Page 5 of Nemesis Mine
Who else could he target? There was Bokor, the latest elected champion of Eborre. He was known for liftinghis opponents over his head and throwing them great and deadly distances, but he was also known for being quite stupid. Or Lailar from Elzekar, just below the Bek mountains.Athaca Newswas always full of advertisements for her skincare range and fitness tips. Cyrus had tried following her Tuesday morning workout once and it had taken him three to four business days to recover.
He drummed his fingers against the dark leather of his brooding chair. Then he underlined Bokor’s name. The people of Eborre still ought to hold a healthy amount of terror for him after the quake, and it was the shortest distance from Ranragh. A single day’s ride if he went back into town and stole a horse. Plenty of time to consider his target and cook up a suitably dastardly plan.
Cyrus exited his lair clad in his best black cloak, selected for its dramatic swishing capabilities. Unfortunately, the motion attracted a flurry of buzzing wings: three sprites, all keen to help him on his way. One perched on his shoulder and tried to straighten his collar whilst another dabbed ineffectively at his cheek. The third sprite descended upon his boots and fussed over his laces. Cyrus kicked it clean across his pansies with a growl of irritation, then made a grab for the other two. They flitted out of reach with a burst of pitchy chatter, an insect’s hum to his ears.
“Sprite pie,” he hissed after them. “I’ll try it, don’t think I won’t.”
It wouldn’t dissuade them. Four summers ago, completely by accident, he’d saved their habitat. Now there was no stopping them. He’d been resting in the glade after collecting cuttings for his garden, and had only urged new life into the tired old trees so that he could escape the relentless glare of the sun. He wasn’t to know that the glade was home to a large and enthusiastic family of woodland sprites who now saw him as their saviour. A group had followed him all the way home, fluttering about his face and tucking daisies into his hair, and he’d been unable to get rid of them ever since. They lived in the hollows of pine trees lining the path to his lair, and he was forced to tolerate their infernal buzzing at all hours of the day as they eagerly sought opportunities to “help” him. Cyrus did not appreciate their help. It usually manifested itself through premature harvesting of his radishes, or through the wildflower crowns they sometimes tried to deposit upon his head.
The sprites finally fluttered off as he left the woods and made it onto the main road into town. He followed the smell of dung until he found a villager’s paddock, where a little girl was leaning over the fence to feed sugar lumps to a friendly chestnut colt. She was kind enough to provide Cyrus with all the lumps he needed, once he’d delivered his best malevolent stare.
He turned his attention to the horses, observing as the colt chomped placidly, tail swishing, and a grey with a plaited mane ventured closer in the hopes of a treat. In the far corner, a third horse with a sleek black coat gave him the stink eye and turned her head pointedly away.
Perfect. Cyrus let himself into the paddock and approached her. The black horse watched him balefully, ears pricked back. When he took another step, her ears flattened against her skull and she huffed at him through wrinkled nostrils. It was an oddly offensive expression for a horse, like he smelled bad. It wasn’t true. Cyrus bottled bath oils from lavender he had grown himself, thank you very much.
“Come on,” he said in what he considered to be a soothing tone. The horse didn’t agree, judging by the way she showed him all her long yellow teeth. Cyrus hesitated, then extended his hand. “Come on, I’ve got a nice secluded cave for you to live in next to my lair, and we’ve got a trip to make today. I just need you to—ow, get off, that’s my—ow!”
The horse nipped his finger. It hurt. She didn’t seem to care. Unfortunately, this meant that they were perfect for each other.
Cyrus gritted his teeth and tried again, finally succeeding in luring her out of the paddock. He inspected her bridle and tucked the contents of his satchel into her saddlebag whilst she grudgingly accepted a sugar cube from his palm. The equipment was good enough for now; he would procure better. But he had places to be, champions to attack.
“I’m going to call you Soulripper,” he told her, feeding her the final cube and patting her neck gingerly. She snorted at him, unimpressed.
Soulripper was similarly unenthusiastic when they reached their destination. Cyrus couldn’t blame her. The city wall, rebuilt following the earthquake, towered grey and oppressive over a barren expanse pocked with treestumps. The last time he had been here, the forest had stretched right up to the wall. Cyrus could feel the earth’s ache where the trees used to stand, a distant grief. He tuned it out, turning contemplative eyes to the steady stream of peasants passing through the city gates. He would need one to conduct his cunning plan. Perhaps the one straggling towards the end of the line. An easy target.
Cyrus nudged Soulripper with his heels, turning her round to charge the queue and send the peasants screeching and diving for cover. At the sight of Cyrus heading straight for him, his target whimpered, eyes bugging and mouth agape. His whimper became a shriek as Cyrus grabbed him by his shirt and hauled him bodily over the horse.
The fallen peasants spluttered in shock as Cyrus spurred Soulripper to gallop towards the distant tree line. A handful found the courage to yell after him. The sudden noise, paired with their victim’s flailing, caused the mare to rear up and let out a sharp, irritated whinny. Determined to maintain an air of composure, Cyrus pretended he’d meant for that to happen and swept his cloak out with a flourish and a toss of his head as he grappled with the reins to steady the agitated horse.
Once they had reached a small clearing, safe from prying eyes, Cyrus slid from Soulripper’s back and tethered her to a sturdy little birch. The peasant still dangled face down over the horse, blubbing. Cyrus rolled his eyes and gave him a prod.
“Get down.”
The man cringed away from him, dragging himself to an upright position. His face was blotchy, his nose running.Ugh. But he looked suitably pathetic. The ideal bait. Now all he needed was a trap.
“Get down,” Cyrus repeated.
The peasant trembled as he climbed from Soulripper’s back, wide-eyed and white-faced. He found his tongue after several false, stumbling starts. “B-B-Bokor will find me, he’ll save me—”
“Counting on it,” said Cyrus absentmindedly, searching through Soulripper’s saddlebag. Where had he—ah. There it was. He lifted out a trowel he used for harvesting his vegetable patch. The peasant cowered as though he expected Cyrus to gut him with it there and then. It was gratifying. The people of Ranragh could stand to learn from this man.
“Here.” Cyrus threw him the trowel. He didn’t raise a hand to catch it, and the metal clonked off his skull. The man let loose a fresh stream of snivelling. Cyrus sighed.
“Pick that up, and start digging.” He cast an eye back towards Eborre, imagining the route Bokor would take, and took a couple of steps back. “Right... here.” A solid stamp to the earth. Soulripper stamped too. The peasant jumped.
Cyrus looked meaningfully at the trowel. The peasant almost tripped over himself in his haste to pick it up before he straightened, wavering in place.
“I won’t tell you again,” Cyrus said softly, and watched in satisfaction as the man all but dived for the ground.
As the perspiring peasant toiled in the earth, he leaned against a nearby tree and picked at his nails. By the time the hole was big enough for Bokor to stumble into—no small feat, especially considering the size of the trowel—the peasant was slick with sweat, red faced and puffing for breath. Cyrus had him drag a carpet of leaves and crisscrossed branches over the hole to disguise it, then kindly gave him a break by tying him to a tree at the end of the clearing. He stuffed a handful of leaves into the man’s mouth and retreated into the shadows with Soulripper to wait.
Unknown Wrongdoer Attacks Bokor
From our Eborre correspondent, we heard how the city’s champion was the victim of a curious attempt at wrongdoing by an unknown assailant.
Reports indicate that Bokor was found partially buried in the woodlands just outside Eborre with only his head above ground. A note left at the scene of the crime, glued to Bokor’s head with resin, read “SHAKE BEFORE ME.”
Bokor has yet to provide a formal interview in the wake of his attack. However, a short statement has been released confirming that he did not recognise the wrongdoer in question, but that he will “rip his preening little head off his shoulders” if he sees his attacker again.
