The Blunt Reaper

"What rank?"

Rook glanced at the ferryman.

The old man slowly placed one finger against his lips.

That ended the conversation.

He dipped his pole back into the water, though he no longer drove it downward until it struck whatever lay beneath them. He used only the upper length, guiding the boat with small, shallow movements that barely disturbed the surface.

The fog thinned ahead.

What emerged beyond it was not another bank or distant shoreline, but a broad expanse of open water stretching far beyond the lantern’s reach. Mara initially thought its strange color came entirely from the flame. The blue glow spread across the surface and mingled with something darker beneath, turning the water surrounding them into a deep, murky purple.

Then the boat moved beyond the thickest mist, and she saw the red.

It was not bright enough to resemble fresh blood. The color appeared faded, as though an ocean of blood had been left undisturbed for centuries until its stain had seeped into the water itself. Wherever the lantern shone, its blue light blended with that ancient crimson and transformed the sea into a bruised shade of violet.

The water rolled without waves. Broad swells rose and fell beneath them, too slow to be caused by wind. The boat climbed each one gently, then descended into the shallow hollow beyond it. Far away, something broke the surface with a wet exhalation before sinking again.

Mara stared into the distance.

There was no horizon. The purple water simply continued until it became indistinguishable from the fog and darkness. It gave her the uncomfortable impression that the entire Underworld might be surrounded by this sea, with every Bastion and field resting upon islands too small to understand how completely trapped they were.

She leaned slightly toward the edge.

The water was clearer here than among the Empty. The red color did not prevent her from seeing into it. Instead, the lantern light descended in a narrow column, fading gradually as it reached farther beneath the boat.

Shapes moved within that fading light.

Some passed like enormous shadows far below. They were too deep to identify, but their movement caused the boat to rise by several inches long after they had disappeared. Others remained almost motionless, suspended beneath the surface with long bodies hanging vertically into the dark.

One shape seemed to be following them.

It remained beneath the stern, just outside the strongest part of the lantern glow. Whenever Mara shifted to see it more clearly, it sank lower. When she looked away, it rose again.

Rook caught the back of her coat and pulled her upright.

"Stop leaning over."

"I was looking."

"That’s usually what people are doing before something removes their head."

Mara glanced down again without leaning. "Something is following us."

"Several things are following us."

Her eyes moved toward him.

Rook had already turned away.

The ferryman raised one finger to his lips again, this time without looking at either of them.

Rook fell silent.

Before setting out, he had wrapped strips of cloth around the chains securing the coffin. Mara had thought it excessive at the time. Now she understood. Not a single link rattled when the boat rocked. Even the ferryman had covered the metal ferrule at the end of his pole so it would not strike the wood.

The boat drifted deeper into the Red Tide.

The cold changed first. It no longer felt like ordinary night air. The chill rose from the water and passed through Mara’s clothes without touching the fabric, settling directly against her skin. Each breath carried the smell of salt, old iron and something sweet enough to remind her of rotting fruit.

The water shifted to her right.

Something passed beneath the surface close enough to distort the lantern’s reflection. The blue flame stretched across the ripples, breaking into thin lines before gathering again.

Mara turned her head.

At first, there was nothing.

Then a pale shape rose from the water.

Golden hair appeared first. It spread across the purple surface in long, shining strands, untouched by weeds, filth or the red stain surrounding it. A woman’s head followed, emerging with such little disturbance that no droplets seemed to fall from her face.

Her skin was flawless and unnaturally pale. It possessed none of the swelling, rot or grey discoloration Mara had seen upon the Empty. Her features were delicate enough to appear sculpted, with high cheekbones, soft lips and clear turquoise eyes that reflected none of the lantern’s blue light.

The woman floated with her back partially turned toward the boat.

She swam without moving her arms. More of her body rose with each slow glide, shoulders and chest emerging from the water. She was completely naked. One pale breast became visible when she turned, then the other, the cold water running over skin too perfect to belong in anything called the Red Tide.

Mara felt an immediate flash of embarrassment and looked away.

The reaction irritated her almost as soon as it happened. She had crossed fields filled with monsters, watched bodies torn open and floated through hundreds of empty corpses. Yet the sudden sight of a naked woman had somehow made her avert her eyes.

She forced herself to look back.

There was something wrong with the woman’s beauty. None of it belonged here. She appeared too clean, too warm and too deliberately shaped. Every feature invited attention while fitting together so perfectly that Mara could not imagine a real face beneath it.

The woman did not resemble the Empty. She moved with purpose, even if the purpose was concealed beneath the water.

Alive was not the correct word, but she was certainly not hollow.

Mara turned toward Rook.

He had already drawn the one-handed scythe from the coffin. The short handle rested across his forearm, while its hooked blade hovered near the side of the boat. His other hand had risen until it waited only a few inches from Mara’s face.

His attention never left the swimmer.

The ferryman stood perfectly still. His hands remained upon the pole, but he had stopped guiding the boat. They drifted upon the slow current while the woman moved beside them.

Even against a fourth rank, Rook never looked or felt this tense, after all, his knuckles had already turned white from gripping his weapon.