Chapter 3
Keenan
Bron opens his mouth, calling on vocal chords that had once been nothing more than rot, that had been rot for over a hundred years before my grandfather was even born. I wonder what he wants, this man who can kill without a moment of thought, who can kill faster than I can blink. I wonder what he wants, what a dead man wants in a world that is no longer his own.
I watch his lips form the words, treating them harshly, insistently, because there is nothing else that matters.
"Where is the Viper?"
He repeats the question.
"Where is Viper?"
And I realise that some things never change, that no matter what death does to a man, he is still the selfsame creature as drew his first breath upon this land, a matter of centuries ago.
"She died in the rain," I say, almost hypnotised, "so they buried her in the sun."
"The Cradle?" He breathes, and laughs. It is just as chilling as expected. "They actually left her in the city where magic was born. And what about me? What place is this hellhole?"
"They buried you next to the sky."
He nods once, as though thinking. But I believe he already knows where he is because his olive eyes flash darkly before he says, "Those cursed mountains," and frowns.
He isn't speaking to me, not anymore. The words are only three, but they're layered with inner meaning. And then he's done, striding past without even a second glance. I am not a short man, but I'm only just taller than his shoulder - and his reputation, and his determination, and his presence all seem to make him loom.
"Where are you going?" I ask, words so quiet they're almost a whisper.
He falters, still facing away, shoulder at my shoulder, and his feet draw to a stop. As he turns back to face me, the cloak floats out around his legs, briefly flicking across my ankle. The contact, laced as it is with his latent resurrection magic, feels... important.
"I'm going to find her," he says, as though he can't quite understand how I don't already know this.
"And then?" I ask. "What then?"
The expression almost seems to melt off his face, replaced by hatred. I'm not scared. I glower.
"I have business," he says.
"And what business is that?" I ask, anger flaring, "everyone that ever wronged you is dead. And do you know what? It made no difference. The sun continued to rise and people continued to sin."
His eyes narrow dangerously, turning to dark, green slits.
"And who are you, boy?" He growls, "To stand here at my rebirth and tell me about the way of my world."
"I'm Keenan Nottinghan," I say, "seventh generation since your death. So it's not your world: it's mine."
For just a second his lips purse, his fingers twitch. I grit my teeth.
And then he laughs.
"Do you really think I can't taste the flavour of your magic? Did you really think that I couldn't feel what I was taking as you leant over my bones? You're nothing. You've never used your magic but for a second. You're unfit, you're unpractised. You know nothing of war and so you know nothing of death. You know nothing of love, and so you know nothing of life. If this is your world, then it is a world suffocating on its own rolls of fat."
The clouds ripple over the walls of the room. I hold his gaze, telling myself that words mean nothing, that I shall not rise to his bait.
"You cannot claim to own a thing you have not earned," he says, reshuffling the cloak on his shoulders. "Now if you don't mind, child, my queen awaits."
I watch him turn, making to leave his place, this crypt and shrine, and feel the fury shudder through my body. Every muscle is knotted and I cannot seem to understand why, I cannot comprehend this kind of anger.
I feel I am disappointed to discover that all the stories were of a man, a terrible, terrible man, and not a terrible god.
"I said my name was Keenan," I repeat, speaking before I'm even aware that I've opened my mouth. "My name is Keenan Nottinghan, Noble Son, of the magnificence of the King's City, Harborne."
He pauses, back tightening.
"Your people are still dead," I say, "but mine are not. We have earned our place on this earth not through war, not through sin, nor death. We have earned this world because despite the greatest efforts of the lowest man, we continue to breathe." I smile. "Kill me, Bron Dragon-kin. It won't make a difference.”
Bron’s eyes flash, dangerously, and for a second, I genuinely believe that he will do it, that my pride has killed me. It would not be a terrible place to die, this, but I am not yet keen to accept it. I square up subconsciously, defying him despite the idiocy of it all. This is Bron, as in Bron and the Viper, the man who’s been alive less than ten minutes and already has more blood on his hands than I.
And then William’s face saves my life.
I had almost forgotten he was here, standing just out of reach, avoiding the conversation. But he steps up immediately, forcing his way into the space between us. Magic crackles, so new to this deep space, and William breathes out through his nose, a long, dominant breath, one that hovers in the moment, trapping it to his will.
I might have felt small, but not so with Will. The two men stand together, chest to chest, shoulder to shoulder, and Will holds Bron’s gaze unerringly.
“Montgomery…” Bron sighs contentedly, allowing William’s surname to slide over his lips with worrying familiarity. “You always look the same.”
Will smiles coldly, a bitter kind of satisfaction. He says nothing.
We’re too close together. I want to step away but I’m just as helpless as before, caught up in the tension. The likelihood of escaping alive just seems so slim.
“We have quite a history, your family and I,” Bron continues, when it becomes apparent that Will has no intention of replying.
“I am aware.”
Bron smiles also. His is far warmer but twice as terrifying. Bron does not smile in the stories.
“You are aware?” He laughs. It is a nice laugh. “I must have offended you, boy,” now he steps back and he does it with a flourish, all that foggy uncertainty gone. “Let me begin afresh, as I once had to do with your great grandfather also. I said it then, I’ll say it again: let us not forget that there is more to a man than what people say. It is a mistake we are all prone to making,” he winks, “especially when it comes to me.”
Bron holds up a single finger, begging for our patience as he throws his gaze casually about the room. His eyes furrow as he comes across the dead ambassador, sword still buried between his ribs. He seems to think for a second, absently rearranging his cloak with a gesture that, although small, still seems to ooze power.
“Did I kill this man?” He asks.
Will nods and Bron laughs again.
“And tell me, Montgomery, did he deserve it?”
“What does it matter to you?”
“Well I’m sure it’s of no matter either way, Montgomery, but it’s the concept that counts. I feel… I feel like one should start one’s second life with a little decorum. I’ve seen hell, don’t you know, let’s try and at least have something to bargain with for next time I stand outside those gates. You.” He turns his attention on me now, and oh how I wish he wouldn’t. “ You seem to be the chatty one, Keenan Nottinghan of the magnificence of the King's City, Harborne, tell me. Did this man deserve to die?”
“Probably,” I reply, sullenly, “But he brought you back to life, so you owed him something.”
“Ah, a fair point, a fair point.” Bron nods slowly, appearing to think, but whatever it was that he thought needed his attention does not stay in his mind for long.
“I have to find Viper,” he mutters and the joke is gone from his voice. This man is Kin and he has been alone, dead, for seven generations: there is only one thing that matters.
“She is alive?”
“Yes.” Bron lights at Will’s words. “Of course she lives, Montgomery, we are one. Do you remember her? Does your family still speak of her beauty?” He sighs, shaking his head slowly. “Death is… so lonely, boys.”
Silence settles over the room. What right do we have to speak of death with this man?
Bron remains still for but a second before a shiver runs through his body, filling it with that terrible, precise purpose for the second time.
“Yes, we must leave,” he says and his voice is colder, harsher, all familiarity simply melting away. He circumnavigates the room in less than half a minute, determining that there remains nothing of use. Nothing, that is, bar the sword he had left in another man, the sword he now retrieves with a single decisive gesture, cleaning it in the lining of the dead man’s coat.
Bron pauses for a second, eyeing the blade until he reaches a decision.
“Here you go, Montgomery,” he says, passing it over to Will hilt first.
“Why would I want that?”
“You need it more than I, boy, trust me on this.”
“And why is that?”
Bron just smiles, taking Will’s hand in his own, gently forcing him to wrap his lax fingers about the hilt.
“Come,” he says, already striding back up to the surface, “both of you. Don’t worry, Keenan Nottinghan of the magnificence of the King’s city, Harborne, I’ll kill you later. Not you though, Montgomery, you’re going to have to stick with me: I was very fond of your late great Grandfather.”
At the very least, Will is wise enough to say nothing. His face is set, grim, contrasting darkly with the delicate little clouds that float over the walls. I grab his arm as he turns, without expression, and begins to follow.
“Will!” I hiss, “Are we just going to go with?”
He blinks, as though surfacing from somewhere deep.
“He recognises me,” he breathes.
“Yes, I know, I think it’s the only reason we’re still alive. What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t say that, you always know.”
And finally, Will returns to himself. The smile surfaces slowly but when it gets here, it is one I know well.
“You are correct, squire,” he announces, turning on his heel, “Come!”
I am left lost as the second man marches from the room. It’s just me and the bodies, alone as the magic rushes back in. Bron, I think, unable to comprehend the concept. Bron and the Viper.
When I finally reach Will’s side once again, he is standing at the cave mouth, watching Bron intently. The dead man scowls, huddled sullenly beneath the overhang as the sun slowly begins to crawl over the first peaks.
It is raining.
What a strange tableau this is; Will outside, myself sheltered within, both of us watching the living legend as he hovers in between, so reluctant to relinquish himself to the wet.
Will blinks. His hair is sodden already, dripping in the pre-dawn light.
“She’s waiting,” he breathes eventually, “you have to go to her.”
“What are you doing?” I mouth silently, desperately dragging at Will’s attention. We are not meant to be helping the man. Will should take that sword, the one he has just now so confidently tucked into his belt, and bury it in Bron’s heart.
Will has a face, this face he uses primarily when he’s trying to win me a girl. It’s one that says trust me, Keenan, and keep your mouth shut. It is this face that he gives me now, very pointedly.
I trust him, and keep my mouth shut. Very Pointedly.
Bron sighs.
“Some things are truly not so simple, my dear Montgomery,” he says, “but she is calling me. I can feel her, you know. I could feel her in death and I can feel her in life, and though she’s half a world away, she’s part of me. She needs me.”
“Then go. The rain will not kill you a second time, Bron Dragon-Kin. You have learnt. But Keenan and I cannot aid you much longer. By the time the sun has risen, we must be home.”
“Home? Oh you will not be leaving my side, Montgomery,” Bron shakes his head almost compulsively, “No,” he says, “we can’t have that. What if you tell people? What if your mouthy little friend spreads the word?”
I step back silently, praying he won't turn his attention back onto me.
“The whole city would be after me, Montgomery,” Bron continues, oblivious of my consternation. “I have zero intention of dying again, not so soon. Do you know how long it takes a man to collect an entire life’s force worth of souls?”
Will says nothing, holding his gaze firm.
“Of course you don’t.” Bron shakes his head dismissively, resuming only when it becomes apparent that Will has no intention of speaking further. “About seven generations,” he hints, “remember?”
With a single hand, Will swipes his fringe back over his head, shaking the moisture from his fingers when he’s done. He says nothing, relying on the strength of his stature to ensure our safe return. I close my eyes, releasing a prayer to any deity that will listen.
It doesn’t work.
In the end it takes nothing to persuade Bron to step out into the rain, he does it without thinking. He does it without thinking and he steps up close, so close that Will cannot help but recoil slightly, rocking back on his heels.
“Look,” Bron continues, trapping him with his eyes.
The stupid thing is that I watch all of it without reaction. I can see how encapsulated Will has become and yet I simply allow it to happen without question.
“You can understand me, Montgomery, you’re a clever man,” Bron’s hands dance as he speaks, flashing beneath Will’s chin. I watch because the spell has not been cast over me. I watch but Will does not, too concerned with fake words, words that are made to seem important but have no meaning. It is the perfect folly, deceives us both.
“It may have been a long time since I was last here but a certain number of things never change and I’m truly sorry to say this but the attitude of man in just simply one of those things.”
They are hypnotic, those hands. They have a mind of their own, flitting flawlessly about Will’s person. Closer and closer, until they almost seem to brush against his clothing, so close and yet so natural we neither of us protest. I just watch and it seems normal, Will doesn’t even see.
“I am thorough, my dear Montgomery, fastidious you might say, and I have certain protocols that must be followed.”
The sword slips free of Will’s belt with slick, practiced ease. I should be shocked but I’m not. Will should react, but he does not.
“Nevertheless, I can show you the entire world. I can give you things you have never even dreamed of, if you just allow me this one small thing, if you allow me to finish here.”
Steel flashes dangerously as Bron continues to speak, rolling the blade over his wrists with fluid ease. He does it so calmly it doesn’t seem wrong, as though it’s an old habit, as though everyone walks through the town with metal at their hip.
He steps back now, finally allowing Will the space to breathe.
“Do you trust me?” He asks.
And Will, poor Will, is simply so enthralled that he nods.
“Good boy, that’s what we like to see. Wise. Stay there, Montgomery, trust me. Remember to trust me.”
Will nods again and Bron, weapon securely as tightly in his palm as we both are, turns to face me.
“And you, Keenan Nottinghan,” he croons, acknowledging my presence properly for the first time since Will caught his eye. “I have become weirdly fond of you in such a short space of time.” He opens his arms, welcoming, and for the briefest of seconds I wonder if he might embrace me. “I know it’s a bizarre thing to say but it has been a long, long time since a man challenged me as you have. It’s what makes it so difficult to say this. It makes me little sad, truly it does but, unfortunately, risks cannot be allowed to be risks. And so you must die.”
It takes too long for the words to sink in. Perhaps it’s his smile, perhaps it’s simply my inability to comprehend the entire situation, but by the time I realise, I could have been dead a hundred times over.
“What?”
“You heard me,” Bron’s arm slams down around my shoulders, “say your goodbyes.”
“I don’t…”
And finally, finally Will’s brain catches up. I watch him, dream-like, as his gaze drops to his empty belt loop. I watch him as he looks up, horror settling over his features, catching my terrified gaze in his own. I watch the words form on his lips, watch his first steps as he breaks into a run. Worse, I watch him slide to a premature stop, face to face with that cruel blade, tip hovering firmly between his eyes.
“No!” All Bron’s charm has simply faded away, replaced by irrefutable, bone chilling fury. “I told you to trust me, Montgomery, and trust me you will. Do not move. Do you understand? Stand there, keep your eyes open and watch. I will teach you to trust me and then I will teach me to obey me. Do you understand?”
Will meets fury with fury. I have never seen his features contort this way, have never seen the raw power well up within him. But well up it does, crackling in the air.
There is nothing he can do.
“Take a step back,” Bron continues. “Do it right now.”
And Will does so. He has no choice.
I do not want to die but Bron turns back to me regardless, fingers clenching painfully down upon my shoulder, a reminder of just how life-endingly trapped I truly am.
“Keenan,” he warbles, “Oh Keenan.”
In the end there is no time for goodbyes. I only know it has happened when I feel the viscous slip of life blood spreading maliciously down my neck, soaking through the collar of my shirt, a strangely grateful warmth for chilled skin. I try to draw a breath but it’s futile, produces nothing more that guttural spluttering as the air bubbles out through the slit in my throat and, by then, the edges of my vision have already begun to turn black.