The wagon stopped with a creak, and Peter grunted as Doctor Aarts tightened the dressing on his leg.
“That should hold for now,” the doctor mumbled.
“You sure?” Peter asked.
“Yeah, you’re not planning on running on it soon, are you?”
Peter smiled as innocently as he could, but it only made him look guilty.
“You all know I need to go,” Peter started. “I might as well get off here before I drift too far from Stalpia.”
Isabella rose in protest. “Peter, we’re out of the city. We have been riding hard. Let me come with you.”
“And me,” Van Dijk volunteered.
Peter shook his head, “You all know the plan; you’re our last line of defense. I’m just an injured kid with not much more to contribute.”
“Exactly why you need our help,” Isabella interjected.
Peter shook his head. “This is all my fault. I can’t risk anyone else. I’m expendable, and I owe it to Iris to try.”
“This is suicide!” Isabella protested.
“That’s fine with me.” Doctor Aarts grumbled. “Get on with it; we can’t stay here forever like beached fish.”
Peter nodded and hopped out of the wagon, bouncing on his good leg as it took the brunt of the force.
His gun belts were reloaded with thick slugs, and his sheathed bayonet-dagger.
“Peter,” Isabella pleaded, “There has to be another way.”
Peter shook his head. “This is the best way.”
“Do you need anything, soldier?” Captain Visser asked loudly, shooting a knowing look into the patchy overgrowth.
Peter shook his head.
“You remember where to find us?”
Peter nodded.
“Remember … this time, make sure you’re not followed,” the captain reminded Peter.
Peter tried his best salute, but it wasn’t as sharp as he would have liked.
“Thank you, Captain.”
“Good luck, soldier.”
Peter waved his goodbye and started south, away from the cart. If he continued south, he could cut east and end up on Black Tile Road in Stalpia. His limping steps were slow and methodical. His leg ached continually, but he finally found the will to push the pain aside. In truth, the pain wasn’t so bad. Initially, seeing the actual wound seemed to put him in shock, not the pain itself. The pressure of Doctor Aarts’ tight bindings made the sting almost pleasant. The poetic coincidence that now he was like Iris wasn’t lost on him. He was the one who the dog should have gotten all those years ago, and now he would gladly trade himself to get her out of Anubis’ custody.
Peter tried his best to find a solution to the problems he was facing. How was he going to deal with Anubis when he saw him? Last time, things didn’t fare so well for him, and that was when he was unkillable and uninjured.
He wanted to rush in blindly, guns blazing, but that desire came from somewhere in his chest, not his head. Peter forced himself to exercise restraint and move on with the plan. He had a plan … Right?
He did, but it was half of a plan. Peter’s eyes darted between the sparse juniper trees scattered around him. He hadn’t taken a road, but getting lost with the Stalpia hill range to the east was impossible. He felt as if he were naked in a snowstorm, without the court band. He hoped the commandant was using it well, saving the people of Stalpia. They had done their part, and now it was on the commandant and Julian to do theirs.
Peter heard the horse before he could see it. It was coming from behind him. His hand itched to draw a pistol, but instead, he carried on. It was a potentially fatal move, but he needed whoever was following them to think they were in control.
“Hey!” The rider called as he rode into eyeshot of Peter.
There was no more pretense now. Peter drew his pistol and turned it on the man.
“Woah!” The man cried as he saw Peter’s weapon. “There’ll be no need for that.”
“Do I know you?” Peter demanded.
“I work for Morris,” the man explained, placating hand raised.
“Why are you following me?” The use of the word ‘me’ was deliberate. Peter didn’t want the rider to know that he had been spotted long before Peter left the group.
“Morris sent me,” the rider said. “He had your friend.”
Peter frowned. “My … friend?”
“Yeah.” The man said, his teeth rotted and his belly bloated from too much liquor. “The girl …”
“Iris?”
“Yeah.”
Peter didn’t expect that. “What … how? When?”
The man chuckled. “Morris will want to talk to you, Van Seur. He sent me to fetch you.
“Morris had Iris …” Peter breathed sharply as a great relief lifted from his shoulders, but it was instantly followed by a stab of fear. Why? “Where is he?”
“Follow me,” the man said. “I’ll show you where he is.”
The man pulled alongside Peter, but gave him the appropriate distance he would have needed if Peter’s leech field were still intact.
“Ghoul-piss, man, put that blasting stick of yours away.”
Peter regarded the man for a moment before holstering his firearm.
“Lead the way.”
It didn’t take long for Peter to realize they were headed for the burrow. As they drew near, his mind weighed possibilities against probabilities. Could it be true? What was really happening? Morris seemed like a nice enough guy. In fact, Peter really liked Morris; he had been kind and taught him how to shoot, but to go against Anubis … Unless this outrider was secretly an enforcer and worked for Anubis.
Peter loosened his pistol in his holster when the man wasn’t looking. He had to be ready for anything.
The burrows drew into view, and Peter deliberately forced his breath to be calm and steady.
As they drew near, he saw the funeral pyre, which was still smoking. The smell of burnt flesh lingered like sweet pork, and Peter suppressed a gag.
His eyes darted ahead. With his hand on his gun, he searched for any sign of a trap, ambush, or ghouls or enforcers who might have been lying in wait. He didn’t see anything.
“Okay, man,” Peter started, “What is this?”
The man pointed, and Morris stepped out with two of his compatriots, and he saw her. She was young again. Unsurprisingly, Rahashel could return what he took away. She didn't wear the rags he had seen her in last, but a fresh new set of Nosmerian clothes.
Peter cried with relief and rushed towards them.
Morris made a dismissive gesture for him to stay back, and Peter stopped.
“Iris!” Peter cried, his voice cracking on a sob. She held Van Gutter’s hat. The one that Peter had dropped when facing Anubis.
Iris looked at him, completely nonplussed. It was as if not a day had passed since she had put on the crop ring.
“Peter?” she cried in disbelief. “Is that you? What’s happening?”
“Yes!” Peter exclaimed happily and stepped forward. “I have so much to tell you — ” The other men put their hands on their guns. Peter stopped. Of course, they would be scared of him. They didn’t know he had removed the band; his coat, though ripped up, covered his arm.
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He moved to explain it, but the look in Morris’ eye stopped him. Gone was his friendly confidence, and the calculating, hard look of the deserter and soldier of fortune was in its place.
Peter realized what would happen in the split instant before it did. He felt his gut lurch as Morris quickly drew his pistol and put it to Iris’ temple. Their conversation in the training replayed in Peter’s mind, but now he saw through the undertones. Morris didn’t care about Peter. He was just looking for his next score.
“The deal is the same, Van Seur,” Morris said. “The band for the girl; the only change is who profits from it.”
Peter choked for a moment as his blood roared in his ears. “Morris … Why?”
“Because, Peter, I’m not some honorable madman bent on killing a god. I told you this, remember? I’m just looking out for myself in this mad world. The band. Now.”
“You wouldn’t!” Peter cried. “She’s innocent. You may fight for money, but you wouldn’t murder a young girl!”
“I wouldn’t?” Morris asked.
Peter saw the answer in his eyes.
He looked around frantically for a way out. There were four of them. Peter could shoot down his escort, he was relatively sure of that, but he had caught a glimpse of these other three men on the range and shooting in Stalpia. They were legendary. He didn’t stand a chance, and neither did she.
“What do you want to do with the band, anyway?” Peter demanded.
“That’s none of your concern, and frankly, it doesn’t matter. Sell it back to Van Graif, to Rahashel, use it, or give it to the highest bidder; I don’t care so long as I secure a reasonable foothold for myself and my men in this burning world. But you’re just stalling, and I don’t like that, so hand it over,” He thrust the barrel of his pistol into Iris’ temple harshly, and she winced with fear in her eyes. “Before I paint the dirt.”
Peter stood in silence, thinking, analyzing, and panicking.
I don’t even have the Bedorven. Peter thought frantically. He saw that the men were tired. They had gone out of their way to risk their lives for a treasure he didn’t even have.
He stopped, and a delirious giggle escaped him. In the moment, he saw a flash of concern in Morris’ eyes.
Morris scanned Peter for the element of his plan he hadn’t accounted for. Maybe he wondered if Peter didn’t care for the hostage enough to budge; perhaps he thought Peter had lied to him when Morris tried to earn his confidence. Possibly, Morris thought Peter had finally lost it after dying so many times. Morris’ face twisted into a snarl as he tried to find the missing piece.
“What’s so funny?” he snapped.
“Yeah!” Iris cried wide-eyed. “What’s going on?”
“You are an idiot, and a fool, Morris!” Peter sneered. His admiration for the charming bandit twisted to distaste.
“Watch yourself, boy,” Morris warned, shoving Iris’ head down with the pistol.
“I don’t have it!” Peter said.
All four of them stared at Peter blankly, the silence deafening.
“I gave it to the commandant.”
“Liar!” Morris insisted. “You gave up immortality?”
“He needed it more than I did,” Peter explained.
“It’s true,” the mounted man behind Peter realized. “The doctor was bandaging him up, and he wasn’t leeching the others.”
This time, Skye staggered back with a look of defeat. “We sign on with the commandant, lose most of our men, risk going up against an elder lich, and save the girl all for nothing?” He spat on the ground.
“I guess we don’t need them anymore,” Morris agreed grimly. His hand tightened on the trigger.
“Wait!” Peter cried.
“You’ve wasted enough time!” Morris snapped.
“We have the tiles!”
Morris stopped, and Peter clapped his hand over his mouth, shamefaced.
“You … have the tiles?”
“It’s true,” Peter’s escort said. “They had a big wagon and a little raft. They had bags full of them.”
“What do we even pay you for?” Morris demanded, scowling at the man. “You could have said any of these things before we got to this point.”
The man shrugged apologetically.
“So, Van Graif leads us on a suicide run to analyze their defenses, then waits for them to put their guard down, and leads a small party to the real heist and cuts us all out of the deal,” Morris concluded, his voice bitter, but a trace of admiration in his eyes. “I don’t think so. We will get our cut … and a little something for the inconvenience.”
“Trickery?” Peter demanded. “The second heist was my idea, and don’t you dare suggest the commandant planned on this!” Peter cried, pointing at the pyre. “You blame anyone else for your failures; many good men died trying to get those tiles out. Don’t insult the commandant by saying this was his intention.”
Morris nodded once. “It was the commandant’s plan, and his men died. He killed them; that’s the harsh reality of leadership. As for those who died, what makes you think you have any right to advocate for them? You couldn’t die. Don’t insult them by speaking for them. We digress; you know where the tiles are?”
Peter said nothing, and Morris read the answer on his face.
“Take us … Now!”
Peter nodded slowly. “You’ll let us live?” he asked.
“You have my word,” Morris said.
“What exactly is that worth?” Peter asked. “Let Iris go. You can use my life as leverage. I’m not unkillable anymore.”
“I don’t think so,” Morris said. “I know you; you’ll try something reckless alone. The girl comes with us.”
“The girl?” Iris demanded as he took his pistol from her head. “Well at least I’m not a short-sided, gas-blasted, retchgasket, foul-smelling, shame-created, backstabbing, criminal, scruffy-faced hiss pipe like you,” she fired off.
Peter almost smiled. Nothing had changed. It was truly Iris.
Morris shrugged, as if to say, ‘guilty on all counts’. He pushed her forward. “Take his weapons.”
Peter was stripped of his guns and bayonet and had a gun placed against his head. He couldn’t stop stealing glances at Iris. There she was, and she was young again! He didn’t have to fight Anubis with impossible odds stacked against him, but at the same time, he hadn’t been counting on having Iris here now. If Peter tried to make a move, he was confident the reaper would collect on his overdue balance.
Now, with Iris here, he was constrained. Her blood would be on his hands, again.
He was thrown on a horse with Benedict. The mercenary didn’t say much, but no doubt he saw everything. The cold hard weight of Benedict’s gun in the small of his back was constant reminder that he would tolerate no artifice.
They made quick time on horseback. Peter’s mind raced, searching for a plan, but it was as blank as a washed blackboard. There was no obvious solution. Iris was as trapped as she had been with Anubis. These men were professionals, and kept a close eye on their prisoners.
Iris tried to ask him what was happening, but their captors hissed at them to shut up. So they rode in silence. Once, Peter caught her looking at him, and she mouthed quite clearly, ‘You’re old.’ Her left ring finger was swollen and ringed with puncture scabs.
Peter smiled at that but didn’t risk a reply.
Iris pointed up to the sky.
Peter looked up and saw a large gangly bird circling above them.
Is that a vulture? Peter thought to himself in surprise. He had never seen a vulture outside of a book before. They were supposed to live on the other side of the world.
“Eyes on the road,” Skye barked at Peter, with his pistol in Iris’ back.
They drew near the Ataggin ruins, where they had rested the night before. On the outskirts, the wide, perfect circle of black dead grass where he had been confronted stuck out like a drop of ink on paper.
The wagon would be hidden in the ruins. Peter had to warn the others.
“The tiles are in those ruins!” he shouted, deliberately allowing his voice to carry. “You wanted them, Morris, there they a—” Benedict slapped his hand over Peter’s mouth, and Skye hissed for him to shut up.
“Skye, Witte, stay out here with the girl,” Morris instructed, and the others nodded.
“You’re with me,” He said to Benedict and Peter. “The others will be there, in the ruins. If they put up a fight, kill them,” Morris said.
“Actually, it’s not guarded,” Peter said. “We decided that if anyone was following us, we had best stash the tiles and move on.”
The bandit snorted at that, and they both held their guns at the ready.
“Not a single noise,” Benedict warned. It was the first time Peter heard his voice. It was a firm, masculine voice with an edge. Peter almost struggled to believe Benedict was a bandit, but that silent charm was probably one of Benedict’s greatest tools.
They stalked their way into the ruins, and Peter’s heart raced. Iris waited outside in the grassy fields unrestrained but sitting in front of Skye on his horse. The King’s Cell had the leverage Peter couldn't calculate how to counter.
They moved expertly, slowly, and cautiously until they found the open center of the ruins. Sitting isolated and alone in the middle was the tarp-covered wagon, unhinged of its horses.
“Watch him,” Morris warned as he went to investigate. He circled the wagon, checking over his shoulder all the while.
Morris pulled the tarp back just a smidge, growled in frustration, and ripped the whole thing off.
“Empty?” He bellowed; he spun and pointed his gun at Peter. Instantly, five figures rose from the rubble and stepped out of their concealment.
Van Dijk, Isabella, Captain Visser, Director Van Den Hoek, and Doctor Aarts all leveled firearms at the two bandits.
Benedict kept his pistol on Peter’s head. Morris shifted the barrel of his Slagter from one of the nine-finger operatives to another, his hands clenching the polished wood handle.
“It was a trap?” Morris realized.
“That’s right,” Captain Visser agreed. “We sent Peter to distract your spy while we stashed the tiles and had him lure you here. Now drop your weapons.”
“So you weren’t going after the girl?” Morris asked Peter.
Peter shook his head, but he didn’t feel proud of his role in the deception. Iris was still outside with Skye. He had expected Morris’ man to force him to lead them here, but he didn’t expect them to have a hostage. His panic extended beyond the gun at his own head. All of this just to lose her again?
“Captain,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady, “They have Iris, out there, in the field.”
“I saw,” Captain Visser said. “Owen has his rifle trained on Skye. He’s a good shot, but his damn arm is hurt.”
“We still have Van Seur!” Morris pointed out. “You drop your guns, or we’ll paint that wagon with his brain.”
Peter laughed. “You think they care about me?” He asked, “Most of them have wanted to shoot me themselves since the day I joined them.”
Morris cursed. It was clear that he agreed with Peter.
“Well then …” he started, “It looks like we’re in a rotting situation indeed.”
Bandits and soldiers glared at each other, shifting and tense, waiting for someone to move, trying to decide where to shoot first …
Skye pulled his pistol a few inches away from Iris. The girl sat in front of him in his saddle. Two people in one saddle one uncomfortable, but he’d feel any micro-movements she made to escape.
“I wonder what’s taking them so long?” Witte said.
Skye pushed his annoyance aside. He hated Witte; the man was little more than a drunk they hired because he was expendable. Just because Witte was under their employ didn’t mean he could carry himself like he was one of them.
“What’s that?” the girl asked as she pointed to the sky.
Skye looked to see a massive bird, a vulture, gliding down at them.
“It’s a bird, so what?”
“I swear it’s been following us.”
Sky didn’t like that. He knew people who used trained birds for reconnaissance.
The vulture dove.
Skye took his pistol off the girl and aimed at the bird. Something was very wrong.
It landed and was almost lost in the long grass. Skye tensed. Vultures weren’t native to Nosmeria. He sat a little taller to get a better look.
The vulture spread its wings, and violet court script flashed to life across them.
Skye cursed, spun his horse, and galloped to the ruins, taking his hostage with him.
“What is it?” Witte asked as he moved closer to investigate.
The vulture exploded into court flames. They flared out, but didn’t devour the grass field. Skye looked over his shoulder to see the fire die down. In its place stood thirty ghouls, with Anubis grinning viciously at their head.