a circle, reasoned the Reaper, as he watched all of this. The strong preyed upon the weak, and the weak in turn preyed upon the strong. The strong preyed through force, and the weak through guile and deceit.
He took the jozhal as an example: the little lizard fed upon the small insects of the desert. He in turn was hunted by hunters with two legs and four alike, but survived through sheer trickery. The scorpion the Reaper had just watch the lizard kill had fallen prey, but other scorpions had stung other lizards, then used them as food. Everything came about in a time.
The Reaper, however, seemed to be above the circle of life. Yes, he had once been prey. He did not tell the Templar who he worked for this, but he knew that the man had tried to have him killed even as he sent him out on a mission the first time, long ago. After the Reaper had killed the target, a woman named Doria, three men had ambushed him on the way back to Allanak.
He remembered the event like it was yesterday. The single, vibrating thump in his heart as the men had approached, like ghosts from the sands on the horizon. There had been silence, and the killers had not made demands. The Reaper likewise knew what they were there to do. So there had been a brief moment before the influx of sheer violence, and the killers had circled one another, sizing each other up.
The Templar had underestimated the Reaper, of course, for the dwarf had escaped the ambush, killing one of the men and seriously wounding another. Perhaps it had been a test, perhaps an actual attempt to end his breath. But that event had taught the dwarf a valuable lesson. Trust is hard earned. There had been other attempts, or the rumors of such, but there were no one who even knew who the Reaper was, much less anyone capable of nearing him unawares.
In a way, he understood the devious elves. They set tests for anyone whom they felt they might even wish to trust. But the Reaper did not. He did not want to trust anyone. He was a loner. To him, trust was a weakness reserved for the mundane population, not for a killer who lived by wits and skill alone.
The Reaper knew that he had a touch of the arcane in him. He did not have to try to invoke it. It simply worked of its own accord. He had turned minds without a word, by thinking. He could see magickers who twisted the very fabric of reality itself to hide, and he had a sense of danger before there even was such. His dwarven heritage made him naturally semi-resistant to magick and poison alike, but he had come from the womb nearly invulnerable to such, so strong was his blood.
His touch was something that the Reaper did not think of often. He preferred to keep that portion of himself hidden away, even from himself. As a child, he had known what he would do even before he was ten. He had discovered his focus after he had attended his first hunting trip. The joy he had experienced while assisting his father had been unparalleled. The two raiders who had tried to rob them on the way back to the farm had been even more exquisite to kill.
He pulled the sickles from their black sheaths at his belt and examined them. They had not seen blood in nearly two weeks now. He loved and trusted the weapons. They could lop the head from a man or lance through leather armor or through a gap in bone gear like a needle, piercing the heart or some other vital organ. He pulled a black stone from his packs, rough and created for the purpose of honing the thin obsidian weapons. He had once been promised a set of black iron sickles by the Templar when he had first entered the Highlord's service, but that had been some seven years ago. He did not expect to see them between now and the day he died.
He glanced up as he sharpened his weapons, scanning the barren desertscape. There, to the north, moving through the sands, was a lone figure. He could tell by the way the air around the figure shimmered that the person was a magicker. But his eyes were sharp, and he could also tell that it was not the man he had been sent to kill.
The Reaper was not one to kill for no reason. He knew that unreasonable murder was regrettable, but the bloody act gave him pleasure, and so the path of a killer was his excuse to continue killing without moral objections. He bore no being hate, for hate made one irrational. The Reaper was a logical creature, and he refused to dilute it by allowing emotional outbursts or even thoughts. He remembered the way his father and mother had reacted after he had come to this realization. He had not been back to the farm since.
He pulled his hood back, rubbing his bald head as he watched the faraway figure. He knew the magicker could or had not seen him, and in fact, was going the other way. He pulled his hood in place again, then sheathed the sickles in their separate sheaths. He put the stone away and the meat and water, then picked the mask up from its position on the sand beside him. He placed the thing over his face, covering his features, tying it about his head. Then he stood up and looked out over the waste, his stout form small against the desolation.
He mounted the black kank and secured his saddlebags, then clicked to the insect and guided it down the slippery dune. To the south lay the village of Red Storm East. It was several days away from where he was now, and he was positive that in that time, he would find the defiler's hideaway. It could not be the Conclave...
The morning was hot and early, the unrelenting sun rising and breaking through the night's sandstorm with violent quickness. Despite this, Krath was too late to greet the Reaper, for the killer was already moving, guiding the black kank over the sands, which had turned from reddish dunes to brown and white slopes and rises. To the west, the Salt Flats lay out of sight, while to the east, the imposing natural walls which marked the end of the known world could be seen as a dim line across the horizon.
The Reaper had been out in the sands for nearly three days. Tonight, he hoped to be in Red Storm East, and carry out his search for the defiler from there. It was a known fact that the persons of Red Storm hated magickers, and any sightings would more than likely be critical information. He had no doubt that the farmers and silt sailors of the seaside grain growing community would assist him with information if it was possible.
He had passed the Conclave a day ago. It had been silent but for the mysterious thudding that sounded like the boom of long dead drums. It was popularly held that the Conclave's compound was locked up tightly, by unknown forces and means. For the Reaper however, it was not, and so as he had entered by his side way, he had lurked for nearly an hour, going through the dry and dusty halls and rooms. As he had traversed the old structure's rooms, making certain that no one was present, the thudding had pounded into his head, its source unknown and unfindable. He had finally left, the undead drums pounding in his head still.
Even a day later, his ears still throbbed dully, but it was going away. Dawn had died by the time he brought his kank up a dune and pulled it to a halt. Something was going on to the west. He looked out over the dunes, his cold eyes narrowing behind the frozen grimace of his mask. A massive mekillot loomed in the dunes nearly three leagues away, thrashing violently. The Reaper squinted and frowned. The mekillot was more than twenty miles from its territory. He wondered what the giant lizard was doing so far from its own lands. One could wander, of course, but generally, the lizards did not do so unless greatly agitated. Perhaps the monster was even now bearing down on a party of ignorant hunters.
The Reaper shrugged and clicked to the black kank, turning it away from the speck in the distance and heading towards the south. The Killer had no time to investigate, nor the desire to do so. He had survived for a long time by simply existing, allowing all but his prey to do so as well without help or hindrance. The mekillot would live or die alone. He had moved perhaps twenty feet when he pulled the insect to such an abrupt halt that the normally docile creature protested with an irritable clicking of its mandibles.
The desert had gone silent. City folk would swear that but for the winds, the desert was always silent. This was not so. One who spent any amount of time in the sands could hear the speech of nature, the sound of growth, and the comfortable language of death and life. But that familiar sound was gone right now. The desert was silent, and not even the light wind, which blew from the west, made much more noise than a whisper.
The Reaper cocked his head, holding both him and his insect almost completely still. He pushed his hood back from his head, revealing his smooth, bald black head. His faintly pointed ears took in every sound available. He listened so hard that he even heard his insect's heartbeat.
There it was again. A barking laughter. The Reaper's red eyes narrowed, and his head turned. The faint breeze brought the sound of the mekillot to his ears, and he could hear it dying. And something else came to his ears. The laughter of jakhals.
The Reaper did some quick reasoning as the sun beat down upon him, burning the sands about him in its daily manner. The only regular place jakhals were to be found was deep in the Canyons of Waste. That was west of Allanak, and some distance at that. For jakhals to be this far up north only meant one thing. The killer pulled his hood up with a frantic and fast motion.
He whirled the black insect under him and prodded the creature to a run, urging it down the brown dune he had been on. Sand sprayed up behind the insect's legs as it covered the leagues in a rapid skitter. As he rode, the killer tightened the straps on the small black shield he used on his right arm, and made certain that his crescent killing tools were loose in their sheaths. His blood red cloak flared and rode up, sweeping from around his frame and up over his shoulders like unnatural wings as he rode into the oncoming breeze.
To the west, ahead of him, less than two miles away, the mekillot was dying. He watched the monster crash to the ground, writhing in its death throes. Its ruddy hide was spotted with darker red, and he knew that the creature's lifeblood was leaking from its massive form. And around the dying lizard, he could see a pack of black lizards, miniscule side by side with the mekillot's bulk. Then he saw a looming humanoid, and he cursed and pulled the reins hard, bringing the kank up around and behind a dune, out of sight of the pack of hunting jakhals.
He came from off the kank, bringing it to its knees so that it could rest. He hobbled the insect and bared a sickle. Dropping to his belly, he worked his way around the side of the dune, staying low to the ground. Overhead, cast as profiles against the red of the Zalanthan sky, seven vultures circled, marking the place of the dying mekillot. And the sounds of barking laughter reached his sharp ears, along with the death rattles of the giant lizard.
He crested the dune on his belly, dragging his short body through the white and brown sands. Below him, he counted nine of the vicious lizards who were still alive, though a few were wounded, and eleven of their comrades dead about the gigantic corpse of the mekillot. The looming humanoid he had seen was a braxat, uncharacteristically clad in several pieces of heavy armor and wielding a massive warhammer. And even this massive shelled humanoid was small next to the corpse of the mekillot.
The killer groaned to himself. He disliked half-giants because of their lack of cause. But the primal braxat were even worse, for not only did they lack the childish intelligence of a half-giant, but they were much more aggressive and single-minded. One was not likely to be able to be distracted as a half-giant might be, nor could they be reasoned with.
He watched as the jakhals tore the flesh from the dead mekillot, and grunted as the braxat produced several huge canvas sacks, walking about and collecting the meat. The teamwork was exceedingly odd. Braxat did not have the intelligence to work magick, and yet, there were the unnatural jakhals. Natural jakhals were of a different color, not much different from that of a jozhal. This only produced one logical answer. Both were working for another.
It was late afternoon by the time the hunters finished with their task and the Reaper crept back to his kank. He throat was parched, and he quickly consumed a few swallows of precious water. Then he mounted up, pulling the black insect back into the shadows of the dune. He watched as the jakhals and the braxat passed his location and moved towards the east. He waited for a half hour before allowing himself to ease from the shade of the dune. Even as deadly as he was, he did not want to face a horde of jakhals and a braxat together. So he waited until they were gone.
He picked up the trail, and over the next three hours, he followed it relentlessly. It was late at night when he reached the trail's end. Ahead of him, the cliffs which marked the end of the known world loomed above him. He frowned, looking up at the face of the cliff. All around him, the deadly desert spread, but here at the foot of the cliffs, chunks of rocks from landslides over eons of time lay embedded in the white and brown sands.
There. Crude stairs, carved into the very cliffside itself, crawled up the side of the natural stone walls, and disappeared in the darkness of the one moon night. But the white moon relentlessly forced its light down through the heavy dust in the air, and a darkness darker than the darkness which marked the presence of the walls themselves marked the entrance to a cave, some fifty feet above the ground.
The Reaper was not comfortable with entering the cave with night approaching. This defiler, Sethose, was known for his deeds in the dark of night, and the Reaper held it to reason that if the man was more familiar with the night, that it was best to work during the day, despite that the cave itself might be dark regardless. He had no idea how far back the cave ranged, or what was up there. He only knew that the trail the heavily-laden braxat and the jakhals had laid ended here, and so it also held to reason that this defiler dwelt within. Typically, defilers did not share territory, and since the jakhals that he had seen could only be conjured up by a defiler, to the best of his knowledge, the sorcerer he was to kill must dwell within.
He elected to spend the night at the base of the cliff, and to climb the steps in the morning, when he could see. He hobbled his kank and unpacked his saddlebags. From them he produced several herbs and began to brew a mixture in a small wooden cup with a bit of water from his supply. When the mixture was thick and only marred by the most minute specks of herbs, he produced his sickles and coated them in the syrupy liquid, then brought forth the five black skull-hilted knives from the baldric about his torso and coated them as well.
These he laid aside to dry in the warm night air, then delved into the saddlebags again. He pulled a quiver of ten bolts and a small black crossbow forth. The bow he strapped to his belt. The solid bone bolts he dipped into the remainder of the mixture, tipping the cup to gain the most of the syrup. Then he laid the bolts aside to dry, alongside the sickles and throwing knives.
The cup he washed out and placed back in his bags. Then he brought forth some chalton jerky and several travel cakes. He sat silently in the sands, cross-legged, and ate and drank as the night wore on about him. In the distance, the desert sang its unending song, the howl of the wind and the cries of night creatures a symphony in the darkness.
The moon was on the horizon, seeking solitude, and the red moon was rising across the world, when the killer picked up his weapons and began to stow them. He slid the sickles into their sheaths again, then his quiver of bolts, minus one, on the other side of his laden belt. The free bolt he loaded into the crossbow, but he did not wind the weapon. He replaced the ranged weapon on his belt and slid the five knives into his baldric.
The Reaper sat back down, his eyes on the cave before him, and removed his mask, letting the cool breeze strike his features. His mind drifted even as his senses remained primed. His memories carried him back a number of years, before he had become who he was.
He was only twenty-three then, his body bursting with energy, his mind with childish notions. Yet even then, he had been in love with death for nearly thirteen years. There was never to be another thing to replace it. But there was something very close, in those days.
He had been hunting men for nearly five years by then, collecting bounties and heads. There was enough killing then to satisfy his cravings, before the actual bloodlust had taken hold of him. He had put no thought to having children or a mate, but he had his natural male urges, and had entertained them any number of times.
One took his fancy as no other had. She had been a Bynner, in the Scorpion Unit, and she was almost twice his age. She was slim for a dwarf, yet more than an equal for any human female in stoutness. Her structure was defined as though she had been sculpted from a rock, and she was no whore. It was not her powerful frame that overwhelmed his senses though, nor her playful streak, rare in a dwarf. He had fallen in love with her eyes. They were blue, but they almost glowed, they had been so bright. Against the sandy brown of her skin, they had shone like jewels. His time with her had been so short. It was almost unthinkable, to have cast his life away as he had, his family and all, and yet to have this stranger whom he only saw in the Gaj Tavern capture his heart. Her name had been K'jay, and she had taken a liking to him as well. After a month and three days, they had made love.
He had spent three bounties of obsidian on a room and dinner for her, a vast expenditure for the frugal Reaper. After they had eaten the dinner of nobles and aides, rare meat from a bahamet and wine from the North's finest vineyards, they made love for long hours on a bed covered with fur from an animal the killer had never recognized. When they came, it was seconds apart, and they lay together, the cool breeze easing in the lone window and wafting over their naked, sweating forms as they lay intertwined.
In the morning, K' jay had risen, walking to the window and looking down upon the street from their second floor room. The rising sun profiled her powerful body as it crept up in the ruddy sky to announce the beginning of another day. She had turned half-way, one of her firm, large-nippled breasts visible, and smiled at him, her brilliant blue eyes flashing, before she collected her Byn wear. She had dressed, and he had lain silent upon the bed, gathering her in, watching her fluid motions.
Even now, years later, he remembered her whispered promise before she left the room. She had bitten his ear roughly and then, as softly as a feather, had murmured, "You are mine, Thunderstone, and I am yours." Then she had left and he had smiled, and his mind had eased, and his bloodlust had almost seemed to disappear. He never saw her again. When she did not come to the tavern that night, he asked the Sergeant who had been her superior officer where she was. During a mission that day, the veteran mercenary said, in the sands to the south of the city, K' jay had died to a gith's spear. They had not brought her body with them, the officer said when the Reaper pressed. There had been no time. For all he knew, the wildlife was consuming it even now.
The boy that would become the Reaper drew a dagger and cut the officer's throat there in the Gaj, in front of everyone, and then left and disappeared into the streets. He had left the city under the cover of night and rode out to where the battle had taken place. There, miraculously, lay K' jay's naked body, untouched, surrounded by three ravaged gith corpses.
He buried her there, under the twin moons' gaze, and promised her that he would never love another. Then he had risen as the sun had done the same, and disappeared for six years before returning as the Reaper.
The sun was rising again now, and he watched the first ray of light creep over the distant horizon. Soon it would be time to enter the cave. He forced his mind to the present. He replaced the mask on his face and tied the silk cord which held it on. He got to his feet and checked his gear once more. Then he moved towards the stairs, visible now in the light of Krath's burgeoning wrath.
Something made him halt. To the north, still a league away, two figures were approaching, moving with purpose across the sands and following the line of the sheer stone walls. Beneath the bone mask, the Reaper's brow furrowed, and he tuned his senses in that direction. Everything about them seemed ordinary enough. But one never knew, and the killer did not want to face danger from two separate angles. He forced himself back to his kank, glancing up at the cave entrance, and sat, waiting.
One was a human, a giant black man named Chable. The other was an very short elf, tanned and scarred and slender even for his kind, and his name was Kry. They both loped across the sands without need of kank, their belongings strapped across their backs. They wore desert colored sandcloth, and the elf carried a long barbed spear, while the big man wore a large two-handed battleaxe on top of his pack. They had been a pair for ten or more years, and spent their days searching for treasure. As far as they knew, they had covered much of the known world, but the elf Kry often spoke of finding new and undiscovered things.
Chable would chuckle and make light of Kry's ambitions, but the ambition of stealing long lost treasure from undiscovered tombs and cities appealed to him as much as it did the elf. Perhaps this is why they made such a good team.
The elf, as all elves do, despised the concept of using a mount for his journeys, and years ago Chable, when he had discovered that the elf could outdistance his beloved yellow kank, had abandoned the insect and taken to his feet as well. It had not gone well at first, but he had gotten to the point where he could sprint as fast as the elf could jog. He was always looking for a new challenge and, the elf warned him, this concept of ever matching an elf in running across the desert was as unwinnable a situation as he had ever come across. Chable would always chuckle and gasp and keep running.
Both of them saw the short figure beside the black kank as they moved towards the location that Kry had scouted out. Chable huffed and glanced over at the elf, but Kry kept running, shrugging back. Neither bothered with words when they were running. They had been together so long that they could read each other's movements.
The sun had managed to pull itself halfway up when they came to the foot of the cliff where the cave stood. Chable came to a halt next to the wall and bent over, catching his breath, while Kry loped towards the cloaked dwarf in an unassuming gait, nodding amiably.
"Ho, traveler," the elf said as he came up to the stranger. "What brings you out this way? Just heading out from your camp?" Kry looked about as he said this, and noticed that there was no campsite. He sized the short man up and glanced out over the dunes, checking for traps.
"No," came the voice of the dwarf, rumbling like thunder from under the mask secreting his face. "If you are looking for trouble, it is wise for you to look elsewhere. You will die on these sands if you force your acts here."
The elf stepped back, his hands raised, and glanced sidelong at Chable, who was still bent over. "Nothing like that, traveler. Just trying be friendly and all. No reason for violence."
He motioned around the desert. "Just what are you doing out this way?" The short man pointed upwards.
"I have come for the man in there. You should go your way."
Chable had managed to catch his breath by now, and overheard the stranger as he came up by Kry. He looked up at the cave entrance and then glanced at Kry. "Ain't nobody up there, lad," he told the cloaked dwarf. "Just an empty cave. My mate here done been up there before. Just a big empty cave." It was a lie, but if the short man had come for treasure, it just might discourage him. For some reason, the big man did not like the idea of facing the dwarf, and he could tell that Kry did not either from the way he kept shifting his stance and looking out over the endless dunes.
The dwarf shrugged. "Then I am going up to kill the man whom I think is there. When I leave, you may return unhindered."
The scarred elf squinted, eyeing the masked dwarf. "Just who is up there?"
"The sorcerer Sethose."
Chable looked up that the cave in alarm, then frowned. "Uh...n...Kry, did you see anything odd? Like, something that probably shouldn't have been there?"
Kry looked up at the cave and then at the dwarf. "Hmm. All you want is the magicker's head?" he asked, ignoring Chable and watching the silent dwarf.
The dwarf nodded but did not respond. Chable tapped his friend's shoulder with a thick finger. "Why don't we let him go on in and do whatever he does, then we can go in later? I don't like the idea of facing any sort of magick. 'Member Stockal? That was not fun!"
Kry glanced over at the big black man. "What if we go with him? Then he can't take what we want, and if we can help him kill a magicker, then more power to us."
Chable gaped at the elf. "Krath no! I ain't going toe to toe with no jakhals and odd monsters! Go if you want, but when you don't come back, I'm selling that gold coin and keeping the sid fer myself!"
Kry shrugged and turned back to the dwarf. "Do you want help?" he asked, watching the cloaked dwarf. "My name's Kry, and this big lummox here is Chable. If there's magick up there, like you says there is, then you shouldn't mind an extra arm or two. I ain't bad with the spear, and ain't nobody swing an axe better than Chable here."
"Kankfucker!" raged the giant human. "Said I ain't going. All that woodoo stuff is for the insane."
The elf tried to reason with Chable, waving his arms in an animated fashion, as he did whenever he was exasperated. "Look, you slow-footed human. If he goes in without us, he can snatch the treasure or he could die, and then we would have to face the damned magicker alone. If we go in with him, we can make sure he don't steal any of the treasure and make sure that he finds his man. It's a must-go either way!"
Chable threw up his own hands, grumbling. "Fuck you and your thinking, Kry, you gaj-lovin', death hunting longear. Dear Whira, why do I take up with these sorts of idiots?" he mumbled to himself, beseeching the sky, but he pulled the hefty battleaxe from his pack and began giving it a once over.
The dwarf shrugged. "Come as you will then." And he turned and moved towards the steps, baring a sickle and tightening the straps of his shield.
Kry glanced at his partner and sprinted up the stairs, coming up directly behind the dwarf, who took the stairs one at a time, purpose in his step. The elf checked his own gear as he followed the dwarf, glancing back to see Chable lumbering up the stairs with the massive axe over his left shoulder and a dark scowl knitting his brow. The elf snickered.
"Kry, you and your friend are an odd couple," the dwarf commented without looking back.
"You ain't too common yourself, friend," countered the elf. "Not every person I run into wants to go hunting magickers. What's your name?"
"If you ever know my name, it will be just before you die."
The elf growled in irritation. "You are astoundingly confident, stranger. You're about to go into a cave you think belongs to a magicker...no, wait...a sorcerer even, and you got two folks you don't know but what might want to kill you, and all you have to say is slick jibes and kankshit." He chuckled. "Better be glad we need you, or we'd be testing your confidence right now, buddy."
The dwarf stopped so abruptly that the elf almost ran into him. The dwarf turned on the narrow stairway and stared at the elf for a long moment. Behind Kry, Chable had finally caught up. The black man blinked down at the dwarf.
"And you would be dead. I am the Reaper," said the dwarf, and the killer turned and began ascending the stairs again. Behind him, the elf looked at Chable with wide eyes and then hurried to catch up to the dwarf.
"Heard of ya, but never thought I'd meet you, man," said the elf as he caught up to the killer. "I thought you were a story mothers told their kids to scare them to sleep. But wait, how do I know you really are the Reaper, and didn't just say that to scare me?"
The dwarf took the last step and stood on the brink of the cave. "You will know or you will not. I do not care," he said, staring into the darkness beyond. "Now, will one of you carry the torch?"
The Reaper frowned as he pushed into the caverns which lay beyond the deceptively simple cave entrance. The trio had been in the dry tunnels for an hour now, but it was still cool down here, far away from the volatile heat of Krath. The elf was the one carrying the torch, which was guttering. It was almost time to cast it away and light another.
The killer was surprised to be frank. They had encountered nothing as they had pushed into the aimless, beehive-like maze, trudging ever eastwards. He had expected at least face a small-scale assault by this time, but there was none to be had. Behind him, the two explorers were whispering in low voices about the annoying lack of treasure to be found thus far.
They pushed on for another hour through the endless tunnels before the killer called a rest. He could hear the big man rasping for breath, his grunts echoing through the thin air. The big man groaned in relief and sank to his knees, and the elf sat down beside him. The Reaper sat across from the duo and crossed his legs, closing his eyes.
The two newcomers seemed to be reasonably intelligent, and he had not felt the urge to kill them that he usually felt when meeting newcomers. The elf was the brains of the team, while the man provided the brawn. He knew the elf was suitably impressed, while the human didn't really care. He knew that the two would likely try to kill him after Sethose was dead, and he began to even now plan for when that happened.
Kry's voice broke his thoughts, and he opened his eyes, eyeing the elf from behind the facade of the death's head mask. "So, tell us, Reaper, are all those stories true, like when you took on a whole raiding party of escaped muls and killed them all in hand to hand combat?" the elf asked, his amber eyes prying.
"I did not kill them in hand to hand combat."
"Oh..." and the elf seemed to be at a lose for another subject. But the human had a question, and his rich voice, a tenor which would have been demanded in any troupe of bards that the Reaper had ever heard, rolled forth, bouncing from the walls of the tunnels.
"What are we supposed to be expecting in these tunnels, Reaper? You ever killed a magicker before? What, giant worms, dragons, what?"
The Reaper looked at the man and shrugged. "Many things are possible. Living statues of stone and metal, packs of black jakhals, walking and fighting skeletons...many things. You must be prepared for anything, at anytime. Sorcerers are not chained by the typical laws of nature."
The big man tilted his head and cast his brown eyes upon the Reaper's masked face. "Then why do you think that you can kill him?" "I am the Reaper," answered the dwarf simply. "Despite all of the chains that this magick-worker can break, there is one that he can never sever. That is the chain of blood. When it leaves his body, he will die, and all of the chains that are broken will relink themselves."
Kry smirked. "If he don't kill you first." The elf studied the killer in the flickering light of the bone torch. "Why do you travel alone? It's dangerous for folks to be traveling alone nowadays, with all the gith and such. Then there are the Blackmoon and other raiders. Do you have no friends?"
"I have none, and desire no friend."
"You always been that way?"
"Always is a long time. I once had friends, before I was the Reaper. Now I do not."
Kry grimaced and glanced at Chable. "Well," he told the Reaper. "I suppose that you do not need any. But I and Chable here, we intend you no harm. If what you say is true, then we won't tell anyone about you. You'll get your man, we'll get our gold, and all will be well."
"When the sorcerer is vanquished, I will leave and go my way, and you will go yours. You will never see me again. And do not be fearful of telling others of me. I want the fools to know that death is coming."
The elf snickered and rose. "As you like, Master Reaper." He looked around as Chable rose beside him, hefting the giant battleaxe. The killer did not rise, and sat looking off into the darkness, his _expression hidden behind the gruesome death's head mask.
Chable looked down at the dwarf and frowned, looking off into the same direction. "What's the problem, lad? You see something?"
The killer held one hand up, the finger extended, and stared silently into the passageway. Suddenly he rolled to his feet. "Arm yourselves," he said, freeing his sickles and tossing his shield aside. "We are about to have company."
Kry dropped the dim torch and pulled his spear from his back. As he brought the weapon to bear on the tunnel, a odd clattering sound reached his ears, and then a band of reanimated skeletons were among the trio, moving spryly and wielding great swords and hammers. They were a motley crew, the dead remains of dwarves and elves and humans, but the reanimated bones fought with a deadly relentlessness.
Chable hacked the head from one and blocked the blow from another, but the beheaded skeleton kept coming, swinging its weapon blindly and furiously. Kry sprang into the midst of three of the creatures, stabbing and smashing the blunt end of his weapon into the skulls of the monsters.
The Reaper dashed forward, sweeping up a dropped hammer and sheathing his sickles. Then he was among the walking bones in a rage, the undead weapon falling among their ranks like the hammer of some long dead god. Bones shattered, weapons flew, and in the end the two travelers and the killer stood amidst a heap of shattered skulls and ground bone.
Kry glanced at the dwarf. "Uh, Master Reaper," he said, motioning to the killer's arm. "Shall I bind that for you?" As he spoke, he pulled a clay jar of some foul scented balm and a pair of bandages from his belt.
The Reaper considered the elf for some time before finally unlacing the sleeve on his left arm. One of the skeletons had managed to lay a blade on the dwarf, despite his speed. He watched silently as the elf applied the amber-colored balm to the shallow wound, then bound the wound with the bandages and secured them. Then the Reaper laced his sleeve up again.
The killer moved away without a word, dropping the hammer and pulling his sickles forth again, after strapping his dropped shield to his back. He moved into the darkness of the tunnel from whence the skeleton unit had appeared. Kry scooped up the torch and scurried after the cloaked dwarf, Chable hot on his heels.
As Kry caught up to the dwarf, Chable ambling blindly behind him, the Reaper spoke, his bass voice low and brooding. "We are close. One should be watchful."
The elf nodded and dropped back some, relaying the news to the big black man. Chable grumbled but nodded, and together, the three explorers moved deeper into the caverns.
Sethose had lived longer than most of the world's population. The stick thin, hawk-nosed human was one hundred and thirty-eight years old, nearly half a lifetime longer than most dwarves lived. Until the last two years, he had lived in solitude, his powers his only solstice. For a while, he had a female elven slave. He had amused himself with her company for many years before she died of old age.
He did not crave human contact, and this recent rash of personal appearances was not his cup of ginka wine, but it was necessary. He knew that he had perhaps a few more decades of life, but he wanted more. It was his hope that his power would attract the attention of one of the God-Kings. If he could draw one of them out, then he could perhaps discover the secrets of their eternal lives. Then he could kill them all and rule the world himself. He had been perfecting his plan for the last seventy five years. He did not intend to fail.
He glanced over at the huge black rat that scampered up onto the arm of his stone throne. The rodent was as big as a baby gortok, and its fur was sleek and well-kept, unlike its city brethren. He frowned as the rat chittered.
"Oh?" he grated, stroking the rat's fur. "The skeletons did not halt their progress. Very well, then let the gates of Drov open for the fools. I'll not be thwarted by a trio of ignorant, ambitious glory-seekers." He waved his hands, mumbling several words, and the very rock of the floor before Sethose shifted and spewed forth six bulky hunched beings, with eyes of onyx and skin the grey of the granite which had birthed them.
"There are some explorers nearby who wish to die," he addressed the elementals. "Ensure that they do so." The living rocks nodded with an odd grating sound and ambled away with thick steps into the darkness of the hallway beyond the sorcerer's chambers.
"But what idiot sends out a group to only test his guests' talents? Let it not be said that I was a man who did not believe in overkill," the sorcerer said to the big black rat, and he motioned to one side of his throne. The braying laughter of jakhals filled the room. He only glanced at them, and they loped off into the same darkness that had swallowed the elementals.
As they disappeared, a dull thud reached his ears, signaling the arrival of the braxat called Brixx. The hulking creature moved into the sorcerer's cavernous chambers, bending his head to enter. He came to a stop before the sharp-eyed old man.
"Brixx, we have visitors. Please make sure that my hospitality is not remembered," said the old man, peering up into the dull eyes of the sub-human. The shelled braxat grinned crookedly and shrugged a shoulder, clapping the head of the huge warhammer he carried against his meaty palm.
"Shore nuf, Lord Mashter. Brixx be the general you wanting," the hulking thing said, then turned, bending his head again as he moved into the darkness.
Sethose smiled subtly to himself and petted his rat, returning his mind to the task so many years in the making.
They had gone deeper into the tunnels, and Kry was wondering just how close they really were to the sorcerer's lair when a roar ripped through the caverns. Chable stopped and brought his axe to bear, and Kry dropped the torch and whipped out his spear. But the killer moved on, leaving them both in the darkness. Kry cursed and scoped up the torch again, hurrying after the dwarf.
He was about to ask the dwarf in no uncertain terms why he had left them, but the dwarf stopped in his tracks so fast that the elf almost ran him over. Then the killer dropped into the crouch of a stalker, his left arm flickering and reappearing with a small black crossbow readied. His bass voice echoed through the tunnel. "Give me light, and keep it steady."
Kry did as ordered, looking around and seeing nothing. Chable did not see anything either, and said so pointedly. The song of flying crossbow bolts greeted his words, and there were five distinct thumps, and then the Reaper came to his feet. He put the crossbow away and produced his sickles again, then nodded shortly and said, "We can proceed now."
They had gone only five cords into the darkness when Kry saw what the Reaper had seen. Embedded in the eye of a black jakhal, a short bolt protruded. As they moved on, he saw four more of the dead lizards, a bolt in a vital part of each corpse. He grimaced as he stalked through the tunnels, following the killer. "How did you know they were there?"
"I saw them," said the Reaper, and he came to another halt, holding up a hand for silence. Then he turned his head towards what seemed to be a solid portion of the tunnel, his _expression hidden. "We are not alone."
Kry looked about curiously, his amber eyes seeking out the source of the killer's distress. Chable poked at a piece of the wall, his heavy brow furrowed. "What's thi..." he started, then grunted in abject surprise as a hand with three fingers formed from the solid stone and gripped his wrist. The giant human jumped and tried to jerk free, but the powerful grip was unescapable. Kry stared, unable to move, and watched as a humanoid form struggled to free itself from the tunnel's walls.
"That is an earth bound elemental." The killer spoke as he moved past the elf, and in his left hand was a spike of solid diamond rock, while in his other hand was a small mallet. Chable jerked futilely as the dwarf approached, trying to free himself from the grip of the creature. But the dwarf placed the diamond on the elemental's wrist and brought the small mallet back and forth once, sending the sharp tip of the spike into the stone limb and shattering it.
Chable leaped back as the creature howled and drew back into the wall, and he checked his bruised wrist. The Reaper pocketed the small hammer and nail, then looked around. "I do not think he would only send one," he said, and even as he spoke, the stone beneath them trembled and belched as though the mountain was undergoing an earthquake, sending small stones down from the ceiling. From the cracks ran molten rock, and this liquid stone formed into thick bodied, lumbering stone monsters, six of them. One was missing a hand.
Chable swore and swung his axe hard from shoulder to hip, but the bone weapon's blade bounced from the skin of the monster and cracked. Kry did not even try to attack. He backed away until his back met solid stone wall, torch held high, and watched as the creatures slowly advanced.
The killer brought his hand from his cloak's interior pocket, and in it was held a pale pink glass globe of misty air. He hurled the fragile ball to the floor, and it shattered in a shower of thin shards with a musical sound. The mist worked its way up from the floor in what seemed to Kry like eons, but in reality was only several seconds. One of the elementals had struck Chable by then, and the big man lay unconscious on the floor with four of the creatures circling him.
As the mist reached them, they simply faded away, as though they had melted. The chamber was still, and the mist worked its way into the darkness, wafting out of sight with the invisible air currents. Kry stared at the Reaper, but the killer only looked around for a moment and said, "See to your man." Then he sat down cross-legged and closed his eyes, the sickles lain in his lap.
Brixx was one of the most intelligent braxat alive. That said, he was still dense. What he lacked in intelligence however, he more than made up for in pure power and ferocity and iron will. He had come to serve Sethose almost twenty years ago, and though the braxat was aging, he was still a fearsome foe.
He did not think in terms of right and wrong, but rather in terms of good and bad. Good for him was eating as much as he wanted and having a special warhammer made just for him and servants to rub his feet and shine his shell. Bad was walking around in the canyons and fighting other braxat for the next measly meal and arguing with his mate and raising a bunch of screaming, whining, irritant tykes. Brixx hated every single one of his thirteen children.
Right now, the hulking creature was supposed to find some little people and step on them several times, then go back and get his shell polished. Then he could probably sit down and have a huge meal, then sleep for a while. So Brixx kept his pack of ten jakhals on course, following the powerful lizards through the cramped tunnels of the Master's domain.
The jakhals were giving voice now, in that laughing sound that made the braxat think of his children, and he knew that his quarry was nearby. So he came around the first corner and let his jackals free, drawing his hammer from his belt and readying the polished stone-headed weapon with loving care. He clattered in his shoddy, custom-made armor as he came around the second corner, roaring with battle glee.
Brixx was dense, but he was not too dense to stop and gape. Five of his jakhals were fighting tooth and claw with a very thin little man and a small thick little man. The other five were advancing on a very short man with a skull on his face. The very short man with a skull on his face's left and right hands flashed five times, and four of Brixx's jakhals stumbled to the ground, with tiny sharp things in them. The last one died with two moves of the very short man with the skull on his face's hands, which held a pair of little curved things that looked like one of the moons when they were very new or very old.
The other two had dispatched two of his jakhals, and the very short man was moving to help them. Brixx roared again, his rumbling rage rolling through the tunnels. Then he charged forward, sweeping his warhammer around in a violent blow. He caught the very short man in the side and knocked him from his feet, sending him through the air and into a wall with a thud. Then he moved to help his two jakhals, roaring at the top of his voice and swinging his hammer at the small thick little man.
The enraged braxat didn't see the Reaper struggle to his feet, his head in his hands, staggering for a moment before reaching under his cloak and retrieving his crossbow. With blood seeping from his left nostril, the killer loaded the small weapon and took aim at the back of the shelled monster's neck.
Brixx stopped in midswing, ignoring the very thin little man's stabs at his knees, and swatted the back of his neck. Something had stung him. He looked down at the two little people in front of him and started to swing his hammer again, then roared in anger as he was stung again. He swatted at his neck futily, trying to locate the little stinger thingies. Twice more he was stung, and he wobbled, almost falling, muttering irritably.
The little people he had been fighting had killed all of his jackals now, and were just watching him. The small thick little man was waving a broken axe around like he owned the world, and Brixx grinned to himself. As soon as he figured out where these little stinger things were coming from and killed them, he was going to show the small thick little man what for. He finally felt something and yanked out the little thing. It almost looked like a little very thin person's sharp things, but it didn't have a knob of stone at the end, and it didn't have the same kind of feathery things at the other end. It did have his blood on it though.
He had turned around now, and he saw that the very short man with a skull on his face was up again, surprisingly. In his hand was a funny looking tool, and he was walking towards Brixx. Brixx managed to raise his warhammer and look fierce.
"Who you is?" he roared at the very short man with a skull on his face. Brixx was very proud to be able to speak in the little folk's language. He would be by Sethose's right hand when the Lord Master was ruling the world. Then he would get his shell polished all day, and he would have slave mates that he could kick in the head instead of arguing with.
Something was wrong with his eyes, and he rubbed at them with one hand and his neck with the other, dropping his special hammer. He would get it in a bit. He felt like going to sleep. But he figured that he would step on these little folks first, then go to sleep. Otherwise, Sethose might not be happy. But his eyes felt so damned heavy.
The last thing the braxat named Brixx heard before the poison took him was the cold voice of his killer. "I am the Reaper." And Brixx thought to himself that the very short man with the skull on his face sounded like that noise in the sky when the Lord Master made big sand storms.
Chable was nursing a broken right arm and sitting on the braxat's shelled back, and Kry could not stop the pounding of his head nor quell the blood which still crept from the wound in his side. Despite his injury, the big black man was pumping his axe with his good hand, grinning like a child, and the elf had to smirk up at him. He understood what the big human was feeling. This whole journey had put fear in him like he had never experienced, not even in the arenas of Allanak, but by Krath, winning felt good.
The killer was forcing himself into a painful position, and Kry heard a loud pop echo through the cavern as the dwarf grunted. Chable looked down from atop the braxat and asked the dwarf what the sound had been.
"The sound of my arm snapping back into its socket," said the Reaper, and there were two more pops before the dwarf finally managed to attain his feet.
Kry grimaced and started to rise, holding the bandage to his side. Chable had splinted his arm with two bones from the body of one of the jackals, and he slid from the dead braxat's back too, hefting his axe. But the killer shook his head.
"You two have done very well, but I will go from here along. It is not very far. If you do not see me in half an hour, it will be wise to leave as swiftly as is possible." The killer winced and grabbed his wrist and twisted, and Kry heard a grinding sound. "I will see you both later."
Then he went from corpse to corpse, pulling his knives free and sliding them back in the baldric. The fifth was shattered against the wall it had struck when it had missed the target. The killer left that one where it was and then glanced at the bolts embedded in the dead braxat's neck, shaking his head to himself.
The Reaper was loading his crossbow with the last bolt in his quiver as he stalked away into the darkness, his steps reminding Kry of something calculating and predatorial.
Sethose was lost in the recital of a spell when the news reached his ears.He had recently discovered an ancient spell that drained the very life from servants, but the spell was incomplete, and he had been working on the completion of the enchantment for nearly two months. But the rat's chittering broke his concentration.
Sethose listened in a vast amount of irritation as the rat chittered, understanding everything the rat was trying to tell him. "What!" the old sorcerer screeched? "Brixx is dead? And the jakhals, and the elementals? What are these people who have come into my lair? And who is the Reaper?" He reached down and grabbed the rodent up, shaking it.
But the animal did not have the time to respond, for a cold voice that sent chills down Sethose's spine did instead. "I am the Reaper."
The sorcerer started and spun on his heel, spending the black rat's life in a spell to protect himself, but the force shield came too late, for even as the last word came from his lips a black bolt found his right eye and emerged from the back of his skull. The sorcerer saw only the killer's black death's head mask as the force shield flared around him and the darkness came to claim him.
Author's note:Sethose was never heard from again after the Reaper was assigned to kill him. Chable was a northern lumberjack by trade, and Kry an escaped ex-gladiator from the arenas of Allanak. Although Kry was caught two years after the War and reassigned to the arena where he died in his third match, Chable disappeared and his whereabouts are not known, though it is likely that he may still be in the North, working his trade.
A large transaction is recorded in the records of Nenyuk's bookkeepers between House Kurac and an unidentified second party. Although the second party is unknown, it occurred less than a week after the killing of Sethose. The man was a giant black-skinned human with a huge gold-gilded axe in his possession.
As I have said before, the Reaper has not been seen since the Great War. The events chronicled in this story happened less than a year before the Rebellion in the North occurred, and the Reaper was considered to be near the peak of his career at this time. It is known that he was used to scout various rebel camps, and his use was primary in preventing Southern causalities.
If he was truly used as a common soldier in the field, then the error was a terrible one. He was far more effective as a lone killer, but it is likely that the battlefield itself, though rankling his cautious nature, would have evoked some pleasure, and the assignment would have been accepted.
Templar Signus Kinar - Historian of TektolnesAuthor's note:
This story is based in both legends and personal knowledge of the killer known as the Reaper. The most important portions of this story did happen, but some sections are a result of my observation of the killer's character and demeanor throughout his history.
In no way do I...
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