The Death-Dealer

The stranger seemed to float down the street. Broad shoulders and a tall physique gave him away as a man who was not born on this side of the continent. He was not from this town.

His dark cloak billowed behind him like the night, sweeping its soiled hem along the ground.

I watched him through the rain-spattered window, curiously, as did the other patrons in the tavern. When he crossed the street toward the pub, we collectively returned to our drinks or meals. A soft rustling of conversation struck up as the door slammed open in the wind, letting in the gray daylight.

He entered the small room with confidence, as if he belonged in this place. I knew better.

“I have something for you.” The man said as he approached me from the other end of the rickety pub. His eyes were obscured by the hood of his cloak, one strand of greasy brown hair fell down his chest.

I clutched the almost empty beer mug between my hands. “Do I know you?” I could feel the gaze of the locals upon us, waiting for something to gossip about—the new girl and the dark stranger walked into a bar. Or some such nonsense.

“No. But I know you.” The man eyed the sword at my hip. I did not take it off, even when sitting, which lead to some uncomfortable positions. But I would rather be uncomfortable than unprepared.

“What is it then? What do you have for me?”

“Come with me,” he replied.

“Like hell I’m going with you.” I relaxed a little in my chair, regaining control of the situation. If he needed me to come with him to give whatever it was to me, then I now held the cards.

The man took a step closer. Rain pelted the wooden roof of the small room. There were few other visitors to this remote town, mostly travelers who stopped for a bite to eat and to get dry by the roaring fireplace of the public house. This man, however, was making a scene.

“Who are you? It’s rude not to introduce yourself when approaching a maiden.” I said, taking a sip from my mug of beer.

“You’re no maiden.” The man replied.

“You know me well, then?” I raised my eyebrow in question, although anyone could see by my weapons and armor that I didn’t subscribe to the traditional idea that a woman must be a lady, not a warrior.

“I know your son.”

I almost choked on my beer. “My son’s dead.”

“Your son is very much alive.”

I could feel my heart beating in my chest, but I kept my posture relaxed. If this man was a blood-reader, he would surely be able to tell I was faking my calm demeanor. Still, I decided to take that chance.

I swallowed, wetting my lips before continuing. “You still haven’t introduced yourself.”

“I am a death-dealer. You do not need to know more than that.”

“What’s a death-dealer doing bringing me news of my son’s life?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant. Death-dealers were rare, and what’s more: they were dangerous. Not the type you wanted to make friends with in this world.

“I have something for you.”

“You said that already.” I snapped back. This was going nowhere. The lantern burned low between us as I stared him down.

The death-dealer sighed and slid a piece of paper toward me. The parchment was old, and the handwritten lettering had faded over time, but I recognized it nevertheless.

My brow furrowed. “How dare you?” Something caught in the back of my throat as I spoke.

“Take it.” The man gestured to the paper.

“I don’t want it.” I choked on the words.

Before me sat the proof of my greatest regret: Sale of one child, two-pounds, paid-in-full. Tears clouded my eyes and I blinked them away, refusing to reach for the record of purchase in front of me.

When I looked up, the death-dealer was gone.

* * *

I didn’t have a choice. When the orchard started to die and the crops withered, we sold the furniture. The next year we sold what was left of the livestock; pigs and cows and chickens that hadn’t perished to disease or famine. The third year we sold the house. My boy’s father left us soon after. My son was barely three years old, and I couldn’t feed him on my own.

I was so far away from that life now, it was so long ago. The day seemed to creep on as I stared at the paper in front of me. The barmaid, bless her soul, left me to my drinking.

I knew I had a job to do that night.

Finally, I grabbed the slip of parchment and folded it haphazardly, stuffing it into my satchel. I stood up and chugged the remainder of my beer, leaving a couple of coins on the wooden table.

The gray sky had turned to charcoal. Rainwater ran in channels down the road between cobblestones, creating tiny rivers and pooling in deep murky puddles at the base of the curb.

I made my way to the nobleman’s residence, picking the most shadowed alleys and deserted laneways for my path. The price on his head was more than my normal year’s worth of work.

The walls surrounding his property were clean and bare, absent of footholds or hiding places. I stalked the outside of the grounds, circling until I found a gated back entrance. The lock was easy to pick, and I found myself in a picturesque garden.

The trees were neatly arranged in rows, and a stunning fountain stood in the middle of the yard. Water cascaded down marble horses and dolphins, landing in black pools. The rain blurred edges and deepened shadows, making the whole scene appear haunted.

Across from me, a great house stood starkly against the dark sky. There were no lights in the windows, no movement inside.

On the second story was the master bedroom balcony. I made my way to the base of the structure, beneath the balcony, and found that the walls of the house were not nearly as modern as the outside fence.

How does a death-dealer know my son?

My mind wandered as I climbed the wall, hoisting myself vertically up as I had done a million times before. I carried the things I had done to stay alive with me, like a great weight that got heavier every day. I was tired, and getting older. Yet I could still climb these walls, sneak into bedrooms, deal in the darkness. I could still hold my own.

Maybe after this job I wouldn’t have to for a while. I could run from this place, as I had done before, but this time not in search of a job—in search of rest.

I reached the balcony and silently unlatched the door to the bedroom, searching the darkness for any sign of movement. A soft snore came from the center of the room as I let my eyes adjust.

Then I jumped.

He was waiting for me. The death-dealer.

“What are you doing here?” I hissed, as quietly as I could. My bounty was asleep mere feet away—my ticket out of this life.

The death-dealer stood up and moved toward me. “I have come to watch you work,” he said, not bothering to speak softly.

“Shh, you’ll wake him.”

“Will I?” The death-dealer reached over to the bed with one hand, and tapped the sleeping man on the leg.

The room lit up like it was on fire. A bright white star formed in the death-dealer’s hand, pulled from the body of the nobleman.

“W—what is that?” My voice shook.

“His soul.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve done your job for you.” The death-dealer raised his hand and let the soul drift up to the sky.

I lifted my head to follow its path, unable to take my eyes off it as it left through the balcony doorway and flew of its own accord into the clouds above.

“You killed him.” I said, staring back at the nobleman. Then something struck me, the man in the bed was familiar to me. I walked over to him, and pulled down the covers.

The air escaped my lungs. Thomas. I stared at the dead body of my former husband.

“Why else do you think I found you here, of all places?” The death-dealer stepped towards me, and I stumbled backward.

“Who are you?”

“You do not know? I’ve been watching you. The people you’ve killed, the lives you’ve destroyed—” He removed his hood. His face was strong, chin broad and firm. The death-dealer smiled. “I’m your final reckoning.”

The blood in my veins ran cold. I tripped over my own feet trying to back away from him as I stared at the young man’s familiar face. He had Thomas’s eyes.

Dying crops, diseased trees, starved livestock—the pieces clicked into place as my son reached out to me, to hold me, one last time.