Storytime

A short story. This was first published on figment.com. Enjoy!

The Collectors

“Is this the end, do you think?”

 Evon, the youngest of the companions by far, asked the question in earnest, although his fellows found wry amusement in his words. The blue-black night enveloped the threesome; the soft orange glow of the dying campfire forced deep, eerie shadows into their faces. Fodir looked up from the fire to stare at the boy, a crooked smile on his face. A single, cough escaped. Or it may have been a mirthless chuckle.

 “How long you been on this job?” Marco asked. “This is, what? Two missions?”

 “Three,” Evon said.

 Fodir hissed a strange, strangled laugh. “Why, you’re a regular combat veteran.”

 Evon shot the old man a fiery look and opened his mouth to retort, but Marco interrupted.

 “So you’ve been with the Service eight pay-cycles?”

 The youngster nodded.

 A dark look came over Marco’s face. “Wait until you’ve been in for eight years. Or eighty. Or longer.” He picked up a long, leafless branch to stir the dying embers. “Wait until you’ve been on the job for as long as me.”

 Evon watched the embers as they rose to join the stars. “But when I signed on, I was told that the job would only last as long as man continues to take up arms on the field of battle. Surely, he will soon see the error of his ways and there will be no more wars.”

 The older men chortled.

 “They’re still using that old line?” Fodir wheezed.

 “An old lie, but a good one,” Marco said.

 A shallow line formed between Evon’s brows.

 “What?” he asked. “What’s so funny?”

 Between gasps for breath, Fodir cough-laughed. Marco, however, fell silent, and the smile faded from his lips.

 “Nothing,” he replied. “Nothing at all.”

 Evon was certain the old men were making fun of him in some way he couldn’t understand. At times like this, he hated being the junior member of the Collections Crew. Silence fell between the men once more, and Evon, feeling that he was the butt of their unknown joke, seethed in silence. Staring first at one craggy face, then the other, resentment grew in him until he felt that if he didn’t get out of there, he would end up saying something that he might regret later.

 Pushing up from the dead log on which he was sitting, Evon announced, “I’m going for a walk.”

 “Don’t go too far,” Marco said. “It’s nearly time.”

 The boy didn’t answer, but continued walking toward the wood. “Don’t know who they think they are,” Evon mumbled as he stepped over a tree root that buckled up in the trail. “Think they’re so smart. Think they know so much. Well, I know a thing or two, myself. After all, I was Chosen. Out of all the villagers who died in the battle, I was chosen.” Another exaggerated step as he climbed over a fallen tree. “That means something. That has to mean something.”

 An arm locked hard around his chest and shoulders. The breath was knocked out of him as he was pulled back hard against a leather breastplate. His eyes focused on the blade that flashed in the moonlight. The edge settled against his neck. He knew the man could not kill him, but he could cause a great deal of pain, something Evon wished to avoid, if at all possible.

 “Speak one word and it will be your last,” came the warning in his ear. “Do you understand me, flatlander?”

 Evon nodded almost imperceptibly.

 “How many are you?” the gravelly voice demanded.

 A sharp intake of breath was the only sound Evon dared to make. He couldn’t answer, not without taking the risk that the knife would find he vein.

 “I said, ‘How many are you?’” The speaker tightened his hold, crushing the boy’s chest more forcefully.

 Evon squeezed the answer from his throat in a hoarse whisper. “Three. We are three.”

 “Three,” the voice repeated. As he spoke, his grip loosened and the tension that held the blade so dangerously close eased. “And you have been sent ahead to spy, boy?”

 “N-no. I needed some air.”

 “You lie. You sleep under the stars. Air is all about you.”

 Evon considered this.

“Maybe I didn’t need air, but a moment away from the company.”

 “Very likely. The company you keep — the company of flatlanders — is poor company, indeed.” The man was quiet for a moment. Then, as suddenly as he had been taken, Evon was released. His captor, a tall man of half-life years, stepped in front of him. When he spoke next, his eyes bored intently into those of the boy. “If you do not care for your companions, boy, you should seek company more suited to your temperament. Perhaps you would find our cause more suitable. One as young as you may not have heard the untainted facts. Shall I take you to the fire, where you can hear of our grievances against the flatlanders?”

 Finding courage now, Evon answered. “But you are mistaken, sir. I am not a flatlander. I am a Collector.”

 “A collector? On whose side do you fight?”

 “I do not fight, sir. My only job is to Collect.”

 “And what is it that you collect, boy?”

 “That which with every man must eventually part.”

 The man’s dark eyes narrowed.

 “You’re a scavenger? A vulture who lives on the tragedies of others?”

 “No. Nothing like that. I simply Collect what is lost.”

 The soldier opened his mouth to speak again, but something behind the boy caught his attention. Shoving Evon to the ground, the man screamed as he raised his blade and swung it around. The arc of his sword halted as it met flesh and dug in. The face of an attacking flatlander, so full of fury, transformed — first to surprise, then to resignation — at the blade’s entry into his gut. He fell hard to the ground, dropping his battle axe as the sword delivered his fate.

 Evon’s captor, breathing deep, stood shaking. Three deep breaths. Then, his jaw set firm, the soldier raised his weapon once more and drove it into the wounded man’s heart.

 The deed was done. Evon rose and moved to the side of the dying man.

 “Here. Boy. What are you doing?”

 “I must do my duty,” the child said as he knelt next to the man. “I must Collect.” With that, Evon’s tiny hand touched the forehead of the man, who released his final breath and was gone. When Evon pulled his hand back, golden motes floated upward. He watched as they rose to join the stars.

 The soldier stared at the boy, the boy at the soldier.

 “I Collect,” was all that he said.

 ***

“This has to be it, right? They’re calling it the War to End All Wars. This has to be our last assignment,” said the new recruit.

 The old men sitting around the campfire chortled. The small boy, who was standing beyond its glow, stepped forward.

 “Why don’t you tell me that one again in about a century,” said Evon.