Thief of Destiny: The Collected Saga of the Panther Read online

  "Will you return?" Magera asked from the doorway, her hourglass outline cut by the re-lit lamps.

  "When the sun rises, perhaps," he said, bending down to tighten the leather thongs of his worn sandals. "Other than that, I don't know. If I can I will, after I find Cleon. If not..."

  "Let us pretend things will turn out better."

  Manwe nodded and started off over the rubble, headed northward to where the stones had not yet fallen. Near the midway point up to the next level of the city, a terrace of streets and housing before the famous Merchants’ Row, a high mound of broken walls had fallen atop of each other like a pile of boards. Climbing to the top of the ruin, he wheeled in place, allowing a moment of careful study of what the Gypians had made of Tolivius.

  As he expected, the southern quarter had been demolished, and even past the fire and carnage he could make out the Gypian camps to the southeast, a surprise force none had expected in the wake of the first loss the west had suffered against Kosey's Juutans and Voduni Calla's undead. Guessing when this second army had arrived was pointless, so Manwe set his attention to what mattered. From his place in the central temple districts, large swaths of the western, northern, and eastern city stood, plenty of territory for the dead to gather and the reavers to reorganize.

  He knew what lay in a rebel's heart. For Manwe, no victory would have been sweeter than to have pillaged Merchants’ Row, sacking manor after palatial manor. Skirting past broken buildings and crushed roads, he kept his ears perked as he reached the broken line where the destruction ended, not far from the still-pristine avenues of the wealthy.

  He heard laughter in the abandoned streets. Carrying on as if the entire world was theirs, the reavers burst out of the gates of one high-gilt manor Manwe passed, loaded with armfuls of treasure, cloth, and spoil. Many of them had gone unwashed over the last few days, mired head to toe in blood and dirt, but for all the physical signs of war Manwe expected, they seemed listless, miming joy as they pillaged. Dumping their gains on the grass where the finer things were sometimes broken, sometimes ruined, they re-entered the house, not content in what they had taken. Manwe watched them through the gapes in the manor's iron fence. He counted seven from the first second he laid eyes on his prey. Two fighters more came out later, making it nine.

  Sneaking along the fence, he turned into the open gateway and darted for the first line of manicured bushes inside the perimeter. Manwe worked his way around the lawn and gardens, on the lookout for an entrance before he spotted an open balcony at the northwestern corner of the house.

  He sprinted across the grass. Like a great jungle cat, he sprang onto the wall, his arms wrapped around a corner column. He shimmied up its length and found finger holds in the pale facade, enough to climb higher toward the balcony. Moments later, he dragged himself over the fence, landing on the tiled platform in a crouched position. The two doors to the chamber beyond had been shut, locked by a simple latch inside the gap. Using his knife, Manwe levered it open and entered.

  The bedroom had been torn apart, the feathers of a fine mattress spread about like the snow Manwe had heard of on his dusty savannah, but never seen, though he surmised that it looked much the same. The walls were streaked with sword-slashes, spear-holes, marks left behind by the reavers who had come, looted, and then ransacked for no reason other than the opportunity to do so.

  The door had been left open, and through its crack seeped a small bit of orange light.

  Soft-stepping to the door, Manwe looked through, spying an empty hall but not the origin of the rosy light. Opening it a bit more, he slid through the space he created and stopped, his ears keyed for any human sound. To his right, down the passage, a fire still out of sight painted the walls red. A shadow crawled across the floor, the singular shape of a man.

  Manwe skirted to the threshold.

  In the next room sat a lone figure facing the small blaze. His spear and hide shield on the ground beside him, a sack of loot lay against the wall near a window that overlooked Tolivius' smoking ruins to the south. Shoulders sagged, the reaver hung his head.

  Silent, Manwe crawled behind his target. Rearing up, he grabbed the man's head with his left while pressing his knife into the right side of his neck. "Shout and I will kill you."

  The captured reaver shuddered. "…Manwe?"

  That voice, too high for a man's, made Manwe pause. Moving around his hostage, he looked upon the illuminated face and gasped. "Kaarle?"

  Tears ran black paths on the young rebel's face, which scrunched as he froze in Manwe's clutches. "Are you a spirit come to claim me? Has the Mother sent you to collect the debt of my evils?"

  Manwe's knife clattered on the floor when he took his friend in his arms. He shushed him, eyes to the hallway from where he had first entered. Fixed on how exposed he made himself, he patted Kaarle on the back of his woolen hair, speaking in low, soothing tones. "Where is the voduni, Kaarle? Where can I find him?"

  "Voduni Calla?" Kaarle sniffled his despair.

  "Tell me, boy. If you ever want to make right what you've done, you'll tell me now."

  "He went north, to where the lords he once served lived. Kosey is with him." Speaking in a slow, hollow tone, Kaarle did not take his wet eyes from the fire, too haggard to break his listless gaze. "They told us to do whatever we wanted. They didn't care if we ran, or stayed, or lived, or..." He clenched them shut.

  Manwe released his embrace. "Do you really wish to make amends, little brother?"

  Kaarle looked his way. "Yes," he said without hesitation. "More than anything, yes."

  "Then run." He bore the seriousness of his order in his eyes and voice, a forceful bass that inflected every word. "Run south, to the Gypians. They may imprison you, they may kill you, but run to them. Tell them that the dread priest that raised the dead lies in the north of the city. Tell them to rain their artillery there at dawn." Manwe paused at the next order, blinking his doubt before he steeled himself. "Tell the Gypians to level it."

  "Where will you be?" Kaarle asked, his full lips parted in confusion. "What will you be, Manwe?"

  "It doesn't—"

  "There!" Standing in the hall's threshold, a reaver pointed out the pair with his spear to his six brothers and sisters, who crowded the passage.

  Manwe yanked Kaarle to his feet by the back of his neck, pushing him toward the window of the room. "Go!" He charged without checking to see which way the boy ran, letting his knife lead him to the enemy before the seven reavers flowed from the hall.

  Manwe met the first attacker, dodging past his spear thrust with a flourish that brought his knife to the man's throat. The artery severed, blood fanned in a gory mess. Turning in time to deflect a sword blow with the spine of his blade, Manwe skipped to the left to let a third reaver run into the second man. Tangled together, they were helpless as he jabbed at their faces, leaving them blinded.

  The final four, momentarily startled by Manwe's viciousness, attacked in concert, prodding at him to create room to defend their wounded comrades. Slashing wildly, Manwe wheeled backward, avoiding the longer reach. He screamed when one of the barbs entered his side, a shallow puncture that upset his balance enough to send him careening into a wall.

  His knife pinned at his side, Manwe threw himself back hard, causing two of the spear-wielders to miss what would have been mortal blows. The iron heads buried into the smooth plaster. Manwe sneered at them, the pain of his wound radiating as he pounced on one of the reavers that failed to dislodge her spear from the wall. Snapping his forearm down on the shaft in the woman's hands, he broke off the head and backhanded her. Reeling, she crashed into the two fighters who had joined her attack, a disruption that allowed him space to pull the broken piece free. He swung out, the sharpened head of the spear tearing a reaver’s chest apart. Following up with his knife, he penetrated the lioness he had disarmed in the heart, lodging his blade in her ribs.

  The last of the trio swung his sword. Manwe brought up his broken spear in both hands to catch the
edge on small section of wooden pole afforded to him. The blow tore it from his hands, but he lunged, tackling the swordsman to the ground where he battered him until the man stilled.

  Quiet took the room. Hot blood smeared the floor, puddles that streaked where two of the reavers writhed, caught in the agony a sharp knife had made of their faces.

  His side wet, Manwe pawed the cold spot to the right of his stomach, wincing each time his sticky fingers touched its raw borders. A flesh wound at best, he ignored the fire it made when he breathed, looking instead for the body of the woman where he sheathed his knife. He yanked it free with a gross sound, like a fruit being squeezed.

  On both knees, Manwe brought himself to his right foot first, then the left, before he pushed to a standing position. Guts turned at sudden movement, making him grip the nearest wall for support. He looked up when his stomach calmed, glad to see Kaarle had escaped.

  Fulfilled by that fact, he focused on his final two victims, eager finish what he started.

  Blood spotted the stone in his wake.

  What had started as a small drizzle ebbed to a dried crust, a jagged set of tributaries for a shallow river of crimson, now flaking away from his black skin in shreds. The pain, dull and warm, stung where it once burned, allowing Manwe the ability to walk upright. Somewhere near the edge of Merchants’ Row and the rolling hills where the lords of Tolivius built their great houses, he pilfered a healer's shop, helping himself to clean bandages and a concoction of herbs he stuffed into the hole with wheezing grunts. It was enough to do the work needed.

  The smoke off the south dissipated during his trek into the uplands, revealing an ocean of bright, cold lights that seemed to go on forever and ever. The sight of these stars summoned a small sense of peace, a final respite before the cruelty of fate hammered him like a piece of ore struck between the bludgeon and its anvil.

  Manwe wondered as he wandered the paved streets, drifting by abandoned mansions that not long ago would have drawn his attention, targets of wealth and promise. He gave all that wealth, all those jewels, those coins, those prizes—he had given them away for something he believed.

  All people, light or dark, man, woman, or in-between—they deserved the freedom of the earth, the great Mother from where life sprang like a joyous child, innocent in temperament before it discovered the dangers of itself.

  Why had he done what he had done?

  For love?

  He had loved Toba, his passions, the need for a freedom. Such an idea that had been unthinkable until it was whispered beneath the sheets of their bed, a conspiracy that inflamed a patriotism he never expected to find.

  Manwe wished he was back at his jackalberry tree, among the groves of umber thorns, the glistening pools of clean water that fed the herds of buffalo, zebras, even the lions and jackals.

  Back where things had been simple. Steal here, eat there, sleep wherever. Live and let live.

  The smell found him first—the sick of death and dying. It glommed the humid air of the post-midnight world. His left hand unconsciously went to his wound, worried the disease carried by the wind might somehow seep, spreading a sickness. A sound came next, a low, droning note that persisted, louder and louder when, finally, he ascended for crest of the next rise and spotted something odd.

  A line of ghouls stood in the middle of the pavement, their sagging arms spread out to the sides and their heads cast back.

  Rotten maws opened to reveal their broken and tar-stained teeth as they faced south. Some wore the cracked armor they had died in, or some simply posted, pale, naked, and bloated. Clothed or not, whole or battered by whatever end they had suffered, the ghouls sang in harmony, a dread unison Manwe had never considered them capable of.

  He approached, slow at first, his knife held before him. When he neared the top of the hill, he halted again, this time startled by the appearance of a second line, then a third! Inching closer to this silent, unmoving wall, Manwe soon saw a sight both wondrous in symmetry and terrifying when he considered the sheer force of will needed to have made it.

  Multitudes.

  The word seemed so small, feeble for what Manwe wanted, but it fit for the rows upon rows upon rows of dead that dotted the northern hills, all of them holding their arms out to hug the sky. Monuments to the ruin he once wanted himself, Manwe understood the point of Voduni Calla's display as he came right to the edge of this dare, this flagrant show of defiance in the face of the Gypian Empire's artillery. In grids set upon the grass green, the sidewalks, the lawns of stately dwellings that once housed his tormentors, he laid his last line, a warning that no matter how many times the catapult battered his numbers, he would make more.

  Manwe brushed his blade against the back of a ghoul's open hand, expecting it to lash out. The dead thing, once a Juutan, simply continued to gape at the starry sky, caught in whatever twisted nightmare his master imbued.

  Ducking past the arm and slipping in the spaces between this slave and the ghoul in front of him, Manwe picked his way through the lines, holding his breath when he could to forestall his stomach's need to loosen its content. The journey, slow and arduous, placed him on the other side of the hill’s crest minutes later. He found a spot where the wind did not seep sickness, ending his dip under the arm of a slain child that had posed issues traversing.

  In the shallow valley below, where the few heads of government had claimed, lay an empty street—save for two figures. They stood in the center of the lane, facing southward. From his place from the south, southeast, Manwe knew them—Kosey and Voduni Calla surveyed their last battlefield, the place they thought the latter's magic would win the day. No dead crowded with them, leaving them exposed, unguarded, and unaware of anything other than the field before them.

  Manwe smiled at the situation. His former friend and dire enemy were perfect marks.

  Crouched behind the gates of the Senate Consul's manor, Manwe unbound the bandages around his torso, snorting as the mass of cloth he had padded over the stab wound peeled away. Satisfied at the lack of severe pain he expected when the stinking air hit it, he started to redress in the night shadows while Voduni Calla ranted on.

  "Look upon the damned, Kosey," cawed the fell priest. "Fools are the Gypians! Imperialism has made them fat and lazy. Instead of facing us on the field of battle, as any true man of Juut would, they hide behind their war machines, relying on sciences instead of faith, trickery instead of honor!"

  "Yes, voduni," replied Kosey, his words drawn in exhaustion.

  "Let the sun come, boy! We shall show them the power of our people."

  "Yes, voduni."

  Manwe grunted in dark humor as he listened to Toba's brother scrape for a madman's approval. Tying off the knot to his wrappings, he peeked past the gates, checking to make sure neither man detected his presence. Their scarred backs, bathed umber in the blue light of the stars above, they kept their vigil pointed toward Tolivius' steaming remains. Pressing to the support block of the gate's arch, Manwe shut his eyes and concentrated on his breath and the buzz running up his spine.

  At the end of it all, the fate of the savannah rested his simple thievery.

  Manwe looked at Calla's back again, focused on the skeletal bastard's thin neck. The strand of leather that held his vulture skull pendant, the bone-house for the stone that enabled his vile necromancy, sat in a heavy knot just above the first visible vertebrae. Had his victim been an innocent, Manwe would have taken care to remove the jewelry without harm—a consideration he need not pay this time. He thumbed the edge of his knife, waiting for the perfect moment.

  Time progressed in silent foreboding, weighed by a direness that dimmed the molten hunger that devoured the city below. The wind changed then, and upon its current traveled a new smell. Not the same rot Manwe had grown so used to, but an acrid scent. Was it ripped from the lines of undead that plagued the gentle slopes, or born of destruction that came with the death of any city? Confused by this sudden infusion into the warm fall night, it gave him pau
se.

  Voduni Calla spoke again. "Does it boil, Kosey?"

  "It does, voduni."

  "Good. It will be over soon, champion. You will finally reap your reward."

  "I hope so," Kosey replied.

  "Go and get the pot," Calla said gently. "Be careful not to burn yourself."

  Kosey, muscle and sinew, lumbered out of sight, leaving the voduni alone.

  Manwe began his approach, the grass beneath his feet muffling his steps. Iron-eyed, jaw firmed, he gave a quick glance to where Kosey walked. The warrior's shadow stretched long to the west, as behind the three of them the edge of night warmed, the red light of dawn welling like blood.

  The seconds slowed until finally Manwe stepped onto the white pavement, his knife raised to strike at the man who had blighted the freedom Toba gave his life for. Voduni Calla cried out, the iron blade flaying apart the nape of his neck. Manwe swung his free hand around, moving his enemy off-balance enough to catch the vulture skull as it slid down the front of his dingy black robes.

  Manwe almost laughed aloud as he darted away. The voduni screamed after him, his pained cry transformed to one of shocked outrage. Running hard down the flat street, he met the turn in the road with a hard skid. Legions of undead shuffled up the rise, their grotesque states hindering their speed, which was quickly made up by their overwhelming numbers.

  Seeing the descent choked with ghouls, as well as the hills immediately to his left and right, Manwe retreated for a moment before he ran square into Kosey's broad chest. He stumbled back from the fallen rebel leader, who carried at his side a small iron bucket of simmering tar.

  The two former friends stared hard at each other for a brief moment, exchanging relief and hatred for what fate had cast as their roles.