Chương 41: 40 The Raven Reaper

I sat alone on the deck of my ship. Waiting. Time slows in moments of anticipated violence. I couldn't tell you why. Does the mind speed up? Why does the air seem to thicken, edges sharpen, and self-awareness crystallize? When you know danger is truly imminent, you realize what you take for granted. What if it all ended? Could you truly save what you had left? To me, the adrenaline, the dread, it wasn't biological; it was spiritual.

I sucked in a deep breath, the silence stretching, reaching with actual fingers that probed my psyche. My exhale dragged, long and steady, regulating the anticipation. My hair stood on end, an illogical feeling telling me that I was no longer alone. I had no evidence, no logic. Just raw instinct. I inhaled, chest rising with the Ash Zephyr's mast at my back. My saber rested across my knees, bare and naked. I'd made my men work through the night, harvesting and transporting the crab.

Even the Hammers grumbled, and I got the distinct feeling a mutiny might be on the horizon. However, once Nexus paid for the various aspects of the Titan Crab, Othess split the majority of the loot, and all was forgiven. No doubt, my crew would be drinking well into the morning. All except for Jaser and Needles, who were both unaccounted for. The Halfling had slipped away during the work, and my tail followed him. Which meant the Guild would lock onto me very soon.

So I sat, alone on the deck, hand tight on my saber hilt. Mordisco and Drogo waited below in the hold, seemingly guarding the prisoners. In reality, they waited, poised to spring Ingred and Bianca should the need arise. Waves broke against the hull, the noise of the sea keeping me company as I waited. My gaze never stopped moving, flickering to the gangplank, the edge of the bulwark, and the trapdoor to the hold. How would they come? In number? With fire? What if they didn't come at all? No. I stroked the blade.

They were already here. This sense of finality wouldn't dominate the night if I were truly alone. I exhaled. Waiting. This was the second hour I'd been waiting, cross-legged and alone. Did those who watched feel the same tug of fate that I did, or just eager excitement? I swallowed. This was different than Scorched Rock. There's a reason Cousins operate in parties; we weren't meant to operate alone. My thumb brushed the back edge of the blade. My only companion.

The water crashed against the hull again, and my spine lengthened. There it was, the threat. Not in a place, but in a moment.

"I'm ready," I said softly.

"Let's get this over with." A pause, and my heart constricted. Nothing. Idiot, I shouldn't have spoken. Now they might retreat and bide their time until they could take me by— A rustle and a cone of trajectory light spotlighted me from above. I lurched, throwing myself forward. Too slow. A pair of boots slammed into my shoulder blades, and my head snapped back as I crashed into the deck, rolling across the planks. Snarling, I whirled, cutting the air as I came up to one knee.

I was alone again, back throbbing in pain from my unseen attacker. My chest heaved, adrenaline and fatigue twinning into ragged gasps. I tried to calm my breath, to listen, to look for the signs of a cloaked assailant. What was it? Invisibility? A ranged weapon? A trajectory light arched from the mast, ripping my gaze upward as a shadow detached from the crow's nest. Short black wings snapped out as it swooped, golden cone tracing out before it. I rolled out of its path, my saber swinging to intercept.

Steel rang against steel, and the force of my blow sent the figure tumbling across the planks. A sickle flashed in the moonlight, embedding in wood, and the figure jerked to a halt. A hooked-beak mask rose, revealing a human mouth and chin beneath.

<<Name: The Raven Reaper>> <<Race Human>> <<Class: None>> <<Rank: Driver in the Slavers Guild>> <<Lvl: None>> <<Total: Not synced to Oruabora>> << Equivalent Level: Martial-8 Mage-2>> <<Stats: >> Might (STR) — 6 Will (WIS) — 6 Focus (INT) — 7 Resilience (CON) — 7 Grace (DEX) — 11 Cunning (CHA) — 8 Sweat tickled my neck. Equivalent level ten. I was only seven. This was bad. I flashed a grin.

"Neat trick!" My blade flicked, settling into a high windmill guard.

"Got a few myself." The Raven Reaper's lips and eyes remained impassive, and black feathered wings rose from his back, far too short to aerodynamically justify flight. No—my lips twitched down. The wings weren't coming from his back, but a cloak of feathers. A magic artifact. The wings snapped once, and the Raven Reaper blurred across the deck. I flinched, expecting him to go high, but he shot low, inches off the ground. I barely managed to spring back as he buried his hand sickle into the ground.

The anchor jerked him in a tight circle as another crescent blade flashed in his hand, cutting the air where my knees should have been. In the air, my clarity sharpened, and I drew one of my pistols, painting him in its trajectory cone. He rolled, short wings pumping once, then streaked away as my pistol discharged into the deck. I landed, dropping the pistol just as the Raven Reaper's wings beat again and he shot at me. My blade came up.

I didn't evade this time but parried the first sickle, the sting of force shocking my arm. His off-hand darted forward, and I shifted my weight, catching his wrist. I snarled, sweeping and borrowing his momentum as I jerked him down. Twisting in the air, his wings pumped once more before he could hit the ground, and he launched at me, both boots taking me in the chest. I flew, breath blasting from my lungs as I spilled in a pile of elbows and knees. Groaning, I scrambled to my feet, panting heavily.

The assassin stalked toward me, slow, like a panther to its cornered prey. I jerked my wrist across my brow, wiping sweat away. A trajectory path sliced toward me as he hurled one of the sickles. Without Trajectory Read, I would have lost more than an inch of hair as I lunged to the side. The crescent blade scythed away, out into the night air. The black-clad Assassin's beak mask dipped, and he made a fist. A golden spectral thread winked into existence, trailing a line past my shoulder out to the spinning sickle.

The golden line pulled tight, whipping the blade back toward me from behind. I recoiled as the Raven Reaper hurled his other sickle. Trajectory cones showed me exactly how I was supposed to die—the blade from the front hewing my knees while the sickle from behind took off my head. My Aerial Combatant feat triggered. I yelped as I jumped, corkscrewing laterally. The steel crescents sliced space above and below as I unwound, landing hard and stumbling. Enjoying this book?

Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. He caught the off blade, primary hand now empty. My second pistol was out in a moment, trained on the Raven Reaper. His empty hand flexed, and a gold thread shot past me. My eyes widened as the second blade's trajectory cone shot through my chest. I lunged—too slow. Razor steel clipped my shoulder, blood trailing the glint of metal as the sickle snapped back into the assassin's grasp.

I jerked my pistol up again, wet pain in my shoulder making it tremble in my hand. His wings pumped, and he shot across the deck. He didn't know. Momentum was my ally. I lined up his trajectory cone with that of my pistol, leading his movement. Pistolfire flashed, and he jerked as my bullet impacted his bicep. Thick red droplets splattered behind him, and I grinned triumphantly.

The wounded arm sheathed the blade, and in a fluid movement, he drew two vials from his belt, thumbing off the corks and tipping them back. I cursed, dropping the pistols and sprinting for the mast. I needed obstacles, anything to obstruct his speed bursts. The pain in my shoulder flared. I could pull my gunbelt from my inventory and get a health potion of my own, but that would expose me as a Cousin.

A trajectory cone snaked around the mast, and I threw myself aside, hacking down just as he blurred around the pole. His eyes widened, a barely audible gasp escaping him as my steel cleaved down. He jerked to a stop, catching my saber between crossed sickles, binding it in place. I owed him a boot, so I gave it to him, square in the chest. He stumbled back, and I sprang forward, windmill form strikes cycling down on him. I didn't empower the attacks, didn't infuse them with my mana.

Once he saw the tracks of system light, I'd blow my cover. I snarled, driving him back. He reeled, teeth clenching in concentration. So long as I could keep his feet planted, I could leverage my reach— He launched upward before snapping down behind me. I read his path, spinning and sweeping both sickles aside before striking with a left cross. My fist connected with his chin, staggering him. Bloody teeth flashed as his lips curled back. He sheathed a sickle, striking down hard with the other.

I caught it on a parry, steel screaming against steel. Then he darted in, his fist binding the front of my shirt. His wings flexed, and my eyes widened. He launched skyward, my shirt tightening and ripping me up like a harness. The deck shot away, and the assassin grinned down at me. His wings pumped again, and we shot past the crow's nest. I caught his wrist, gripping tight, and slashed at his wings. My saber sent a flurry of black feathers spiraling back to the ship, and his eyes widened.

He let me go, but I gripped his wrist tight. The wings pumped again, but we didn't climb nearly so high, or so fast. He growled, kicking down. The boot clipped my gut and threw me away. Then I was falling, back at the obsidian tower, tearing through scorching winds—No, not physically, but the same thrill shocked my blood as gravity ripped me back down. I cursed through gritted teeth. The Raven Reaper dropped parallel to me, a sickle gleaming in either hand.

He'd obviously wanted to swoop in and end me while I was falling, but I locked my gaze on his, wind ripping at my shirt and hair. His lips twitched, and he didn't commit. I couldn't blame him; in his place, I'd be confused if my opponent was sharper in freefall. The deck rushed up at me with bone-crushing force. My hand snapped out, snatching a shroud line under tension. The friction seared my hand, and I just about dislocated my shoulder as my weight jerked. It was too much.

My fingers popped off the rope, and I crashed to the deck in a heap. I gasped, scrambling to my knees, but pain shocked my joints. I scanned the darkness, locking onto his trajectory cone as he streaked down at me. Our blades shrieked, casting sparks in the dark, and he tumbled away. The force threw me back, my head cracking against the mast. I shook my head, blinking stars. A corrective beat of the wings later, and he angled toward me again. I ducked behind the mast, trying to keep it between him and me.

Sweat slicked my brow, and I panted as I tried to stay low. Who was this guy? How did the guild get someone like him on their payroll? His sickle spun past the mast, and I yelped as I sprang back—and into his open hand. He seized my shoulder and slammed a knee into my gut. The air went out of me in a rush, and I doubled over. He grabbed the handle of his second sickle and pulled a golden line from its pommel. He looped it around my wrist, then, with a quick motion, looped it around my neck.

I gagged as the spectral filament went tight. I grabbed the wire of light and twisted my neck, popping free of the garrote. He leaped, hitting me in the chest with both boots. I hit hard, spilling into a jumbled mass. My sword and I slammed into the back bulwark, a grunt escaping me. I groaned as he rolled me to my side with a boot, my vision wavering. My saber lay just out of reach, and I lurched for it. The Raven Reaper lunged between me and it, then his knee jerked up.

My vision flashed, a numb pain blooming across my nose and teeth. I fell back, the world spinning. I crawled away.

"Wait," I gasped. Two moon blades gleamed from the shadows.

"Who are you?" I asked, desperate for a reprieve.

"Why are you here?" The blades arced, and a line of pain opened up on either forearm. I jerked my arms back with a hiss as the wet heat spread through my sleeves. I kicked, boot lashing for his ankle, but after a hop step, he weaved around it. He was back on me in an instant, the beak of his mask inches from my nose.

"Why do you need chains?" he growled, breath hot on my face.

"Maybe I'm starting a collection," I hissed. A sickle arched, and I screamed. Heat gushed down my arm, and my head twisted to find a sickle embedded three inches into my shoulder. I went numb, the sight of a foreign object buried in my flesh, making me sick to my stomach.

"The Guild has been restored," he growled.

"No outsiders." I—I was going to die. I opened my mind, preparing to summon my gunbelt. The mission was off. I'd hunt them the old-fashioned way, with Ingred and Bianca. No, I forced it down. Why was he talking? He could have executed me, which meant I still had cover. My jaw clenched.

"You'll never rebuild Madam Thornsong's legacy," I hissed.

"I will." The Raven Reaper's head ticked at the mention of her name.

"And what do you know about the Madam Mother?" he hissed. I hesitated. Why such a strong reaction?

"I know your organization is paranoid," I spat.

"They throw away tools just to preserve their secrets. Madam Thornsong knew how to use assets." His eyes narrowed behind the mask.

"Mother made her assets in-house. We never needed outside help." Wait. Mother? We? I thrust up a hand, grasping his collar and jerking it down. Buttons popped, revealing a brand on his chest—a scarred primordial designation.

"You're—one of hers," I gasped.

"From the orphanage." He was like Kerelev. A former child assassin. They probably knew each other. He twisted the sickle, and the numbness vanished, replaced by agony. I screamed.

"How can you be her legacy?" he spat, leaning close.

"You're not even one of her children." My fingers ventured forward, soft and slow.

"Kill me," I spat.

"I won't go in chains. I'm no slave, I'm a master!"

"Fine, by me," he growled.

"But first," I gasped, "A drink?" I jerked the health potion I'd lifted from his belt to my lips and pulled the cork with my teeth. Instinctively, his hand went to the vacant slot on his belt, and I dumped the potion down the hatch. My whole body buzzed, wounds rapidly weaving back into place. I flinched; it had to have been a superior health potion. The Raven Reaper's face twisted in rage, and he jerked the sickle from my shoulder.

My hand shot out, the shoulder wound buzzing with rejuvenation as I caught hold of his wrist. I punched up with the vial, clipping his temple with the glass. It didn't break. His sickle bore back down toward my throat, hook glinting light. I threw my head to the side, and the blade bit deep into the bulwark. My wounds flared in a confusing blend of pain and the buzz of cellular repair. I hammered at his head with the vial again, once, twice—it broke on the third impact, leaving me with a tube of jagged glass.

I thrust the shards at his jugular. He caught my wrist, his iron grip peeling my hand back, hyperextending the wrist. The vial tumbled from my grasp, and the sickle pressed back into my shoulder. Slowly, this time. I snarled and bucked. His hand snagged my throat, and I gagged.

"No outsiders," he growled, then he reared back.

"Reaper!" a deep voice called from behind, and he locked in place.

"I want to question this one." The assassin straightened, turning and speaking over his shoulder.

"No outsiders!" I tried to strain my neck to get a picture of who was talking, but with the Raven Reaper's hand on my throat, I couldn't move. The deep voice answered.

"No outsiders. You're correct. We'll kill him, just not yet." The Raven Reaper tensed, glaring down at me. My vision tunneled, then the pressure released. I gasped and coughed, battling the impulse to wretch. The assassin sheathed his sickles and pulled himself off me. My eyes went to my saber, discarded on the deck. It levitated into the air on some psionic tether, then it zipped over to the two newcomers standing beside my helm.

The blade glided into the grip of an old woman, bent with age, wearing a matronly smile.

"Swordsman," she remarked.

"Gave the reaper a few blows. Don't see that every day." The hulking figure at her side puffed his cigar, the orange glow flaring in his face. With a domed bowler hat tilted on his head, thick mutton chops crawled down either side of his jaw. It was an Ogre, or at least a partial Ogre. The gleam and cunning in his eyes hinted at a mixed heritage of something more than a brute. Shakily, I pulled myself to my feet.

"My thoughts exactly," he said, revealing himself as the owner of the deep voice.

"Lonnie, package him, please." The old woman hooked her fingers into a claw shape, and a psionic band wrapped around me, binding my arms to my sides. I yelped as they lifted me several inches off the deck.

"Shhh," she whispered soothingly.

"Let's get you somewhere where we can have a chat." I jerked through the air, psionic bands pulling me over to her. I locked into place a foot in front of her, the abrupt cutoff of momentum giving me whiplash.

"Shhh, shhh, shhh," she cooed, extending a long finger.

"Sleep now." Her nail touched my forehead, and I slumped unconscious. <<Time to Seal Collapse: 04: 00: 06: 15: 15: 43>>