Death Dealer

I met him the day he killed his wife. Her blood was still warm in her flesh. Not three miles from his home, he'd been running, afraid of her body being found, when the ground in front of his headlong flight betrayed him, giving way and collapsing, sending him crashing with the detritus into a small cave.

Groaning, he held his ankle, twisted in his tumble, as he sat up and took in the dark underground interior of the cave. His eyes stopped on a spear leaning against the stone wall. Had his fall taken him three feet to the right, it would have impaled him on the bronze tip.

The shaft was simple wood at first glance. A closer look revealed sinuous lines dug into its surface. Jagged. Done in anger.

"Hello," it said to him. In him. In his mind. It spoke. He told me later he thought he had gone insane.

He didn't move. A frightened animal. Prey. If he didn't move, the danger might not see him. But it did. It saw all the way into him.

"I can save you from them," it cooed. Silk passing over sand. "They won't believe you. They won't think she deserved it. But I know."

He gulped. Fear shone in his eyes, terror written in the white shining in the dark. His eyes jerked to the hole above him, then back to the spear.

"How? How can you save me?" He thought he already knew. The point was sharp. Its purpose clear.

"I bring many answers. I hold many forms. I have many names." It oozed into the crevices of his doubts. "I can hide you. I can convince them. I can make them pay. Bring me close. I can bring you whatever you desire."

His breath came in ragged pulses.

A jangle of harness and thump of hooves ripped away the silence. The fool hadn't bothered to hide his trail. He'd struck her in anger and the taste of his release broke him and his rage ended her. He'd left her there, blood pooling on stone, fire dying in hearth, her twitching, boots scratching on stone. It all cooled and stilled and he ran in fear.

"There!", a cry from the woods above. A rider thundered up to the hole, flying from the saddle and stared straight into the opening. Straight into the man's eyes.

The rider cursed, and left.

"Nothing down there. Dammit!"

Horses went away. The man's eyes went back to the spear. His hand reached out and grasped the black shaft.

"Yes," came it's sonorous voice slick in his head, "I hid you. I saved you. Together, we can do so many things. I can give you so many things. I am your salvation."

"How? How did you do it? Why didn't he see me?", he asked, fingers following the hateful etchings, eyes drinking the edges of the spear head, point sharp enough to pierce reality.

"I gave him what he wanted. I held his fear. He is angry at you. Afraid he will not get his revenge. I allowed his fear to be his truth."

The man held the spear now in both hands. In his heart. This was his salvation.

"What do we do now?", he asked. "I don't know if I can climb out of here."

He looked up at the hole to the sky. The tree branches avoided the space, like fingers splayed over a fire, wanting warmth but afraid of being burned. You could almost see the line, the arc, as if something fell from the sky, plummeting and breaking, crashing through the ground as he had, coming to a restless stop in this hollow, this hole.

"Your ankle is fine."

He felt it, wiggling his foot, surprised to find it true.

"You can climb out. I will help. I will always help", its words dripped with reassurance. He was easy. He desired this salvation.

He stood gingerly, testing the ankle, using the spear to lift himself, there was no pain, only strength. He laughed.

Climbing out revealed his weaknesses further. There were handholds and grips in the stone, and his mind couldn't fathom them. What few he found, slipped from his grasp when he attempted to haul himself up even meager distances.

He slumped to the ground, resting his back against the dirt. He gasped great breaths. Spent.

"I can't do it", he said with dejection.

"I can give you the strength. I can bring you to safety."

He perked up. "How? Do it!"

A spasm wracked his body, folding him into the dirt. He kicked twice and cried out. Then, unmoving, began his panting again.

"Climb again. You will see."

A few moments more he lay, his eyes pinched. Slowly he unfurled, and stood with vigor, surprise evident on his features. His hunger leaking into his grin.

The spear grasped in his hand, he vaulted up the walls. At the top, he rolled out and lay on his back, laughing. The woods held silence as he cackled.

He sighed, deep and long, and rose, hefting the spear. It was beautiful in the sunlight. No sign of wear or age touched its surface. His gaze took in the forest around him, longing pulling at his brow as his eyeline pointed toward home. There would never be respite there, never again, never before. He walked in a different direction.

He revelled in his newfound strength. Flexing muscles he'd never known, breaking branches with childish glee, leaping up and off stumps. His cackling returned.

Mid-cackle his body rocked again. He collapsed, heels scraping jagged angry lines in the dirt, no cries escaped his clenched jaw.

When the fit passed and he recovered his hand caught his attention. He held it in front of his face, against the dappled sunlight of the forest canopy. The thing was withered and spotted, he held up an old man's hand, unrecognizable as his own.

"There must always be a payment," came unbidden to his ear.

"You did this to me?!", squeaked from his lips.

"I gave you what you desired. You paid the price." It's oily voice slipped through his skull.

At that moment, his stomach entered the conversation, aggressively and loudly. He ignored it, thinking for the first time today. "Is the price fully paid?", he asked.

"I have taken what I must."

"And will you take no more without my say?", his greed understood a price.

"I will take no more without your bidding."

He sighed, unrest evident in its length.

"I'm starving." He looked toward home again. Toward the one who would never make his meals again. "Can you bring me food? Clothes?"

"For a price."

He stayed silent, weighing his hunger against the prices he had already paid. Grumbling, he rose, carrying the cursed thing into the woods.

---

Some time later, his discomfort grown, he heard laughter through the trees. A short barking and a longer tittering following after.

Moving in the direction brought the smell of woodsmoke to his nose. And other smells that drew his hunger to the surface.

Through bramble was a camp. Two men sat, a fire crackling between them, sausages on sticks held to the flame.

He licked his lips. The heavenly smell of roasting flesh permeated his sensations. He leaned forward, hand on branch, absorbed in his hunger.

The branch snapped, dumping him face first onto the forest floor.

The men jumped, one scrambled across the dirt, the other leaping to his feet, long legs and arms lashing and snapping, unfurling his frightened bulk. The scrambling titterer faced the noise with a large knife. The barker held a large stick.

Our intrepid fool spoke up, voice shaking. A murder and a coward.

"H...hello! I mean no harm. I was passing through and heard a happy fire, and smelled welcoming sausages."

He rushed his words, his fear powered his voice. Scrambling to his feet, they should have killed him, but they were not much brighter than he.

The bulky long one straightened. A man of opportunity, he asked "Got anything in trade?"

The spear was set aside, ever the fool, hand patted his pockets. Out came a broach, costume jewelry, no one of wisdom would find value in it. No one of wisdom stood in this clearing. He had grabbed it off her body in haste, knowing what it was. He had paid for it. She had purchased it. He hoped to swindle someone with it. A sausage was a chance.

"Two sausages!", he said, gambling.

The one with greedy eyes jumped up from the forest floor, leaning forward, licking his lips. "Toss it over."

"Two sausages?", came the reply.

Lip licker brandished his knife. "Probably."

'Probably' seemed enough at knife point. The broach flew, flashing reflected sunlight, the shine bright in the dark forest. It was pocketed at the end of its arc, hiding the object alien to the woods before eyes could see it and regret. The knife followed, and grins spread on three faces, the trade complete. The best kind. Both parties happy. Both parties swindled.

Arms spread as wide as smiles, teeth said: "Join our table."

He entered the clearing bearing the spear. It drew their hungry eyes, something else to take, but its age pushed their hunger away, old rubbish worth nothing.

The co-conspirators say by the fire, opposite the murderer. None were great at conversation, but they tried to fill the silence.

"Where are you from?"

"Oh, round about the area. What brings you into these woods?"

"Just some errands to the next town over. Sausages seem ready."

"So they do. You first."

"No, you. I insist."

"Please, be my guest."

The large one angrily broke their sparring and took a sausage stick in hand, chomping down, grease cleaning a dirty face, running into an unruly beard.

The silence returned for a moment, then drowned in the sloppy sounds of three mouths enjoying succulent gristle and muscle and blood.

The spear leaned against the log the man sat on, its point resting near his shoulder. His eyes caught the eyeline of the man with the stick, staring at the spear, mouth unmoving, eyes glazing.

Abruptly, the eyes snapped up from the bronze head, into the eyes of its current bearer, then away, guilty. Neither said anything, but one pulled his spear closer. The others' eyes wandered to his big stick.

The minutes filled with more silence and slurping and glancing, the large man breaking into a sweat, eyes occasionally losing focus. Head listening.

He dove for the spear.

It ended as quickly. The spear-bearer tumbled backwards, razor point stabbing, another life ending.

The other man ran, knife forgotten, leaping tree and bush, bramble and brush as lithe as a deer in flight.

The spear pinned him to a tree at five-hundred paces, pin-point accuracy piercing the heart.

A third life taken.

The bearers nerve gave seconds later. He sat heavily on the forest floor, frightened eyes willing the scene undone. His stomach didn't know, grumbling at the remaining sausages. He sighed, shaking.

The shakes became spasms, his whole body twitching, kicking, flailing, crying out in pain. His wild and random movements carried him over the fire, sausages smothered in dirt and ash, smashed while he burned. His flailing eventually put out the fire on the ground and his clothes, before fading to a stop.

This time it took minutes to recover, lying in dirt and ash, groaning, the pain of the spasms replaced by burns and cuts. And hunger. It gnawed and dug, a deep hole inside him and through him.

When he could, he sat up. He dug around near the fire, pulling crushed sausages from the dirt, and shoving them into his mouth, swallowing grit and gristle as one.

He paused for a moment, staring at his arm. The spots had spread from his hands, up the arm. What little muscle he started the day with, was atrophied. His arm looked like an ancient man, decrepit.

Crawling slowly to his feet, he walked to the body of the large man. The coveter of the spear. He searched its pockets, finding as little as you would expect on a man eating sausages in the woods in the middle of the day, a man who carried a big stick. He did find another sausage under the body. It didn't sate his hunger.

The man pinned to the tree had nothing but the knife. He pocketed it and pulled out the spear, the body sliding to the ground, ignored. The spear's point glinted, the bronze unmarred by blood, bone, or wood.

He asked it, "Did you entice him?"

"I did."

"Why?"

"You both desired the sausages. I made sure only one got them."

"That's insane," he said. "I was fine sharing. I didn't want to kill them."

No response entered his brain. The spear was silent.

"Don't do that again. Don't choose for me."

"I know your desires."

"I should leave you right here."

"I know your desires."

He did not leave the spear behind.

---

Days passed wandering the woods. Nights passed in hunger, burns ached, cuts inflamed. He slept little, talked less.

Attempts were made at finding food. Animals evaded him, the spear flew weakly. He tried trading with the spear, to throw with accuracy and force, but the spear had no interest in animal flesh and death. There was no glory. No pain.

He tried berries and roots but his stomach rejected them, emptying what little he filled it with. His hunger grew until it filled him. A void. A pit that became his world.

His wanderings brought him out of the wood in a land he didn't know. Hobbling, the spear was more crutch than weapon now. In the distance, smoke rose from chimneys of a large manor house. No other movement in sight. No people in the windows, none it the fields.

Houses held food.

He crossed the fields slowly, hiding in rows of crops, dashing when he could, groaning in pain after, always toward the house, the food.

Closer to the house, music and laughter grew. Far in the distance, across more fields, a white pavilion rose. Crowds gathered under its expanse, a band played, people danced and laughed. And the house stayed empty.

His lumbering steps increased speed, taking him to the back of the manor, to a small door in a stone wall. The door opened to a dark tunnel, his steps echoing in the space. Shuffle, clunk, shuffle, clunk.

At the end of the tunnel, a long table overflowed with food. Cakes and pies and torts and tarts and meats and vegetables, roasted, seared, candied, piled, tumbling, a cornucopia, a sight, a feast for him alone.

His pain forgotten, he bolted down the rest of the hall, slamming into the table, scattering food, platters clanging. Shoving food into his face, he sprayed as much behind him and onto him as in him.

He nearly didn't hear the small gasp behind him.

Turning to his left, he made eye contact with a young servant. Her eyes were platters of fright. Meat fell from his open mouth. She bolted.

"Wait!", he screamed ineffectually and ran after her.

She knew the house, but he ran with the fervor of one with murderous rage. He caught her in the entrance hall, shoving her against a wall. She crumbled to the ground.

"Wait!", she yelled ineffectually and he stabbed her.

She cried out no more and her blood ran, rivulets following the patterns in the wooden floor.

"Lillie?", came a cry from outside. Other voices called out, closer than the pavilion.

He ran in terror back the way he had come. The house was large though, he lost his way. Shouts, angry; and screams, fearful, rang out from the entrance hall behind, and he ran harder.

A hallway led to a door which led to a lawn. He was seen, the shouts of "Stop!" and "There!" chased him.

At the end of the lawn was a garden, hedges high, blocking his path. A small stream bubbled toward an exit. He splashed into it as barking dogs rang out with shouts of hunters. The stream ran into a river, he saw his salvation in the dark water. He wanted this to end.

That is when the spasms struck.

A wordless roar broke from him as he willed them away, the strongest his mind had ever been, but it wasn't enough.

He stumbled and fell, the spear tumbled end over end, landing with a splash in the river.

It sank in the depths as the dogs caught him, tearing his flesh.

I settled into the silt at the bottom, the disturbed filth hiding my shine.

I could wait.

I have many times before.