Pepper / INK /

Reaper and Bran

Mar’quan Jones was hitchhiking back to Cold Iron Alhadid Albarid, as it used to be called. He was very nearly mid-way between the two cities, out in the no-man’s land that was supposed to belong to the Inkwalker, but there hadn’t been an Inkwalker homestead in a hundred years. Not since the Emmett estate had been destroyed in a freak storm. Some still said this place was haunted but he didn’t believe in ghosts. Or at least he told himself he didn’t. He hated having to stay near the road, but he also knew that away from the road, there was nothing but desolate land that could lead you in never-ending circles.

The landscape dwindled off into desert away from the Oasis that was the main city. What little water there was was collected in the cities and used for plants and trees to feed the populations. Occasionally convoys would be dispatched to the ruins of the other Haven cities to see if there was anything they could gather, or any hapless soul who had happened to wander into the ruins looking for shelter.

Mar’Quan had had a spell of bad luck and wanted to get out of the city as fast as he could, but his car was unavailable. So, he left as fast as he could. And the fastest way was to hitch a ride. His previous ride had taken him out this far, to the six-mile marker. The Edge of the homestead. Most people would not carry a human past this marker, and he had to cross the area of the homestead into Cold Iron territory before he could get another ride. He could barely remember the days, as a child when there would be magic conveyances everywhere, back then getting a ride was easy. When there were other cities to go to. Now, the road was just a desolate stretch of pavement leading out to the others spokes, this spoke ended in a city, while others just had the small cog-wheel sign that proclaimed the road was closed. Most of the ruins were hidden with spells, Glams they were called. Made to look like desolate wasteland instead of the eerie ruin no one could explain. Some of the cities were ruins, others were simply gone.

He saw the man standing beside the road, or at least he thought it was a man. He was dressed in the tunic and robe of a Lunar. The fabric was heavy brocade, and no one was sure how they could wear it in the heat. But this figure just seemed to stand, with his back to Mar’Quan. His shoulder blades seemed to poke through the fabric as if he was very malnourished.

"Hey, you ok?" He was worried because he didn’t see a water skin or traveling cloak.

A car passed between them, raising dust and fumes. Real cars had once been unusual but with the energy shortage there were much fewer conveyances and much more fuel vehicles. The car was only between them for a moment but it still obscured the figure, and when the car had passed, the man was standing in front of him. Only now he could see that it wasn’t a man. It was the Grim Reaper.

On closer inspection, the robe was ink black, and in his hand was not a staff but a scythe. And now that he was turned the other way, facing Mar’quan, the man could see that there was a bird on the shoulder. He didn’t remember much about lore, but knew this was not good. The crow squawked at him as if to chide him, and the noise made him shiver. The bird turned its head to stare at Mar’Quan and it sent even more of a chill through him than the grim reaper.

"You have been judged." Said the Grim Reaper without preamble. If Olum’s voice was nails on slate, and the sound of a thousand voices in despair Azrail’s voice was this and more. There was no anger, no fear, it was just cold and dispassionate, sharp as the scythe in his hand and broken like the ruins of the buildings. The figure spoke, or perhaps it was that he was merely translating what the bird had said. His face shrouded by the deep dark hood, but two glowing red eyes were all that was visible from underneath it.

Mar’Quan wanted to run. But something about the figure kept him there. Maybe it was the fact that it was Death. Maybe it was simply the memory of the fact that he had moved across the street in the blink of an eye. Maybe it was that the legends were real, and his brain hadn’t yet caught up with him. Whatever it was, Mar’quan stood still as a statue, hardly daring to breathe.

Death leaned on the scythe as if it were a walking stick and spoke conversationally even if his voice was cracked and creaky. "You dabbled in what you knew you shouldn’t. And men and women and children died because of you."

Mar’Quan dropped his head, he knew. He had known when he started. He knew there was danger, that by virtue of what he was doing, people could die. He didn’t know he was selling to terrorists. Presidium outcasts, out to purify the world to become worthy of the city that cast them out.

"Will you stand for judgement?"

He nodded. What else was he supposed to do? The Inkwalker had found him out here, six miles from the next city, and in the blazing sun.

Mar’quan didn’t even try to argue, he knew exactly what he was running from, and now, death had found him. It may not have been his intention but he was dealing weapons people were going to die, that was a given. A bony hand reached out to touch his shoulder.

"Twenty-one people died, and that is your fate. Twenty-one lives, twenty-one deaths will plague you in the night. And in twenty-one days, they will find you, on the ground they walked, they will find you. But, I am not entirely without compassion, if you should throw yourself on the mercy of the police, or the Prince of the City, and they should pronounce judgement on you before that time, my scythe shall pass you by and you will live."

The courts were supposed to work with the Inkwalker but they had gotten corrupted long ago. Letting men off for crimes like this with just a fine and no trial. If they were going to get a short sentence they should at least go to trial to see what sort of men they were. But since the new police chief was installed, and since the mayor’s near miss with an assassin, things had become a lot less friendly to the Inkwalker, and to magic in general.

The pain and heat from Death’s hand spread to the back, and Mar’quan screamed. "Run to The city of the Moon, run to Jessie and Max, they need to understand." The pain eased and death stepped back. "The city of Cold Iron is Anathema to you. The closer you get, the more pain you will be in. For you do not need the help they can give you, not if you want to get the blood off your hands."

A moment later, Death was across the street again, something moved in the wilderness, and Mar’quan looked, when he looked back at where death had been, there was nothing. And it was a moment later that Cold Iron PD picked him up. Death had stopped him at the edge of the city limit, but still a mile or so from the city proper, owned by a family called Emmett, it had been desolate for ages.

They put him in the car, and no sooner had they passed the marker with the car than he began to scream and bang against the partition, screaming that he had to go back, that he couldn’t be in Cold Iron.

Eventually he went silent, and he woke up in his cell, screaming that he had to go back to Megapolis, that he had to find Max and Jessie, and that Death knew his name. Neither of them thought about what had been said, not until they saw the figure standing in front of the cell.

#

If anyone had looked closely, they would have understood that this was not Olum, Olum was the small death’s head, it could not walk without the Inkwalker. This was Azrail, Death, the great protector of the Inkwalker, and second of the Inkwalker Trinity on his chest.

He could not approach the cog-bound directly, not with the spells used against them. And not with the Necromancer that shadowed them. So he had to try a gambit like this.

Azrail was closer to being Inkaru’s true form than any other tattoo there was. It was Azrail, the messenger of death, that protected him from dead-walking. From the Becomers and the Risen that plagued the streets, and it was he, with a touch of his scythe who could put them down forever. But it was also he who could kill the Walker where he stood.

But on times like this, he had to be careful about touching people, for he was the Angel of Death, it was his job to kill and make sure they stayed dead. But it didn’t mean he couldn’t scare them. They were protected, they wore the Lily. And that alone protected them from him.

Bran squawked, bringing his thoughts back to where they were. As Ink he could stand and not be seen by any man, which was how he was here watching his prey to make sure the message was passed on. He petted the bird, it was ink, so his power was useless against it. "It’s ok, I know you are worried, but it will work." Death smiled, "It has to work."

;>;;>;;>;;

Next Chapter: 14 Days