Authors: Anthony Piers
Tags: #Magic, #Fantasy, #Urban Fantasy, #Humor, #Science Fiction
Ocean gave way to land. There was a fleeting beach, and a green shore region; then they plowed through mountains and across a desert whose sands were wrinkled into dunes like the waves of the sea, frozen in place. On south, still in hyper drive; this was a huge island—in fact, a continent!
The Death mobile stopped at last at the dead end of a dirt road in mountainous country. Four minutes remained on the timer. Where was the client?
The arrow stone for once seemed uncertain. He turned it about, and the arrow was inconsistent. In any event, there was no human habitation in sight in this wild land.
A blinking light on the dash caught his attention. It was the one with the horse head silhouette. Zane pushed it.
He was astride the great stallion, his cloak swirling in the breeze. “What next, friend steed?” he inquired.
The Death horse moved forward, galloping up the steep slope to the side. No ordinary horse could have moved this way—but of course this was a unique animal. Mortis leaped to the top of the mountain ridge, where a primitive cottage perched.
This was the place. The arrow stone had not guided him before, because he had been holding it level instead of angled. It had not been able to point upward to the cottage. The car had not driven here because no ordinary car could, and the approach of Death was always circumspect. As they traversed the somewhat harrowing slope of the mountain, Zane thought again about himself and his office. There was something about the appearance of danger, such as a possible fall, that caused him to review his most morbid thoughts. If he felt unfit for the office of Death and did not want to judge others when he knew he was no better than they were, why should he do it? If his abdication meant he would die the death he had aborted before, maybe that was proper. If he went to Hell, maybe that, too, was proper. After all, he had killed his mother; he could hardly go to join her in Heaven! The fact that he now clung to a kind of life had no relevance; it was fitting that he pay his penalty.
Yes—that was what he had to do! “I resign the office!” he cried impulsively. “Take me directly to Hell!”
Nothing happened. The horse trotted toward the cottage, ignoring Zane's outburst.
Of course. He could not blithely resign. He had to be killed by his successor, who would probably be a client like himself and who would turn on him.
Very well—he had a client coming up. He would pass the office on to that person and be done with it.
Two minutes remained as he rode up to the cottage. A woman came out to meet him. “I am ready, Death,” she said. “Lift me to your fine horse and bear me to Heaven.”
A woman! He had thought it would be a man, maybe with a gun. Would a woman as readily turn on him? She might need some convincing.
“I can not promise you Heaven,” he said. “Your soul is in virtual balance; it could go either way.”
“But I took poison so I could go at a time of my choosing!” she protested. “I've got to go to Heaven!”
“Take an antidote or an emetic quickly,” Zane urged, wondering whether this was feasible. Would he have been summoned, had demise not been certain? And how could she turn the poison she had already taken against him? This was not working out at all! “Extend your life, and we shall talk.”
The woman hesitated. “I don't know—”
“Hurry!” Zane cried, seeing his chance slip away. If she had to die, he would not leave his office this time, and might not have the courage to make the next client turn against him.
“I do have a healing potion that should neutralize it, but—”
“Take it!” he pleaded.
Dominated by his urgency, she complied, drinking the potion.
“Now find a gun or a knife,” he told her.
“What? Why should I neutralize the poison, only to use something much more messy?”
“Not for you. For me. I want you to kill me.”
She gaped at him. “I'll do no such thing! What do you think I am?”
Zane saw that this wasn't remotely feasible. Of course she was not a murderess! He dismounted, took her hand, and led her to a patio where there were chairs and a table. “Why did you want to die?” he asked.
“What do you care, Death?” she asked, wary of him but curious, too. She spoke with the strong Down under accent of this region.
“Not long ago, I sought to die,” he said. “I changed my mind when—well, that's hard to explain. Now I want to die again.”
“How can Death die even once?”
“Believe me, Death can die. It is only an office I hold, and that office can be yours if—”
“This is completely appalling!” she cried. “I'll not listen to this!”
Zane sighed. “Tell me your problem.” He knew himself to be no psychologist, but he needed to extricate himself from this awkwardness he had put himself into.
“My husband left me,” she said grimly. “After fifteen years—a younger woman—I'll show him!”
“Isn't it a sin to commit suicide, according to your religion?” he asked.
She paused, frowning. “I suppose it is, but—”
“And should you do such a thing to spite him? Why match the wrong he did you with a wrong done to yourself?”
“I am a woman,” she said with a wry smile. “I owe more to emotion than to logic.”
Zane returned her smile, showing that he appreciated her humor. No woman really thought herself illogical, however strongly she might feel, but it was fashionable to seem otherwise. “But your soul is so close to balance, the evil matching the good, that these wrongs could tip you into Hell. Do what you know is right, and your balance should favor Heaven.”
“Oh, I hadn't thought of that! I don't want to go to Hell!”
“Believe me, you stand at the very brink of it now. You have done evil before, and this—”
She sighed. “It is true. I have much evil to account for. I drove him away. I suppose you know how bitchy a woman can be when she tries.”
“Not really. I always thought of women as pristine and pure,” Zane admitted. “Most of the evil resides in men. Women should go to Heaven when they die.”
She laughed bitterly. “You idiot! There is more sin concealed in women than in men! My husband errs because it is his male nature; I, at least, should have known better. I was fooling myself when I dreamed of Heaven.”
“Not at all,” Zane said. “I didn't say you were doomed to Hell; I said you stood at the verge. Heaven is within your potential. I am sure of this. You can redeem yourself. I am in a position to know, for I collect the borderline souls. Go and do good with what remains of your life, and you will go to Heaven. This promise is surely worth some sacrifice.”
“Yes, surely it is,” she agreed. “But how is it you, the Grim Reaper, urge this course on me? If I live, doesn't that cost you points or something?”
“I don't know,” Zane admitted. “I have not held this office long. I just don't like to see a life wasted or a person damned who could be saved.”
“Yet you were asking me to kill you!”
“I see now that was wrong of me. I will make you a deal: you live, and I will live.”
She smiled more openly, looking rather pretty. “I'll do it! I don't need my husband anyway.”
Zane stood. “I regret I have other appointments. May we never meet again.” He extended his hand.
She took it, though it seemed skeletal. “This I will remember—shaking hands with Death.”
Zane laughed. “That's better than what you contemplated.”
“Also better than what you contemplated!” He nodded agreement, then returned to the horse and mounted. He waved to her as he departed.
The Deathwatch was counting down again. Only ninety seconds remained. “No time to ride down the mountain,” Zane said. “Can you take me there directly, Mortis?”
The stallion neighed, reared, and leaped into the air. Clouds raced by, and land and sea and more land. This was hyper drive! When the horse landed, they were back in America. In fact, they were in Kilvarough; he knew his home city well. Well, of course people died here as well, and some would be in near balance; no need to be surprised.
They stopped at an affluent suburban estate. A fence of iron spikes surrounded it, and two lean young griffins patrolled the grounds. They were beautiful creatures, with powerful beaks and talons and rippling muscles on their bodies. Crossbreed of eagle and lion, with certain magical endowments, yet loyal to whatever person or creature they gave their loyalty to, they were just about the best protection an estate could have. This, more than the obvious wealth of the property, impressed him with the status of its owner.
But when the creatures menaced Zane, the Death steed lifted one steel forefoot in unmistakable warning, backing them off. Few griffins feared horses, but these were smart enough to perceive that this was no ordinary horse.
Still, Zane wasn't eager to leave the protection Mortis provided while the griffins remained. But he would have to, for he was sure the horse would not enter the building. He glanced about—and spied an object strapped to the saddle. He lifted it out and found two pegs mounted on a long, curving shaft. He gripped it by these, and a massive, gleaming blade snapped out at right angles to the base. Sure enough—it was a switchblade scythe.
Zane had had only very limited experience with a scythe in a class on archaic farming and harvesting. Certain magic crops suffered heavy losses when worked by machinery, so ancient tools were still used for them, and most schools had a course or two in the application of these. So Zane knew what this was and how to swing it, but would have trouble using it as a weapon. Still, as he held it now, felt the proper heft of it and its fine balance, and eyed the deadly expanse of the blade, a certain nervous confidence suffused him. This was a magic weapon, surely; its enchantment made the wielder at least halfway competent. He believed he could use it and that its power and quality would enhance his ability. After all, the scythe was Death's traditional instrument, the grim tool of the Grim Reaper, and he was now that entity.
The horse stopped, and Zane dismounted. Yes, he was Death, standing here holding this deadly instrument. He began to believe. Perhaps he could do the job the way it should be done.
Thirty seconds remained. He strode toward the house. The two griffins spread their wings and rose up to the rampant posture, their elevated front claws springing out like narrow daggers, their beaks gleaming. A kind of screaming growl started in the two throats.
Zane drew his Death cloak close about him and lifted the scythe. The griffins reared back, wary of its terrible blade. He strode toward them, glaring through the narrow aperture of his hood.
That did it. The monsters might fear nothing living, but all creatures feared Death, if they recognized him.
As his watch signaled time, Zane walked into the main room of the house. There was an old man, seated in an easy chair.
“Stay your hand a moment, Death,” the man said. “I would converse with you.”
“I'm running late,” Zane demurred, no longer as surprised as he had first been when people saw him and addressed him directly. It was evident that anyone who really wished to could relate to him.
The man smiled. “I must advise you that I am a Magician of the thirty-second rank, whose name you would not recognize because my magic protects my anonymity. I can stay your hand—yea, even yours, Death!—for a time. But I do not seek to oppose you, only to converse a moment with you. Put away your weapon, grant me a period of your attention, and I will reciprocate with something of greater value.”
“Do you seek to bribe Death?” Zane asked, half angry and two-thirds curious. He folded the scythe and leaned it against the wall near the door. “What possible thing could you offer me?”
“I have already given you more than you can afford to know,” the Magician said. “But I will couch my offer succinctly. Stop your watch, and if after five minutes you do not wish to converse longer, I will yield you my soul with singular grace. In return, I proffer you the dominant option on the love of my daughter.”
This did not please Zane. The bitterness of his foolish loss of Angelica to the proprietor of the Mess O' Pottage shop was still fresh. “What use does Death have for any woman?” he asked.
“You remain a man, behind the Death mask. Even Death does not exist by souls alone.”
“What am I to make of a man who would prostitute his daughter to gain a few more minutes of life?” Zane asked, repelled.
“Especially one who would prostitute her to a person who killed his mother,” the Magician agreed,
Zane punched the STOP button, freezing the overextended countdown. “You have my attention, Magician,” he said between his teeth.
“I shall summon her,” the man said. He tapped one gnarled finger against the arm of his chair with a sound like the clang of a small bell.
That was not what Zane had meant, but he kept silent. The Magician was evidently a complex, knowledgeable man who had done his research on Zane's past. Why he chose to bring his daughter into it, Zane could not guess, but that was the Magician's business. Maybe the girl was so homely that no one would seek to take advantage of her anyway.
The girl entered the room. She was naked. Her hair was bound under a bathing cap; evidently she had just stepped out of an air-shower. Her body was slender and well formed, but not spectacular. She was just a normal, healthy young woman of perhaps twenty years. “What is it. Father?” she inquired, her voice gently melodious.
“I have offered your love to this person, Luna,” the Magician said, gesturing to Zane.
She glanced about, perplexed. “What person?”
“You can see him, if you try. He is the new Death.”
“Death!” she exclaimed with mild horror. “So soon?”
“He has come for me, not you, my dear, and I shall go with him shortly. But I wanted you to meet him before I gave him the love-spell with your name on it.”
She squinted, looking at Zane, beginning to see him. “But I'm not dressed!” she protested.
“Dress, then,” her father said, as if indifferent. “I wish you to make an impression on him so he will desire you.”
“As you wish, Father,” she said dutifully. “I have yet to meet the man I couldn't impress when I tried, but I doubt I have much future with the like of Death.” She turned and departed the way she had arrived, poised but still not special. It seemed to Zane that Magician and daughter both had considerable arrogance, assuming so blithely that the office holder of Death could be swayed by such obvious means.