Bounty (5 page)

“
You don’t owe me anything,” Sethos said, but sounded a little bitter.

“
Fine. I tried. Here’s your chance to get out, then. Go.” Sounding a little bitter himself, Godren halted as if to let Seth continue on his own. Sethos stopped as well, though, and faced Godren.

“
See it’s not that easy, Godren. I threw away
my
life to see you safely out of Wingbridge, so what can I do but stick by your side? I don’t have anyone else, and I made you my responsibility that night.”

“
You did more than you ever had to, Seth. You owe me nothing. I appreciate what you did; now leave me and get out of this mess. It
is
that easy.
That
easy.”

“
I can’t accept it, Ren,” Seth said, shaking his head with a tired look in his eyes. “I can’t do it.”

They looked at one another for a few moments, eyes sharing something dire and weary, something angry and even more loyal.

“
Then I don’t want to hear about what I do to get you into trouble,” Godren said. “I’m sorry I’ve been nothing but bad luck on your shoulders, but I take no credit for binding you to my side.”

Seth didn’t reply, ducking his head in troubled, serious thought.

“
She’s slime, Seth. Just like you said. It’s going to get messy, and deep. I don’t expect you to stay.”

Thinking still, Seth shifted his stance, not speaking.

“
With crafty bargaining you get out of cold-blooded killing, but what’s the use if the alternative is maiming and paralyzing? Mastodon is where I crossed the line, Seth. There’s no going back for me. I’m caught. Sure I have hopes of breaking free – but we all realize they’re unrealistic at this point. I don’t really expect to anymore. So keep trying while you still can. You’re not as wanted as I am. You have a chance.”

Seth looked back up and met his eyes again. Godren was finished, ready to turn away as soon as he gave in. “I’m staying, Ren.”

Something in Godren’s eyes fell, but then it was replaced by hard acceptance.

“
I gave everything up to save your neck; I’m not going to have it all be for nothing. We’re in this together whether I like it or not.” Though still touched by that bitter hue, Seth’s tone was encouraging this time as well. And though Godren detested his friend’s choice at prolonging his involvement, he found his spirits lifted even as his mood felt sour.

Heading back the way they had come, Seth ended the matter with one final word in passing;

“
Let’s
hunt
some rascals.”

*

Their first orders were clear enough:

“
Purge the Ruins. I want no man, child, rat or spider walking my alleys except the ones I have cleared. Make it so, and
keep
it so.” Before they could turn from her midst to do her bidding, Mastodon held up a hand to make one more point. “Don’t waste the venom on these minor stages of the operation. Just run them out. If anyone looks particularly suspicious, you are welcome to bring them in for questioning. Disperse.”

Ossen was the first out the door, clearly the most eager about the assignment – or at least the most eager to please Mastodon. Godren was careful not to show hesitance, but he didn’t exactly charge after Ossen with wild abandon, either, battle cries echoing in his wake. He turned obediently and practiced composure, trying to keep an acceptably neutral attitude about the matter.

“
Wait a moment, Godren,” Mastodon requested coolly, stopping him once more. He looked back over his shoulder. “Tell me something, darling…how do you find my venomous method of assault?”

Sethos remained in the room in addition to Mastodon’s bidding, turning to lend Godren silent support though he stood cloaked in the shadows of the back wall.

Godren placed himself carefully while he looked for the best way to answer. “Vicious,” he said honestly. “But it’s swift, so that has to account for something.”

“
Has to?” Mastodon cocked an eyebrow at his choice of words. “Do you say that perhaps because you have not tried it out for yourself?”

“
That is not why I said it.”

“
But you haven’t tested it, have you? I’m told you have not.”

“
Who tells you these things, my lady?” Godren asked with a shake of his head, as if denying the accusation. It could have been the ghosts, or it could have been Ossen, but he wanted to know which Mastodon would claim. Would she ever make reference to the ghosts she kept?

“
It was Ossen, dear that he is.”

At that Godren found himself a little incensed, growing quickly tired of Ossen’s prying and conceited tattling. “Forgive me, madam, but how would he know?” he challenged a little tightly, meeting her eyes.
Unless you have him watching me, keeping track of my every move?

Mastodon watched him for a moment, thinking, and then her slithery lips curved into a smile. “Indeed.”

Forgetting himself in his irritation, Godren disregarded his respects and turned on his own to leave, issuing his own dismissal and striding out. Sethos was quick to follow, not keen on staying in Mastodon’s company alone, especially if Godren had just tweaked one of her nerves the wrong way.

“
You
are
aware you’ll score
major
points that way, aren’t you, Godren?”

“
Shut up, Seth.”

“
Just checking,” Sethos obliged irritably.

“
Are you armed?”

“
When am I not?”

“
Good. Let’s catch up with Ossen.”

“
Who said we have to work together–” Sethos started to complain.

“
I meant statistic-wise, before he does all the work and finds another bloody reason to tattle on us, and gets another golden pat on his pretty back.”

“
Oh.”

“
Do you want to split up too, or are you with me?” Godren asked as he strode down the dark corridor toward the Underworld’s main exit, still irritable from the exchange of words in Mastodon’s quarters.

“
Cool it, Ren; whatever you want. I can go either way.”

“
Then I’ll be fine on my own just now; I’m not feeling particularly friendly.”

“
Fine. I’ll find my own wing to purge. Good hunting, brother.”

With that, they emerged past Kane where he kept guard and went separate ways, foul moods contributing to the attitude they needed to undertake this assignment.

Godren strode through the Ruins with every intention of doing exactly what Mastodon wanted; intercepting the stray trespassers and throwing them out. He was not of a mind, just then, to procrastinate about the task’s cruelty. In the back of his mind, he wondered if it was even a good thing that Ossen was there to fray his nerves. Would his will to grit his teeth and bear his own cruelty eventually collapse if he didn’t have something there to feed his anger?
Keep it coming, foe,
he thought.
Give me every good reason you can to take you out in the end.

As Godren set his mind to the task at hand, his fingers hovered next to the hilts of his sheathed knives, ready to sweep them out in an instant of need. Completely at ease with the prospect of having to use them, he was not taut – just poised. He had developed an intimidating sense of confidence in his ability very quickly upon taking to the streets, finding a comforting ally of dependence in his quick reflexes. Accuracy had been honed with a bit of time, but now graced him with a finesse that eased the tension ever-present with the feeling of an exposed back. He did not fear to walk alone through streets crawling with backstabbers now – a prospect both comforting and disconcerting in itself. His position was a sour thing to maintain; reduced to dishonorable pride, he had to keep reminding himself that it was just an image – never mind that he was good at these things, never mind that the respect he had earned was
well
-earned. It was still just an image. A mask. A mask that was beginning to scar his face admittedly, but he could still claw it away if he needed to, if the course of his life would ever give him a chance. Maybe he could just find a way to take it off for a little while – that was what he needed. To step outside of what things had become and masquerade as himself, where no one knew his face. Unlikely
that
sort of opportunity would jump readily out at him, but surely there was somewhere he could go…

He was distracted from his plans as his first victim became evident; an old man slouched against the base of the alley wall came into view through the darkness, half-hidden beneath a nest of garbage he was using to stave off the cold.

Godren kicked the garbage off, winning the man’s wide-eyed, hare-like attention. “Up and out, old man,” he ordered. “Don’t seek shelter here.”

The homeless old codger stammered some toothless protest, but Godren hauled him to his feet and sent him packing, merciless in the driving shadow of Mastodon’s bidding. Slamming his guilt aside, he turned from the deed and moved on toward the next. This was the easy part, he told himself; he would do well to get used to it.

His next encounter was with a scrawny urchin, a flighty boy who launched to his crudely-slippered feet the moment he saw Godren coming and took off down the alley. Godren was not about to let him off so easily, though, actually partial to the idea of drilling fear of this place into the young boy’s head. His kind had no business here, and it would be in his best interests to stay far away.

He pursued the boy, gaining swiftly on him even though his quarry darted elusively this way and that, well adept at using his small size to evasive advantage. A trip on his part was what ultimately allowed Godren to reach his side, and Godren dragged him to his scrambling feet.

“
That’s it, boy,” he encouraged threateningly. “You run. You run fast and hard, and get as far away as your blistered feet can carry you. And if I ever catch you feeding off the Ruins again, I’ll wring your scrawny little neck.” He pushed the boy away so forcefully that he stumbled and nearly fell again, but righted his teetering stance and fled anew with all the spooked obedience in his little heart.

Watching after him, Godren let out a breath, his cruel manner draining with it. He felt low, suddenly void of the supportive attitude Ossen’s spitefulness had provoked within him. What was he doing? Where would this corrupt undertaking end?

“
Feelin’ good about yerself?” inquired a mocking voice behind him, bringing him around to regard the sudden speaker. An old crone lounged in her own garbage nest at the edge of the street, same as the old man Godren had chased away. But he did not remember passing her, could have sworn she hadn’t been there a second ago. Through the dark, her old eyes were sharp, penetrating blue circles, beady little daggers framed by fanning spreads of veins and wrinkles. Godren found himself caught off his guard by her presence as much as her question, and did not know how to answer.

“
What’s become o’ you, deary? Sweet thing?” continued the crone. “I ’ope ye think ye’re makin’ yer dead father proud. A god ye are, after all. But terrible black shame, it is. Fine lad like yerself, not a mean bone in yer handsome body, reduced to threatenin’ poor children on their bony last legs? Or per’aps you take foul pleasure in it? Who put a cork in
yer
fine destiny, diverting the current so twistedly? A beastly sort of a god now, aren’t you?”

Mastering himself, Godren ignored her odd questions and remarks. “You’re not welcome any more than he is, crone. Clear out.”

She cackled. Godren felt a wariness stir inside him at that uncanny reaction. He stood at his distance, waiting for her to quiet.

“
Can’t clear out,” she said, smiling. Surprisingly, she had all her teeth. Casting aside a large sack she was using to fend off the chill, she bared a concealed wooden leg. “Been ’ere fer years, deary, since the war. Pickin’ spiders off the ground as they pass, breakfast, lunch an’ supper. Gettin’ their spindly legs stuck between my teeth. Drinkin’ only when it rains, oily wine from th’ dirty sky. Oh no, I never leave. Never. Not in a thousan’ years. Can’t make me. Can’t make me, silly god.”

“
I’m not a god,” Godren said, unnerved by the strange term she kept using.

“
It’s yer
name
,” she corrected, and then cackled at him like she thought he was silly.

“
I’ve no time for your nonsense, crone. I’ll throw you out myself if you don’t find it in you to take yourself.”

“
Mark me words,” she threatened, suddenly very serious, “Ye lay one finger on me, an’ I’ll break every bone in yer body.” Her eyes had gone narrow and chilling, daring him to try something,
any
thing. What he found disturbing was that he truly felt something wary respond in his gut. But he was not going to be dissuaded by a crippled old woman.

“
Get out, madam,” he said very evenly. “Right now.” And he bent to place a hand around her arm.

With a bloodcurdling, wordless cry, the woman launched herself at him from her idle position, sending the scraps of her nest strewing. Only after she attacked did Godren note that her thin arm was not equally frail and sagging in his grip, but tight and well-muscled beneath her baggy, tattered sleeves. Cursing, he threw up his guard and tried to dodge out of her range, but she clawed at him like a feral creature and sank her teeth into his arm before he could manage it. She was still much lighter than he, though, and he quickly found a dominant stance. Throwing her aside off his arm, he drew a knife in each hand while she was picking her crumpled form up off the alley floor. Against his expectations – not to mention the probability of an injury – the crone appeared to have avoided acquiring any such discrepancy from the impact of her flight.