So, next week I’ll be putting an advertisement out. Looking for a computer wizard with good administrative skills.
DEADHAND by John Helfers
John Helfers is an author and editor currently living in Green Bay, Wisconsin. He has published more than thirty-five short stories in anthologies such as The Sorcerer’s Academy, Faerie Tales, Alien Pets, and Apprentice Fantastic. His novels include Tom Clancy’s Net Force Explorers: Cloak and Dagger, Twilight Zone: Deep in the Dark, Siege of Night and Fire. Recent books include Shadowrun: Aftershocks, co-authored by Jean Rabe, and the illustrated young adult novels ThundeRiders and Nightmare Expeditions.
DIM MOONLIGHT GLEAMS off the alleyboys’ blades as they step out to accost me in the narrow, filthy lane. Their flashing dirks are matched by the feral glint in their eyes, three among both of them. The would-be thieves are dressed in a ragbag collection of leather and fur castoffs, with scraps of cloth wrapped around their feet. Their hunched shoulders and shaking hands tell me they’re either nervous or hoping I might resist. Plumes of white breath congeal from their mouths as the winter night air wraps dozens of chill fingers around us. Although the cool metal of my twin real’gais lies against my forearm, I know I won’t need it.
“Pay and pass,” the taller one says.
“Or fight and die,” his partner chimes in, a wicked grin creasing his seamed and dirty features.
Time dilates for me in that instant, seconds stretching out like tortured minutes on the rack. The Master’s presence stirs in the back of my skull, and I know that what is to come is his doing.
The silver moonlight shifts, turning pale shades of gray, and I now see the bonds holding the two gutterkin together, shackles of fear and greed and desire, invisible to most, but writhing and glow-bright as the sun around this pair. The dark red-and-black strands bind them in an uneasy alliance, one the taller thief will soon end, much to the permanent disadvantage of the shorter. My knowledge of this won’t help, however, as he is unlikely to listen to any warning from me.
Another second slides by, and-as if I was watching a japes play at the crude pit theater on the other side of town-I see how I will kill both of them.
I watch my left hand snake out and grab the taller one’s wrist, yanking him off balance, dragging him to me along with his blade, my true target. I see the iron glint disappear, buried in the belly of the shorter man, his own crude dagger dropping from his fingers, forgotten as he tries to draw enough breath to scream. That blade falls, handle first, into my right hand, and I jerk the taller one’s arm back up, folding it across his throat, while my right arm comes up to the other side of his neck.
Just as the first alleyboy comprehends the end of his short life, I draw both blades through skin and muscle, almost severing his head from his body. I watch it all, the crimson jet of blood, gleaming black in the moonlight, as his body collapses beside the other one, which tries to suck in one last breath, clinging to the little life left in him. I step over and finish it with one precise stab. It would all be over in three blinks of an eye…
With a roar like an earthen dam breaking, my reverie is halted, and I am jerked back to the present. I know that no time has passed, that these two still wait for my purse to fall into their greedy hands.
My traitorous body desires their death, aches with the need of it. The Master stirs again, a dull, hot weight just above the top of my spine. If he does nothing, I very well may spill their blood tonight. My own hands tremble at the thought, every nerve inflamed with the desire to kill them and be done with it.
No. I block the impulse with every fiber of my being, and my quivering fingers still again. With a grimace, I reach up and sweep matted black hair away from my forehead.
The two thugs pale when they see what is there, fear blanching their ruddy faces. They exchange uneasy glances, understanding the mistake they’ve made in choosing me for their night’s work. The shorter one still looks like he’s ready to swing iron, though, no doubt spurred by thal-induced visions of killing one such as I, perhaps becoming so notorious as to have his name strike fear into whomever hears it, much like my Master’s does. I decide to forestall the possibility of anything more from these two.
“Leave. Now.” My voice rasps like a rusted hinge. At this, the two back away, blades held out in front of them; as if that would stop me. Reaching the relative safety of the alley’s far end, they’re off like coneys tearing through the woods, invisible hounds nipping at their heels, though the only predator they’ll see tonight is my face in their dreams.
“That was almost a lovely repast, don’t you think?” the Master’s voice is a silken hiss in my mind. “And here I thought you were actually going to end them, too.”
“Can’t have blood on my leathers when I step into the tavern,” I mutter. I try to speak out loud whenever I must answer to the Master. It is a small victory, given his power over me, but one I savor whenever I can.
“Surely you’ve killed enough now to be able to avoid that.” The Master’s grin is evident in his words. “No? Perhaps you need more practice. That hut on the outskirts of town, the family there-”
“No,” I growl this time, my blood-rage rising even further. “I will follow the trail you have commanded, no other.”
“I would belie that tone of voice when speaking to me, pawn,” the Master replies. “Look down.”
Doing as he bids, I spot the faint blue-white line leading out of the alley and turning right down the street. I feel the slight tug of the strand that connects me, however tenuously, with my target. That is where my fate lies, intertwined with the death of another. That is why the Master chose me for this task, because my tie to him is the strongest.
I walk to the end of the alley, looking up and down the street. At night, in this part of town, the only things roaming are gutterkin like the ones I chased off and victims who don’t know it yet.
The tavern I am supposed to wait in is at the far end of the block. I head toward it, my battered leather boots making no noise on the rough cobblestones. Pulling up my dirt-crusted hood, I reach for the door handle, worn smooth by thousands of thirsty hands.
Judging by the interior, the name of the tavern, the Maid’s Fount, is a beggar’s joke. If I still cared about such things, the stench alone-a palpable combination of sour wine, cheap beer, stale smoke-sweat, and fresh vomit-would drive me right back out again. But this feels almost comfortable after what I’ve been through.
Scarred and battered tables and benches line three of the walls and are scattered throughout the room, all filled with motley men of varying shapes and sizes. A bar that looks like it’s being held up by the pug-faced bald man behind it rather than the other way around stretches the length of the fourth wall. Although the place is crowded, it being the end of the trading season even for freeblades and pursefingers, no one spares me a glance. Everyone here is too busy drowning their various existences in tankards of watered-down drink.
I scan among dozens of feet for the blue-white line, spotting it after a few seconds, and follow it back out the door. It pulses a little brighter to my eyes, indicating that my target is coming closer. No reason not to be comfortable while I wait. Spotting an open small table near the guttering fire, I make for it, ignoring the muttered oaths and glares tossed my way as I elbow my way through the crowd.
I feel a small hand dart for a nonexistent purse that should be on my hip. Without breaking stride, I grab the questing fingers and twist, breaking three of them. Above the general din I hear a strangled yelp, and the hand whips out of my grasp so fast I might have imagined the whole thing if I didn’t have bits of the pursefinger’s skin under my nails. I force myself to keep walking, resisting my hands’ insistent pull to find the thief and finish the job. The Master, his presence still coiled in the back, is silent now, apparently not wanting to waste time with a pickpocket when larger prey is approaching.