The Final Life

  ***

  Azrael tutted at the pieces of scattered furniture across the room and took in the hole in the wall next to his rose garden. The hole was large enough for two grown men to fit through at the same time. His tailcoat fluttered as he made an unpleasant face, worried that he would get that day’s uniform dirty. In fact, he was paying the sounds of battle outside no heed, for the lullaby of Tim’s music was lovelier than even an orchestra of punches and kicks, and he stood transfixed by it, petrified. The boy was instructed to keep playing no matter what happened and what he heard, and his music bid Azrael tell of his happier moments in life, of the time he took Raimé to that meadow south of this very continent, back before his Judith was born. They’d gone looking for black tulips. His wife had been a strong childish woman with a smile that lit him up like nothing else could. She was also an alchemist, smart and ready to whip up a potion for him when he went too long without sleep. If only he could lie down for a while and reminisce...

  With difficulty Azrael snapped himself back to the situation at hand and chuckled to himself. Tim’s skill with the violin was simply wondrous, despite having had no better teacher than Azrael himself once the necromancer discovered the talent. Perhaps in time he would go on to do great things with that instrument, but in the meantime there were bloodier things to be done.

  Azrael stepped gingerly out of the hole in the wall, careful not to catch his coat on shards of glass, and he was just in time to hear a great roar mixed with Glint’s higher pitched yell, followed by the sight of his master passing right before his eyes, crashing into a great far off cedar and toppling it with him. Azrael winced at the sight of the boy slumped over like that, after all the trust he had put in his butler.

  He actually hated to use the boy like this for his own purposes. Glint was already damaged in some way, Azrael knew. Above that, his master’s personality was one prone to being afraid and hesitant, and he often went along with other’s opinions. Yet again, there was nothing that could be done about this betrayal. It was the best way to set Azrael’s plans in motion, after all. He’d made his choice.

  A pant drew his attention to his left, to Alfjoetr’s tired form leaning not more than a few feet away against the flower garden’s low white fence. Azrael walked to him confidently, coming to a rest on one knee just in front of the large man.

  “Your impressions, my lord?” he inquired of him.

  “’s hard to fight ughmonk,” the man said with his head nodding downwards.

  “It’s hard to fight a monk?” repeated Azrael slowly, puzzled, and Alfjötr lifted his head to look him in the eye. His eyes were bloodshot and blood dripped from his chin, where a fistful of his beard had gotten ripped out. He giggled and said, “I sssaid, it’s hard to fight drunk, ye pisspot!” The giant looked almost giddy, which Azrael took to be a good sign.

  “Ah,” said Azrael brightly, understanding now how Alfjötr could get injured fighting the boy. He should have been far beyond such things. “And how about my young master?”

  At that Alfjötr laughed, a big booming laugh. “Ah, but he’s good! He could maybe take one of our trainees in a fair fight!” he exclaimed, the joy on his face unmistakable for that of a man who loved a good tussle. He waved his hands wildly in his excitement, and almost slapped Azrael, who leapt out of the way. The man studied the butler for a while, perhaps thinking about the implications of Azrael’s words, and the true reason for his invitation and the tax cuts. He chuckled in understanding, then added, “Who trained ‘em, so he’d know our techniques this well?”

  “Well,” Azrael started, then went quiet. Deciding to be straight with Alfjötr, he went on, “As far as I know, no one did,” ignoring the titan’s gasp, he said, “I am inclined to think he received the basic explanations, but that is merely to discover talent, not to actually apply anything, as you know. No, the boy came with the techniques almost instinctively. I doubt he knows the nature of his power, even. How close was it to the real thing?”

  “Ah, but it was like fighting a tiny weak version of the guild founder himself. Shocked me out of me boots, it did!” Alfjötr went quiet, thinking. “Ye want the brat to join us, then?”

  Azrael laughed, a clear sound that fit with the sunlight far more than Alfjoetr’s bleeding face. It was almost funny, he thought, how the sun shined constantly here. If this were a tale sung by a famous bard, he was certain the setting would have been a dark rainy night for such a fight. Regardless, bards invented their own settings to fit the tale if need be.

  Realizing that he still hadn’t answered the man, Azrael said, “Well, judging by how hard he must have trained, I think the brat would like nothing more than to join. We may speak of that tomorrow, guild master. I shall take care of the mess.”

  He turned to go, but suddenly Alfjötr exclaimed, “Stop!” in a manner that brokered no argument. He stopped and Alfjötr Christon, thirteenth lord of his task, master of wolves, went on. “Two words I have for ye, so hear them well. First, the boy will have to change what he thinks of guilds. We’re no blood mongers, and if he’d asked politely I would have destroyed the contract this land was under, no questions asked. I thought he was stealing from the taxes for his own pocket, and he’s lucky I wasn’t sober enough to fight him properly, or you’d be burying him!”

  The fire in his voice made Azrael sure of the truth of those words and he nodded, still with his back to Alfjötr. “Second,” stated the man, then paused as if to weigh his next words carefully indeed. “If he’s this special, being strong so young, and without training... who are ye, crow?”

  Azrael was glad he wasn’t facing Alfjötr, to better hide the expression on his face. “The first shall be done, my lord,” he began in a gracious manner, “although I doubt all guild masters are as noble as yourself.” He then motioned with his hand, as if brushing a nearby fly.

  Alfjoetr’s mind and eyes went dark, plunging him into true night. Azrael hoped the indifferent venom in him didn’t carry through his voice.

  “I am of no consequence.”