Reaper's Challenge

REAPER'S CHALLENGE

T. J. DIPPLE

Netherworld Books

First Published by Netherworld Books at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 by T J Dipple

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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All right reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without permission of the publishers or author. Excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

First edition: 2013

Any reference to real names and places are purely fictional and are constructs of the author. Any offence the references produce is unintentional and in no way reflect the reality of any locations involved.

A copy of this work is available though the British Library.

IBSN : 978-1-909224-33-9

Prologue

They came as they did every night to Kavernhive, named The City of Life because of the gift they bestowed. As the sun vanished over the horizon they burst onto the streets, spreading themselves as evenly as possible across the city. It had been this way for over five hundred years, as their Maker wanted it. They kept the people safe.

They did not just make light, though the people were glad for it. They found the dying and the wounded and brought them back, no matter what the damage. They healed. Just as their Maker wished them to do.

A handful of times there had been those who would undo their magik, but each time they had failed.

They rejoiced in the singing of the hymns dedicated to their protection. It was the same each time they emerged. The people loved them, the people needed them, and they needed the people.

Collectively they were known as The Haze, but their name was not important. They existed, just as they had since their Maker first set to work.

But this night was different.

Something had been found. Something that had been lost for centuries and they hoped, forever. As it was brought into Kavernhive that night and The Haze despaired. Worse than that, they could feel a man approaching the city. A man who not only knew of the weapon's discovery, but who also had the will to use it.

The Haze despaired.

Chapter 1

Reaper's balls, Recruit! Get your arse moving and cover me!

Tren stumbled forward in a helm that was too big and a crossbow that was not properly loaded. His worn boots slipped on the wet cobblestones and he tripped, landing hard against a barrel. Bolts thudded against the other side and with his hands shaking, he finished loading his weapon. The rolling clouds over head would make shooting difficult, but he went through the process anyway. Rain lashed down on his shaking hands.

What's taking so long! the Sergeant bellowed from across the street. Are you brain dead? Fire that weapon or I swear I'll feed it to you!

Tren readied himself. He had seen combat before, street brawls and bar fights. But nothing like this. There was no time to think, no time to question. The blood pumped through his veins so fast he could hear nothing but the beating of his heart. Taking a breath he stood and fired a bolt from his bow.

He missed.

Tren threw himself to the floor to hide from the return fire. He heard the laughter of the Sergeant and looked up to see him running out into the open. He heard cursing as the two men feebly tried to cut down the burly guard. Tren was tempted to stay put. But he had a duty. Adjusting his helm he raced towards the fight and drew his blade. The Sergeant had already killed one man and just as the second moved in Tren charged with his short-sword out in front of him.

The man had a look of bemusement as Tren's sword skewered his stomach. His momentum carried them both to the ground and the man died swiftly, a pool of blood spread out across the cobbles.

Tren rolled off the corpse and lay on his back breathing heavily, a dark figure stood over him and a rough hand grabbed him by the tunic and hoisted him to his feet.

You're a lucky bastard, Recruit, the Sergeant said and pulled Tren's helm from his head. He pointed to a metal star sticking out of it. See that? That's an Assassin's Kiss. They're a pain in the arse, deathly sharp and tipped with poison. You should be dead. Who are you anyway? What squad are you with?

Tren Denroon, Sir, his reply was shakier than he intended. He swallowed to clear his throat. I start today. I was on my way to the barracks.

You're still green? the Sergeant muttered. He knelt and began rooting through the pockets of the dead men. Why didn't you say so? What kind of idiot follows without training?

Sir, you shouted for a recruit so I followed. I thought you were talking to me.

The man shook his head and smiled. Nice attitude. You've got some balls on you. Have you been assigned a squad yet?

No, Sir.

Then congratulations, you'll be joining The Blades. You keep running in without thinking and you'll fit in just fine. We'll need to train you though. You were so clumsy I thought you'd impale yourself.

Tren was confused. Sir? he asked but the Sergeant was not listening. He routed busily through pockets and pulled out a small pouch probably filled with coin.

And next time, watch your damned aim. The streets won't always be empty. The boss won't have you killing citizens because you can't shoot straight. Your hands are shaking. Was that your first kill?

Tren nodded.

The Sergeant looked him in the eye for the first time and seemed to calm down.

First time's always the worst, he said. He pocketed the pouch and stood. You shouldn't have followed me, we'll teach you street sense as well as how to fight. This could have gone a lot worse. You see these two?

Tren nodded and looked down at the man he had killed. The blood had drained from his face, leaving it pasty and pale. Tren noticed his clothes for the first time; he was dressed all in grey, from the hood covering his hair, to the flat shoes on his feet. The Sergeant kicked the body roughly.

They're a hybrid from the guilds. Part thief, and part assassin; if you want to live through your training you stay away from them until you know what you're doing. Are you alright?

Tren felt dizzy and shook his head. His palms were sweaty and his knees weak. I don't think so, Sir. He sat on one of the barrels he had used for cover and tried to fight the urge to vomit.

We'll get you to the barracks and some food to settle your nerves. Something sweet would be best. There's your first lesson, even if you're on rations, always save food for after a fight. You can swing a sword on an empty stomach, but what comes after is harder.

Tren nodded. The last half a bell was already a blur for him. The Sergeant clapped him on the shoulder, he was a thick set man with dark hair and a round but hard face. He pulled Tren's sword out of the assassin's stomach and held it out for him to take.

Come on, he said. We'll get out of this rain and I'll fill you in on what you'll be doing with the rest of your life.

Tren learned a lot that day. By the time they made it back to the barracks, four blocks from the fight, the rain had stopped and the streets filled up with merchants and horses. The city of Kavernhive was enormous. It was said to be the only city in the world that stretched from one side of the horizon to the other. If one stood atop the tallest building, they would still not see where the city ended.

It was Tren's second day in Kavernhive. He had been transferred to the city by request of his father. The other men in his village told him it would help him grow up. He was beginning to believe them; he had already made his first kill, and felt a hundred years older.

Within those four blocks they passed by at least six separate markets, ten temples and five other guards patrolling the streets. Kavernhive was a city of order and wealth. With the clouds still heavy the streets seemed dim. But at night that would change with the coming of The Haze.

They walked through the east sector, in the middle of the city's scale of wealth. Even that was richer than Tren was used to; he had never seen so many people gathered all in one place. He struggled to keep up with the Sergeant, who strode through the crowd as though the streets were deserted.

You'll get used to it, he said when Tren finally caught up. He grinned. They call me, Tanner, by the way. Sergeant Tanner.

Tren saluted.

Enough of that, Tanner said and pulled Tren's arm down roughly. Salutes and formalities are for generals and kings. Don't do it, even to the Captain. He hates salutes.

Why? Tren asked. He had always been taught to salute another guard even if their rank was lower than his own.

Tanner grinned. These streets might seem ordered and shiny with riches but truth is there's all sorts of shit going on around us even now. I could pick out ten offences without even turning my head. And we have enemies, like the assassins back there. They'd love to get a chance to pick off an officer. Saluting shows them their targets.

Tren nodded.

These are the barracks, Tanner continued pointing to five large buildings fenced off next to a wide training ground that was now filled with new recruits. I'll speak to the recruiters and see you end up in the right place. You do what they tell you and you'll be fine. Five months of basic training, and then we'll whip you into proper shape. Have to keep sharp in Kavernhive. A kingdom at peace wars with itself, remember that too.

Tren nodded and followed Sergeant Tanner through the gates. There were queues to the recruiting desk. It was the best time of year for new blood, or so Tanner claimed, and looking, Tren saw that most of the people waiting were young, and around his age.

All of a sudden Tren felt out of place. Had he not aided Tanner in hunting down the thieves, or assassins, whatever they were, he would have been fine, just another number to sign into the ranks. But now he felt different. A nervous pride settled on him as he looked around the eager new recruits. He had heard of Tanner's squad, The Blades, they were said to be the best in the city. Tren doubted he would fit in, and he started to feel sick again.

I'm going to have a word with the recruiter, Tanner explained. Make sure he knows where to put you. You'll be spending most of your time with the other recruits. Tomorrow, come back here at dusk and I'll introduce you to The Blades. Enjoy your first day, Recruit; you won't get the chance to rest once it's done.

Tanner walked away leaving Tren in the line. It was not a long wait, the recruiters wasted no time getting them all in. Once he had his number and allocated quarters he made his way to the bunkhouse. They told him he had the rest of the day free. Once he had eaten, even the slop from the bunkhouse kitchens, his nerves from the fight settled. He would make sure he listened to everything Tanner told him. Experience was one way to stay alive in the guard, his father said; the other way was to listen to those still breathing.

The bunkhouse was full of recruits who all nervously glanced at one another as they readied their beds, not many of them spoke, they just went about making their beds and putting away any equipment they had brought with them. Already Tren felt like he had to watch his back. A tension filled the room that only strengthened with his arrival. There were still a few empty beds, he looked down at his paper and counted the numbers until he found his.

It was a single wooden bed with brown sheets and a wooden chest at the foot of it for his weapons and armour. They would all be issued with equipment in the morning and fitted for armour on the afternoon. He pulled out the knife his father had given him and slid it under his pillow, his old man was a Captain in his village, and full of advice that Tren had learned to listen to. He removed his helm. Now that it had a hole in it from The Assassin's Kiss it would have to be replaced.

He put his sword and helm into the chest and locked it with the key left on his bed. He had brought no clothes from home. Everything was provided; the guard looked after their men.

The man sitting on the bed next to him looked up. His head was shaved; he had a build only a little wider than Tren's, but his shoulders were broad and solid. He was drumming his fingers rhythmically on the bed, a motion that seemed well practiced.

Name's Sark, he said and held out his hand. You from the city?

Tren took Sark's hand and shook it surprised by the strength of his grip. I'm Tren. This is my second time in Kavernhive, I've been transferred from Shoito, about thirty miles east.

Just what the guard needs, a new voice came from the opposite bed. Another commoner.

Sark looked over but then shook his head. City people got no manners. I'm from Drough, been here a week. It took me three days to find the barracks.

A simpleton too, the man opposite grunted. Tren looked across to see a noble born sneering at them. For the fine clothes and styled hair he could only have been noble born. You two won't last the training. I'd be surprised if you made it through the week.

Ignore him, Tren said when he saw Sark getting frustrated. I wouldn't have found it either if one of the sergeants hadn't brought me. Do you know what happens now?

Induction starts tomorrow an hour before dawn, it was the man opposite again. He approached them both with a grin on his face that was anything but friendly. You should know that. It's commoners like you that give the guard a bad name. If I was in charge I'd have you both beaten.

Good thing you're not in charge then.

The man looked at him dangerously. You'd best watch that tongue, or I'll have to carve it out for you.

He walked away.

Place is full of people like him, Sark said. His fists were clenched. Fighting was banned amongst the recruits, but it was not unheard of. I heard they normally become officers.

Then they need better standards, Tren muttered. If we're not going to be called until the morning do you want to look around the city?

Aye, Sark said and stood. You say this is your second day?

Tren nodded and pulled out the knife from his pillow. The first thing I learned was always carry a weapon.

He smiled to himself as Sark frowned and then collected his own knife from the chest at the bottom of his bed. Tren slid the knife into its sheath and followed Sark out of the bunkhouse.

***

Beneath the buildings of Kavernhive its heart beat steadily. It was a well known fact that the city had a heart. It had been forged centuries ago for one purpose. To produce The Haze. Every night, when the sun set over the horizon The Haze seeps into the streets creating a glittering orange mist that covers the entire city.

Almost everyone within the walls of Kavernhive was thankful for The Haze; even if none know where its source lies. It made the streets safe at night. It is very difficult to sneak up on someone in bright light, and The Haze had a way of making people aware of your presence, even if you did not want it to. It was safer for hunters and plotters in daylight than at night.

The Haze revealed all but the darkest of magiks, and it was those magiks that Eramun used to hide himself. He was oblivious to the orange mist that twisted and recoiled from his presence. He was oblivious to the hymns sung by those who were thankful to The Haze. He had darker deeds to concentrate on.

Even with The Haze there were certain sectors of Kavernhive that civilized people stayed away from. Places where a man could go to let out his darker side or get hold of goods that the guard would arrest you for possessing. Whether people lived in those areas, or in the rich sectors, there were only a handful that had lived long enough to remember the last time a murder was committed at night during The Haze.

Eramun was about to give them a reminder.

He stood on the rooftop and surveyed the city. It sprawled further than his eyes could see and in his mind he traced the route he had taken. He had never understood how such a place could thrive. The lands immediately beyond the city borders were mostly made up of patchy areas of forest and farmland, beyond that, wilderness. A man would have to journey miles