Pendarvis, The Reaper

Pendarvis looked upon a world that should have died ages ago, once afflicted by disease, suddenly given mercy by the forces outside its comprehension. But while the people in this city celebrated, balance was torn from the universe. There was too much life given and not the fair amount of death returned. And now, death was wanting.

For penance, souls had to be sacrificed to restore the natural order of life and death. Better a few lives a month than the entire civilization in one night, people thought, and continued to live in gratitude.

But as always, those with power, with money, with influence, took advantage of their strength and seized the power of deciding who should die. The high court came together and wickedly decided that those on the outer ring of the city mattered least. People that brought little to society were first. Criminals, thieves, beggars, the lame man, and the widowed woman. Until the ritual stood that every family of lesser status had to sacrifice one of their household, or it would be done with force and without choice.

The years had made this the norm. The tears shed and mourning became a meaningless ache in the night of every full moon. Twelve souls. So that the spirits of the sacrificed could ring the twelve bells before midnight and let the living pass into the next day. Every month. And so, they continued living.

Until Pendarvis got hold of the mirror of death. Because he knew the truth.

Death wasn’t evil or good. Death didn’t have a preference. It was the vile way of man that had the stained heart to choose which soul deserved to die.

Fate rolled the dice and picked blindly. And Pendarvis was given the task to carry out its wishes. He had become an instrument of death. His face was white, his hair was black like night. His hands were made to kill.

Pendarvis knew he was not the man to judge who deserved to die. No one was. Not even death. Rich or poor, kind or wretched, it mattered not.

He looked upon the mirror and asked death for a face.

Pendarvis groaned inwardly. This man Beirnham was known to be a beast. And yet, he’d been waiting for this one. Beirnham used his strength to kill people. The nobles liked him for taking more lives than necessary, enforcing death for them. But he did it with selfish reason. And he was not fair. He killed the ones weaker than him.

Pendarvis sighed as he entered his little room. He put on a coat of mail over a padded tunic, a belt strapped around his waist, and over that he wore a long coat in hopes to cover most of his armor. He put two daggers in his belt, checked the vials in his inside pockets, and finally, put on his hat and grabbed his axe.

Within the court, he was Pendarvis the baker. Nobody knew the baker poisoned the bread, or sometimes snuck death into any room he had access to. Out here, he was Pendarvis, the gambler or woodchopper, but more than anything, he was not seen or known at all.

He was the reaper of the night they all feared. But no one knew it was he.

He stepped over his balcony. He’d put a chair in the corner so he could easily climb up the roof. He’d done this over a hundred times for sure. Perhaps decades. But death favored him and he’d been given years. His face had stayed the same. His hair never grayed. His heart never grew old. In another few years he’d have to switch his name once again, as he had many times. Never once had any of his identities befriended anyone. Because no one in this world understood him, and no one was safe from death.

He traversed the city until he reached the tavern of the man he was to kill. It was late and there was nobody else there.

Pendarvis gripped his axe and approached Beirnham.

The man did not hesitate and stood up, grabbing a large chopping knife from the wall as well as a rolling pin. “You pick the wrong fight.”

It was never the wrong fight if it was picked by death. But fair or not, the odds were not in Pendarvis’s favor this night. Nevertheless, he swung his axe. It was slammed aside by the rolling pin and remained stuck in the table. Pendarvis quickly let go as the dagger came chopping down upon his arm. He reached forward and grabbed the man by his shirt’s collar, banging his face against the counter, then he jumped on top. He swung his axe downward.

It hacked into the man’s shoulder, and would have been an instant killing blow if it hadn’t encountered the rolling pin first. Beirnham screamed terribly, and yanked Pendarvis off the counter.

He attacked with his knife but Pendarvis managed to block every stroke. He took out another of his knives and slashed the man’s hand.

Beirnham yelped and got up. He grabbed Pendarvis by his collar. Punched him to the floor. “You’re wearing armor and won’t allow my blade to get near you, fine. They’ll kill you.”

Pendarvis groaned, and blinked, but it must have taken him a few seconds for Beirnham was already upon him. He held him by his collar and growled something.

“I am already dead, I know. But so are you!”

Pendarvis panicked. He reached out and tried to pry Beirnham’s hand away from his collar. When that didn’t do anything, he began stabbing at the man’s legs. But Beirnham was just a dead man walking now. Pain and wounds wouldn’t stop him, and he continued to drag Pendarvis out the door, then with a shove, let go.

Pendarvis fell down the steps, rolling over and hitting himself everywhere. The topple ended with him face first against the ground. Blood dripped onto the dirt from his mouth and nose. He winced, then growled and pushed himself up. On his knees, he saw people approaching.

“Arrest this man!” Beirnham hollered, stumbling down from the stairs himself, barely clinging on to the railing. “He is a murderer!”

And he slumped over. But shouts emerged. Fingers were pointed at him. And then, halberds, spears, and swords appeared in the dark of night, glinting wildly.

Pendarvis got up and stumbled towards the tavern to retrieve his weapon, but instantly changed his course as he realized two soldiers were already closing in, and all he could do was run.

He forgot his bruises for a second as he quickly darted to the nearest backstreet. He knew this city better than anyone. Had mapped out every single alley, every shortcut, every fence to jump over, every low roof that led to another. Because he’d lived for decades. He knew how to escape—

A sharp pain awoke from his lower back, tearing into his gut, and he fell into the wall in front of him. He looked down and saw the tip of a spear poke through his side. Gasping, he knew it must be over for him.

“Give it up!” a woman commanded. “Guards, surround him!”

Pendarvis reached up and grabbed the lantern from the house and tossed it backwards without taking two seconds. He heard her scream and felt the weapon in him sink heavily as she stumbled to the ground.

Pendarvis opened one of his vials and quickly took two sips. The pain dulled and he grew dizzy. If he’d taken too much, he would die within no less than an hour. If not, everything would stop making sense, and his brain would spin, too confused to register pain. He would bleed out soon anyways, but he now managed to grab the back of the weapon and pull it from his abdomen. The pain was harsh nonetheless and he let out a scream he could not control.

Confusion rolling over him like a heavy, smothering blanket, he staggered down the alley. Groggy and nauseous. He ran anyways. Until the gravel beneath his feet turned to dirt, and the dirt became grass, and the grass turned gray. Must be an effect of the concoction he’d taken. Must be because he was dying. Though they’d probably kill him before his wound would end him.

He fell over and realized he was in the graveyard. Walled off by oak trees and filled with gravestones. How fitting. He heard screams suddenly and then silence. Gasping hollow breaths, he noticed an odd mist around him. But he felt it, touch his skin lightly, whisper into his ears, calming him. But everyone outside this mist began to choke and fall. They reached out but their hands withered and turned gray.

“Anyone that harms Pendarvis within these boundaries shall be marked by death,” whispered a voice, carried in the wind.

The mist had formed a face. Of a woman. Of death. “Hear me, people. For the balance must be restored. The number of souls that belong to me has not been given. And I have waited. The disease would have wiped out all of you, rich or poor, evil or fair. Yet you think you get to decide who deserves to enter my chambers? No! That is no one’s decision to make. Dice is rolled, and I have picked Pendarvis to bring me those chosen. The natural order and equality of passing may not be compromised.”

It wouldn’t matter. They couldn’t get to him but he was dead anyways. Yet as he lay on the grass, wheezing, he did not die. He buried Beirnham’s body, which was brought to him before the mist. Then he rested, slept, and grew feverish. He slept until one day he woke and the fever was gone. His wound had begun to heal. Death had spared him once again.

He was safe behind the mist. And when he grabbed the mirror, he suddenly realized he held a sword. The mirror set within the crossguard. With this, you shall not have to bury the dead. Their souls will ring the bells upon kill of this blade, came a whisper to his ear.

He sighed. He was no longer Pendarvis the baker or Pendarvis the trader. He wouldn’t have to think of a new identity ever again. From now on, everyone knew he was Pendarvis, the servant of death herself. And when the twelve souls had to be reaped before midnight struck, it would be known that not one soul in this vast city was safe from him.

And so he rested quietly in his safe haven. Until the next full moon came and he reached for his mirror.

And when he stepped out from the graveyard, no one was there. Since burying the dead was the way they offered their sacrifices, there was no point in anyone killing, as the graveyard could not be reached. The deed was now up to him and him alone.

Pendarvis looked into the mirror and asked for a face. Until he had but two more souls. The soldier was drunk and Pendarvis was swift. Still, though many of the people in the tavern ran away, some went after him and called for reinforcements, so that Pendarvis had to run quickly. But it was done. The bell rang, ensuring that he did not need to bury the body.

Gasping on the rooftop, Pendarvis reached for the mirror-sword. He chanted the words.

An image of a child, a little girl, appeared. He stopped breathing and simply stared. He was supposed to take the life of someone so young? The mirror showed him the girl’s head, resting on a pillow. In a small house filled with other children. And as the mirror showed him more, the vision expanding, he saw that this room was within another house. And a man sat in the corner. Sleeping children everywhere. Tied up.

Slaves.

Anger welled within him. The law had been after this man for a while now, though people had suspected it was a greater organization. But it was just one man. A very killable one, weak and with no protection of any sort, merely a secret identity to keep him alive. But Pendarvis knew who he was now.

And yet . . . the mirror showed the face of the girl.

Pendarvis inhaled deeply, remembering to breathe again. He wanted to scream at death right now. Why the girl and not the evil slave-master?

But then everyone asked this question. Why my children? Why my wife and not the grieving widow?

If death didn’t pick randomly, man would. Unfairly. Choosing for their own gain.

He took another deep breath and then, knowing he’d made this choice, over and again, he hurried in the direction he knew the slaver’s house to be. For the house was really a flour mill on the edge of the city.

Pendarvis made quick work navigating the alleys and rooftops until he reached his destination.

Just moments before he jumped down, the door opened and none other than the slave-master himself walked out, sauntering to another alley. Probably to relieve himself.

Pendarvis dropped down and ran into the house. It was unlocked. But the cellar room was not. He picked it quickly. He could have broken it, but he didn’t wish to wake the children.

He hurried down the stairs. Where they lay.

He recognized the girl instantly. A look of innocence on her face, despite the scratches and bruises.

Pendarvis approached. Took two steps towards her. Still she didn’t awake.

He took out the very left vial in his pocket. The one filled with the same liquid he had congested to ease his pain. But he would give her more. The effects of this poison were slow and mild, and if sleeping, not noticeable to the victim.

Regret already gripping him, he poured everything to make sure. Some drooled from the side of her mouth.

It would be quicker with the sword. He looked down at the girl, sleeping by his feet. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t even grasp the handle of his blade.

Time was passing and he sat down amidst the children. Watching closely. Knowing the poison would take effect soon. Perhaps he should take her now. But he feared it might wake her. He didn’t wish to wake her. He did, however, slice the binds holding her so he could bring her as soon as her soul left her body and would search for the underworld. And then he would guide her, so that her spirit might ring the bell. He shivered and pulled the high collar of his coat up against his face, trying to warm himself.

But as he waited, he soon realized he wasn’t alone.

What was he to do? Leave now and come back for her body later? Except her master might hide her body to shelter his identity. Pendarvis bent down to pick her up.

The footsteps came closer.

The old slaver looked down. This time Pendarvis drew his sword. Still the mirror did not show the slaver’s face. Pendarvis put his fingers to his lips, hoping the man would hush at his indication.

The slaver began to cackle. “Pendarvis, so you visit me? Are you here to reap my soul?”

Pendarvis wanted to. Instead, he decided he had to stop him so he couldn’t call anyone.

“No?” the man looked confused. “Well, you had best leave then, or I will yell.”

Pendarvis motioned to the rest of the children, to let him know that if anyone else came, he would be discovered.

“Oh you’re clever. Well, I think you had better run. Help! Pendarvis is—”

He fell as something hit his head.

A woman appeared. She wore more armor than Pendarvis, was equally tall to most men, and had a face suggesting she was just as capable.

“Pendarvis,” she said, gripping her sword. “I finally found you.”

What was happening? Pendarvis looked down to the sleeping girl in his arms.

“I’m sorry for hurting you last time we crossed, but I had no idea who you were.”

She was the soldier that had impaled him. The burn marks on her face confirmed it. As Pendarvis remained quiet, the children began to wake up. Wide eyes and whispered confusion. But the girl did not.

“I’ve been keeping my eyes on this one for a while,” the armored woman said, walking down the stairs, staring around herself. “I never found him because I expected something far more underground.”

She approached carefully. Pendarvis felt cornered. He should leave soon.

“Shh,” said the woman suddenly. “I hear soldiers.”

Why was she being so friendly?

“You should kill him now and go. I won’t tell anyone. I’ve been looking for this bastard for—wait . . . . what are you doing?” She let him pass, then gasped as the child grew limp in Pendarvis’s arms. “What’s wrong with her?”

She grew quiet and met Pendarvis’s eyes. “You killed her?” she quivered. Then slowly looked up to the groaning man on top of the stairs. “And not . . . him?”

“Because ‘tis the way of death,” Pendarvis spoke. He hadn’t uttered a word in years, unless it was to the mirror.

The idea of someone knowing who he was and not instantly despising him for it was foreign to him, but it sounded . . . nice. Silence had kept his world gray and simple, but what would it be like if someone else were to help him with these missions? He couldn’t help but wonder.

“Why not him?” she cried.

“Death is fair. I thought you might know.”

She stood to block his way when he tried walking past. “You should know, I will kill him.”

“Please don’t do that,” Pendarvis said quickly.

“What’s your problem?” she scoffed. “You are Pendarvis. You can kill anyone.”

He shook his head. “Death wanted her soul. Not his.”

“So what?”

“I made a deal with death. Listen, we should go.”

“No.” She put her hand on his chest and stopped him, growing silent. Her eyes locked with his. “So, what would happen if you refused?”

“Then the high court would start deciding who dies again. The weak will suffer and die first. That is the unjust way of man. But death is fair and chooses equally.”

“What if no one kills? What if we all just—stop?”

Pendarvis frowned. “Then the mist surrounding the graveyard will overtake the entire population. One way or another, life will be taken.”

“I’ve been looking for you, Pendarvis. Hoping we could work together maybe. I gave up my position of captain of the guard to help you.”

No one wanted that. Still . . . he’d hoped she would say something like that.

“I thought that together, we could fight to take out corrupt people.”

“I was hoping that maybe you and I saw things the same way.” Pendarvis shook his head. He regretted thinking that someone else might understand him. “I need to go now. Before someone else finds me.”

But she stepped in front of him. “I was hoping so too. Because this means you’re a villain after all. And I must rid of you.”

“Please,” Pendarvis said. “I must bury her. I’m the only one who can. And your life is not on my list.”

“Yet yours is on mine.” She drew her sword.

Pendarvis readied his. There was no use for words or even regret.

“Tell me,” said the woman bitterly. “The reason you do this—is it because you don’t care about anyone and are content being alive?”

She swung at him.

Pendarvis put down the girl and fought back, forcing the woman up the stairs, out onto the balcony. It wasn’t very high. He could jump it.

But she grabbed his collar and flung him into the wall. Pendarvis stabbed at her but his blade scratched along her armor and stuck into a pole.

Quickly he dropped his sword and snatched her oncoming blade between his hands, maneuvering it away from his face before it sliced him.

Even as she must know Pendarvis wouldn’t kill her, she yelled, “Pendarvis the reaper!”

She kicked him in the knee, dropped her pinned sword and ran into him, slamming him against the balcony railing.

He managed to grab his sword before he toppled over and fell. To the ground. His head bounced against the packed dirt. He opened his eyes against the sky. His breath was gone and everything hurt. Still, he managed to sit. His senses slowly returned. He looked to the balcony but she had already disappeared.

He hurried back into the house and swept up the girl. She was completely still.

He needed to run. He quickly took control over his aching body and scrambled in the direction of the graveyard. No side alleys. No rooftops or fancy turns. Just straight through the street.

Shouts emerged from everywhere. Lights travelled between streets as men with torches ran his way. Men with weapons. Soldiers.

He could see the mist. Up ahead. Sitting still in the air as he approached faster. Something bounced off the stone where he ran. An arrow. Another whistled past him as he continued. Hot blood seeped down the side of his head.

He strained and heard himself groan as he sped up in the last stretch. As stone became dirt. He reached out, hoping to just touch the mist. Then he launched himself into the air and crashed to the ground.

He looked around. He’d made it. Mist surrounded him. Someone had caught up but was now choking and fell.

He was safe. They’d never catch him. He’d spend a life running and killing if only to restore the balance one day. Someone had to.

As he buried the little girl, the mist began to swirl. Like it might disappear. People were closing in. But the belltower was surrounded by heavy fog yet, and he hurried towards it. Climbed up the stairs and the ladder up to the belfry.

And though he was exhausted, and everything hurt, and sadness clung to him more desperately than ever, he picked up his sword-mirror and looked upon it.

“Oh mirror of death, mirror in my hand— ”

A pale face emerged.

“On the brink of darkness do we all stand—”

Black hair, blacker than a raven. Grey eyes, sad.

“Show me now and show me true—”

A frown upon the man’s face. Blood covering the left side of his face.

“What unfortunate soul am I to bring to you?”

He gasped slowly. He was staring at himself.

Why? He gripped it tightly and growled at his growling reflection. If he was dead, then who would continue carrying out death’s wish? Unless—and that was when he realized—this would be the final death needed.

He took a shaky breath, lowering his sword. But a smile grew on his face. This meant it would be over. Death would be appeased.

Trembling heavily, breath hacking out from his lungs, he brought his sword to his wrist.

His fear faded as he dragged his blade across. If death were a sweet woman, he could feel her, softly whispering to him. Telling him to come home. She would wrap him in her arms. She would understand him. Her face appeared in the sky and he heard her say, it was enough. She was satisfied.

Pendarvis felt tears roll down his face but was at peace inside. He’d been given years. Death had worked with him to bring fairness to the world. And now was his time. He could truly rest among the silent oaks.