Grudgebearer (67 page)

Torgrimm had seemed surprised, pulling his robe self-consciously close. “Add him back to you?”

“His soul, his essence,” Kholster had continued slowly and then with more confidence as the idea took shape in his thoughts. “Divide it between us so that when one Aern dies, all Aern are strengthened. In death, we will empower our brothers. In this way, those who choose death can do so with honor, knowing that their knowledge will not be lost, that they do not abandon us, and yet their suffering will still be at an end. Can that be done?”

“I believe it can. You are all linked as it is, by the Life Forge upon which you were made. . . . This does mean that some of you may die without wanting to, those whose bodies are too far gone to recover. Your bodies will no longer turn to metal, will no longer repair themselves if you die within my reach. They will remain flesh. The bones will still be metal, but the flesh will rot . . .”

“Fine,” Kholster had said brusquely with a wave of one gauntleted hand. “Do it. We are not afraid of death, merely unprepared for it.”

“Irka has one request, General.”

“What?”

“He asks that if ever there comes a time when Aern can be free not to fight . . . then he asks that you name a son after him. If you look into the metal of an unawakened Freeborn son and feel it is right, name him Irka.”

“That will never happen,” Kholster had said, laughing, “but if it does then I promise I will grant his request.”

In the present, Kholster laughed again, echolessly within the empty forge chamber. He examined the quivering shadow and drew out the spark of life that dwelled within it as he pondered his third meeting with Torgrimm, when he'd gone into the water, burning.

“Did you kill it?” asked a ghostly figure, stepping free of a wall.

“Yes, Marcus.”

The ghost of Marcus Conwrath eyed a space near the forge expectantly. With a gesture, Kholster summoned a perfect replica of Conwrath's grandmother's table and chairs.

“They don't make chairs like this in paradise.” Conwrath settled into his favorite seat and sighed contently. “Too perfect. I don't think Minapsis has the understanding of mortals her husband does.”

“A body could get lost in this place, Hundert,” said another familiar ghost as he climbed out of the forge itself, “not to mention a soul.”

“I trust you to find your way, Japesh.” Kholster smiled as Japesh settled into an empty chair across from Conwrath.

“Did I hear you say you killed that little shade?”

“Yes, I did, Japesh.”

“I thought t'other one said he weren't after slaying and such?”

“Quite clearly,” Kholster said softly, summoning food he felt the two ghosts might crave, watching it appear on the table between them, “I'm not him.”

Master?
a voice, cold, calm, and mercenary whispered in his mind, banishing the smile from Kholster's lips. It had been Torgrimm's armor, but it was truly his now that Kholster had reforged it. He had given it the only name that seemed appropriate: Harvester.

Not master
, Kholster corrected.
My name is Kholster. We work as one, not as owner and slave.

Yes
, Harvester replied.
Yes, I comprehend that, but it is not as I expected.

Few things ever are
, Kholster replied. He held out his warpick, and once again he felt the presence of the other gods. He wondered if they knew that he could do so, wondered if they realized that even they were subject to his grim harvest. He knew them with a thought. So far, only four of the gods he had pondered were exempt from his fury. Yhask, the god of the air, and Queelay, the goddess of water, rarely assumed their human aspects except when communicating to the other gods. They had rarely participated in the games the gods played with mortal souls. Jun, the great builder, had once played but had long since seen the folly of the games, actively protesting each new game . . . and of course, Kholster could find no fault with Torgrimm.

Which left the others vulnerable. Chiefmost of the offenders in Kholster's mind were Kilke, Shidarva, Dienox, and Aldo. Each one bore watching. If he relaxed and let his mind unfocus, he could sense every soul in the entire living world. He knew where they were, or, if he focused on them, could see what they were doing.

He did so, waiting for a sign of interference and concentrating his detection on the living beings with whom he felt the gods might interact. Dienox, he expected, would be first to commit an offense. One by one, Kholster would wait for them to step across the line, and he would teach them a lesson. If the lessons did not take, if they refused to relearn and to resume their proper roles, then one by one, Kholster would reap them.

“Could be war, you know?” the shade of Marcus Conwrath whispered. “Lots of killing in a war.”

“Yep. Could be war.” Japesh took a bite of his food, a comforting concoction of fruit, sugar, and day-old biscuits he called “slump.”

Kholster smiled, refreshing the tray of food on the table with a sizzling steak and skillet potatoes for Conwrath, more slump for Japesh, and a dark draught of beer for both of them.

“What war may I, who reap the gods, not wage and win?”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to my wife, Janet, for putting up with the worlds in my head and the way they overflow into discussions that she might prefer remain grounded in reality. Absent her feedback and that of our close friends Mary Ann, Karen, Dan, Rob, and Rich, I might yet be lost in a quagmire of edits.

As always, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my Mom and Dad . . . without them there would be no me. Special thanks are due to Gail Z. Martin, author of many excellent epic fantasy novels, for looking at an early draft and asking the simple question it took me hundreds of pages to answer: “Why doesn't Kholster simply break his oath?” Thanks also to my editor and friend, Lou Anders, for agreeing the world should get a chance to read this book; you should read his, too.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

J. F. Lewis is the author of The Grudgebearer Trilogy and The Void City series. Jeremy is an internationally published author and thinks it's pretty cool that his books have been translated into other languages. He doesn't eat people, but some of his characters do. After dark, he can usually be found typing into the wee hours of the morning while his wife, sons, and dog sleep soundly.

Track him down at
www.authoratlarge.com.

Photo by Janet Lewis