Aftermath, p.5
Aftermath, page 5
“What was your brother’s name?”
“No name. They’re all dead.” And Cade knew that the boy included all his family in his statement. Cade sat unmoving. Behind him he heard the slow drip of water, the sound loud and monotonous. Time. It was time. Melting this pathetic refuge away. Until the boy was left standing in the sunlight. Alone. Sacrificed to the madness men thought of as life.
“Have you killed?” he asked.
“No.”
“Have you raped?”
“No.”
“Have you tortured?”
No answer. So there were things here, deeds here. Cruelty. If he killed the boy would he free him? Or consign him to annihilation? Cade watched him for a moment. A choice must be made. It was so hard with the young. Kill them in their innocence and they are freed. Or are they? Is innocence ignorance? Mustn’t they be given the chance to decide, to choose their path and therefore their destiny? Cade felt sorry for the boy, but then again he felt sorry for all men.
But this one had no chance. And he was so much like.… but leave that thought. Still, one day Cade would die. Who would take up the war then? Who would defy the lords of hell when Cade finally fell and went to the emptiness? For of course Cade knew that there would be no better world for him. Madness can be a fine thing. Cade knew he was evil.
Still, he could give the boy the chance.
“Raif,” his voice soft, “this is hell, do you understand?” The boy just stared.
“In hell, all choices are hard.” He took a deep breath. “We will sit here, you and I, in your best hideout. We will sit here and you will tell me of the Sharp Side. Then we shall leave together. And together we shall kill them all.”
“All?”
“All. We might kill those we shouldn’t, but we must kill them all, or they will retaliate, against you, against me. The burden is mine. I exceeded my allowed debt long ago. You shall have a chance.” And then he laughed. Laughed truly. For Cade would do it. He would free this boy of Sanctuary’s chains, let him roam and fight hell on his own terms. Give him a chance to be a hero as poor Targ was always dreaming of. Yes, that was it. He would do this as so long ago at the same age he dreamed of someone saving him. And Cade laughed harder. The sound reverberated in the dank tunnels, but somehow it was a comforting sound. It had power, and passion. But it was a gentle sound.
“Now”—Cade’s laughter ended abruptly—“tell me of our enemies, young warrior.”
It took nearly a week to set up. Raif acted as intermediary. They accepted that. Targ acted as the buyer, Raif his connection. Cade wandered about, following aimless leads to throw off any interested parties. The final act was almost ready to begin. He had the long-sought answers.
The why? Simple. The Sharp Side took over many of the operations of the PFLS, including Terrel’s. It had taken Terrel a while to figure it out. When he did he had tried to warn Zip. The Sharp Side had caught him.
Who? Well, one of them was known as “The Beast,” an interrogator for the PFLS, now for the Sharp Side. A mysterious man, little was known about him. But it was rumored he was so unmanageable Zip was glad to see him gone. A man who enjoyed his work. A psychopath. He was the one who would have broken Terrel’s bones.
Then there was Amuuth. The brain. The one who ran the gang, gave the orders. Born in Downwind, barely thirty, Amuuth had worked his way up through the ranks. Cruel, hard, uncompromising, and known to be arbitrary in his decisions. This man was the most feared man in Downwind. And his hands were broken.
Cade couldn’t be sure, but it made sense. This man knew of Terrel’s fear, because he was one of the original causes. He hadn’t made an example of Terrel. His position was too unstable for him to go public. No, he didn’t make sure Terrel died of his worst fear for political reasons. He did it for his own pleasure. For fun.…
There were seven other hardcore members, good fighters all. Twenty auxiliaries rounded out the gang, but only three of these were so loyal that Cade would have to kill them. Twelve. Twelve lives for Terrel’s. It wouldn’t even begin to balance the scales.
Cade, Raif, and Targ sat at the table in Marissa’s house. The guards were on the roof. Marissa was with Sarah. The sun had set. One hour and it would be over. Terrel’s death would be avenged.
“Are you sure the whole gang will be at the meet?” Cade asked.
“They always do it that way,” Raif answered. “All nine of the insiders at a buy.” The boy’s voice was happy, and who could blame him? Certainly not Cade. This had been the best week of Raif’s short life. Money to have good quarters in Downwind (and to buy his first woman, though he hid that from Cade), all the food he could eat, sword practice with Targ in the hot sun. Gods, his own sword, Though he didn’t wear it. Cade and Targ had made it clear he would not be allowed to wear the sword until he knew how to use it. It was all like a dream to Raif, and even all this talk of murder and revenge made no dent in his new world.
Targ watched the youngster, keeping back a frown. Raif was a good boy, and damned smart. But he hero-worshiped Cade, like Toth did. Targ couldn’t understand it. Children never feared Cade, always reacted well to him. They missed the madness there, and the years of killing. But then again, whatever Targ thought of Cade, he knew one thing Cade didn’t know about himself: for all his self-aggrandizing introspection, Cade had never and would never kill a child.
“I still think I should go with you,” Targ said aloud, though he did not look at Cade.
“No.” The only light in the room came from the single lantern lying between them. Cade stared at the large shadow Targ cast on the wall behind him, like a giant leaning over to listen to their conversation. “You must get the other three. All must die tonight.”
“They’re expecting me to be there. The deal is with me. If they see you, they’ll know what’s up.”
“They won’t see me”—Cade’s voice was firm—“not until I want them to.”
“There’s nine,” Targ insisted, but Cade only answered with a shrug. Targ could think of nothing else to say. Cade insisted on taking on the gang alone. The mercenary didn’t like it. But there it was. Cade would do what he wanted, and he explained himself to no one.
“Why not take me?” Raif piped up. Targ just reached for the wine. He knew what Cade’s reaction to that would be. “You’ve seen how good I am with the knife,” he insisted. “They expect me to be there, too.” His voice trailed off at Cade’s dark look.
“Raif, killing a man is not so easy.”
“They killed my brother, too, damn them. I want my revenge.”
Cade’s hand banged on the table. “You’re talking like a fool. Do you think this is one of your daydreams? Riding up on a white horse, saving the city to the cheers of men and women alike? Revenge is bitter, boy, and far removed from justice.”
“But—” Raif started again, but this time he shut up when he saw the flash in Cade’s eyes.
“You’ve had your revenge, boy. Your information, your help has set this thing up. Now leave it to us to finish it.” He turned to Targ, but the mercenary just nodded. Cade could handle himself, and Targ’s prey, well, they were as good as dead. Targ could live with this. Cade never asked him to do something his conscience would forbid. Targ’s honor would not suffer from this.
Unconsciously, he bared his teeth, the sharp edges of his canines already beginning to show. Too bad it couldn’t be a cleaner fight. But he hadn’t succumbed to his particular curse in so long, and this night—well, these bastards deserved it.
Cade stood up. He wore leather armor stained black, a bow in one hand, various other weapons strapped on tightly. Targ pushed his chair back and faced the other. He wore only an old faded kilt, his sword strapped to his back. The two clasped arms.
“I’ll take the others out,” Targ said. “None will escape.” Cade gave him a hard smile.
“Good hunting,” he said softly. Targ’s face twisted for a moment at Cade’s choice of words, but the bloodlust was on him and he was eager to go. Neither said anything to Raif as Cade opened the door and they moved into the night. Raif stared at the open doorway for several minutes. Then he, too, got up and walked into the night’s embrace.
Cade moved through the shadows to the waterfront district, taking care that no one followed him. The meeting was set up in a large warehouse there. The streets were quiet tonight. The moon was waning and a light cloud cover shielded the starlight, it was a perfect night for death.
There were four of the Sharp Side on outside guard duty, one on the roof, two in front, and one in the back. They were well hidden, but they moved about a lot. Sloppy. They were getting arrogant in their success. It was only a matter of time until someone took them out.
The one on the roof was first and easiest. An arrow through the eye killed him instantly. No one heard the body fall. Cade moved to the roof, looking down on the dark silhouettes of the two guards in front. Another bolt, through the neck, and one was down. The second heard something. He didn’t move. Smart.
Cade silently climbed down the side of the building until he was ten feet above his prey. He leaped. The guard was fast, but caught by surprise. Even as he reached for his weapon, Cade drew a knife across his throat. Cade stared down at the crumpled body, watching the blood pump from the neck, staining the ground liquid black. He shook his head; a waste of talent. This man had once been very good.
The guard in back was careless. Cade dropped a rope from the roof, caught the man around the throat, and lifted him up. His neck broke in the first five feet. Cade anchored him to the building. The body dangled ten feet off the ground. Cade was making an example.
He moved to the inside, through a trap door. The warehouse was full of boxes and crates, which surprised Cade. Since when did Sanctuary do enough business to fill a warehouse? There were things in town he did not know and could not understand. Silently he reconnoitered the building.
There were five left. Two with bows watched the remaining three. Amuuth, the Beast, and another waited at a table in the middle of the warehouse, a small lamp on the table giving the only light in the building. It took Cade ten minutes to kill both of the bowmen; the others were not alerted.
Cade lay on top of several crates, next to the body of the second bowman. From this vantage point he studied the remaining targets.
Amuuth sat at the table, facing the front entrance. His clothes were fine though dirty. His two gnarled hands ceaselessly played with the long necklace he wore. His black hair was worn short, in Rankan fashion; his beard was well trimmed. Cade could not see his eyes.
To the left of his leader stood the last of the regular gang members. He was a large man, big-boned and heavily muscled. He wore an expensive chainmail corset and carried a two-handed sword. From his hiding place Cade could see the blue eves reflect the light of the lamp. No Ilisigi, this one. Hired help, and by all appearances well worth whatever his pay was.
The last of the three stood to the right of Amuuth. Cade was surprised at how small the feared Beast was. A little man, all huddled in his stained cloak. The torturer’s face was hidden by a cowl; a knife glinted in his pale hands. The Beast ignored the others, his attention on something else. As Cade watched, the torturer began to hum to himself and slowly rock from side to side. Amuuth gave his servant a dirty look, but said nothing.
It was time to move. Cade rolled away from the ledge. From a leather sheath on his side he pulled out three thin black cylinders. Deftly he put the three together, forming one tube six feet long. He placed the object on his right. Reaching into a pouch at his belt he withdrew a three-inch needle. He twisted a bit of fleece about one end of the needle, then lay it beside the tube.
He rolled onto his back and slowly drew his sword, making sure those below him could see no gleam off the blade. Then he checked his bow, placing it and the sword on his right. Once again he moved to the edge of the crates.
He was about eight feet above the men, fifteen feet away. An easy shot. He held the tube to his lips, carefully balancing it. No one noticed the long tube sticking over the edge of a crate. Cade took the fleece side of the needle in his mouth, took a deep breath, and spat the needle through the tube.
The noise he made was covered by Amuuth’s reaction. He swatted at his neck, tried to rise, went rigid, and fell over, chair and all. The Beast just stared. The guard turned quickly to his employer then spun to face the sound of the blowgun landing behind him.
The mercenary turned at just the right time for Cade’s shot to catch him full in the neck, severing the jugular vein. Cade had time to feel a quick stab of remorse at this. It was no way to kill a warrior. Even as he thought it, he was leaping down off the crates, his sword now in hand.
The Beast hopped from one foot to the other, apparently at a loss as to what to do. Amuuth lay huddled, unmoving; the guard was dead. What was he supposed to do? He looked at the grinning Cade, tall in the lamplight, his sword held steady and pointing at the Sharp Side’s torturer.
“Uh,” he said, “uh, guards!” He shouted, “Guards! Attack! Murder! Guards!” Cade let him go on for a while, smiling the whole time, the sword never wavering.
“The guards are all dead,” he said finally. The Beast stood to his full height, swinging his thin shoulders back. Cade could still not see his face.
“So,” the torturer said, “so. All gone, ah, well.” He did a little dance, then moved closer. “All dead. Well, dead.” On the second “dead,” he moved quickly and a knife appeared out of his long sleeves and spun toward Cade. But Cade was ready and knocked the weapon out of the air with his sword. The Beast just stood there, his other knife still dancing in his hands.
“Uh, so,” he said. “Who are you?” he shouted.
“I am Cade.”
“So.”
“Terrel was my brother.”
“Uh, so.”
“Terrel was the man you tortured, the man whose bones you broke. All of them.” The other was silent for a moment, digesting the information. Then he laughed, a high-pitched squeal.
“Oh, yes. Lovely bit of work, that.” The madman’s head moved to a song only he heard. “Yes, oh yes. Too bad, though. Only for fun, you realize. There was no information to get or anything. Still, nice bit of work. Spell was a nice touch, I thought.” The Beast smiled, showing crooked and browning teeth. “He screamed and screamed, but the sound didn’t carry don’t you know. Magic.” He snapped his fingers. “Yes, well, you know—”
But Cade could hear no more. With a roar he leaped at the torturer. The other’s knife tried to parry his blade, but it was shoved aside by the power behind Cade’s swing. The sword crashed into the Beast’s head, cutting deep into the skull, splitting it nearly in two. The Beast crashed to the ground, dead.
Cade moved closer to see the face. It was hard to distinguish among the purplish-red remains. The face was split to the nose. Cade made out watery brown eyes, quickly filming over, and the face of an old man. He looked like someone’s grandfather, the silver-white hair now dyed with red streaks. Cade spat on the corpse. This looked like no beast. Hell was a funny place.
Cade heard the noise behind him, though few others would have. He spun in a crouch, his sword held before him, a throwing dagger already in the palm of the other hand. Who? All nine were taken care of. Slowly, a slight form moved out of the shadows and Cade relaxed.
“I told you to stay away, Raif.”
“I thought you might need some help,” the boy answered, looking around. He grinned at Cade, though his face was pale. “I guess you didn’t.”
“This is no place for you.”
Raif bit his lip, darting glimpses at the bodies around him. He slowly sheathed his knife.
“You said you would teach me to be a warrior,” he said. He gestured at the dead mercenary. “I’ve seen death before, Cade.”
Cade’s eyes went dark. He grabbed the boy and pushed him to the ground by the corpse of the Beast. Grabbing the old man’s collar, he pulled the corpse up to face the boy.
“This is death,” he said, ignoring the still warm fluids sliding down his wrist. “Look at it, boy, see it for what it is.” Raif tried to pull away but Cade held him firm. The smell of the blood was covered by the horrid stench of the corpse. The bladder and bowels had emptied at death, and their horrid mixture slowly leaked toward Raif’s sandaled feet. The split face smiled at him, its dull eyes seeming to search him out.
“No,” Raif gasped, pulling away. He got two steps before he vomited. Cade held the boy while Raif emptied his stomach.
“The life of a warrior is the path of death,” Cade whispered in Raif’s ear. “This is the truth of it, boy: old men’s brains spilling at your feet.” He turned Raif to face the dead mercenary, Cade pointed. “That’s where it ends, boy. An arrow in the dark in a dirty warehouse, in a town all decent people have long ago forgotten about. What is so noble, boy, what is so grand about being a warrior?”
“But you’re a warrior.”
“No, boy, I am no warrior, because I choose not to be. I kill those who need it, or those who deserve it. I kill those I choose, not those others tell me to. People pay me to kill, Raif. Pay me to do what I was born to do. But don’t you realize that I know that I lost my soul because of it?”
Raif said nothing, his voice lost in sobs he tried to hold in. Cade clasped the boy to him for a moment, then let go.
“I will teach you to fight, to protect yourself, nothing more. You needn’t see this ever again. I will give you the chance to be free of hell forever.” This was the moment: kill the boy now and he would be free. He would find that warm safe world that Cade’s mother now danced in. Free him. Free him, his mind chanted.
But Cade could not. It wasn’t the risk of being wrong about Raif; he knew the boy was good. It was something else. A chance. Give the boy a chance to lead a life Cade could never have had. The life Targ dreamed of, but his curse kept him from. It was a hard thing to live in hell and dream of heroes.
