Corpse Cold (Immortal Treachery Book 3)

by Allan Batchelder

  Arune slumped back onto the bed in her rented room and stared up at the ceiling. Suddenly, she felt claustrophobic; the room seemed too warm and too small. I have Vykers’ body, she told herself. I’m the strong one. I have a Shaper’s magic. I’m the powerful one. For all that, she was afraid, and it took hours to calm herself enough to begin her Questing.

  By dawn, she had learned nothing, which terrified her even more. It was as if Vykers, like Aoife, had completely vanished, winked out of existence. And this only seemed to confirm Arune’s fears that Vykers and the A’Shea had found one another.

  The Shaper had no idea what to do or how to proceed and so sank into herself in a kind of paralysis. After a time, she realized she was hungry and wondered how long it had been since she’d eaten. A quick glance towards her window revealed the lengthening shadows of evening, which told her she’d lost an entire day to her doubts and suspicions. And that is all they are, she told herself, suspicions. The only way to allay her fears, however, was to hunt down Vykers and see for herself what he’d been up to in her absence, to ensure he hadn’t reunited with Aoife.

  Of course, Arune could not risk being recognized. She’d have to further alter her appearance, but, given her skills, that wasn’t an especially daunting challenge. No, what worried Arune was the Reaper’s indomitable will, that the connection between his body and soul that appeared severed might prove otherwise. She feared he would recognize his own body no matter what she did to disguise it.

  And if the Reaper identified Arune…

  She couldn’t answer that question. He could hardly kill her, could he? That would condemn him to spending the rest of his days in the girl’s body.

  A chill breeze carried snowflakes into Arune’s room, so she got up, crossed the room, and closed the shutters.

  Vykers could not afford to kill her.

  With that thought, she packed her few meager belongings and made ready to depart for Lunessfor in the morning.

  *****

  Vykers & Turley, Under the Castle

  “Her Majesty’s throne room is on our left. You may view it through Pinda.”

  The look on Igraine’s face must have been quite sour, because Turley wasted no time in clarifying. “Some of our spyholes, as you call them, are rather special. We give them their own names, so that everyone will understand when we speak of them.”

  “Everyone?” Vykers echoed irritably.

  “Everyone in my clan.”

  Vykers stared at the hole-pitted wall. “Seems like any o’ these should work.”

  “But they don’t,” Turley cautioned. “Some are too low, others are cut at odd angles. Only Pinda offers the perfect view.”

  He was about to ask how the goblins had arrived at the name Pinda, but decided he didn’t care. Another long-winded story, he didn’t doubt. Without another word, the stepped over to the wall, braced his hands on either side of Pinda, and peeked through the hole.

  The light in the throne room stayed at a constant level, through the use of wall sconces, candelabras and arcane means, so Vykers wasn’t able to determine the time of day. However, Her Majesty reclined in a little chair at the foot of the enormous dais upon which her actual throne sat. Her mage, Cindor, lurked in the shadows at her left, just as he had the last two times Vykers had visited the throne room. As the Reaper watched, four guards detached themselves from those surrounding the chamber and approached the Queen.

  The four Vykers! And be damned if the lead man wasn’t wearing the Reaper’s supposedly destroyed sword! Ah, that Alheria was a deceitful bitch – a conniving, manipulative, deceitful bitch. Vykers pulled away from the wall and nearly spit on the tunnel floor to rid himself of the rage, the bile that had risen in Igraine’s throat. Must he always be two moves behind Her Majesty?

  He wanted to hole up somewhere, to think and brood on what he’d seen. But he returned to Pinda and took another look. This time, the four Vykers were no longer visible, and Alheria was conferring with her Shaper.

  The injuries she’d done to the Reaper over the years were many, and every gift she’d bestowed upon him always came with an unexpected cost. He’d long thought of toppling her from power, of usurping her throne – not out of any particular animus against her, but because he was the Reaper, and such actions were as much a part of his nature as violence was to a boar. But now – now! – he had reason, and reason upon reason to kill Her Majesty.

  But first, he needed to retrieve his own body.

  “How much farther to the warden’s chambers?” he demanded of Turley.

  “Not much, mistress. But we must pass the bad thing, first.”

  Vykers laughed without the slightest trace of merriment. “You’re looking at the bad thing.”

  He hadn’t had time to digest his anger when Turley pulled to a stop in front of him and shivered visibly.

  “What?”

  “It is just ahead, trapped in the wall on our left.”

  Same side as the Queen’s throne room.

  “Show me,” Vykers said.

  “I’d rather you went first.”

  No surprise there. Igraine shouldered past and took several steps. Suddenly, Vykers felt it in his bones, and he smiled. “I know this bad thing,” he proclaimed. “None better.” He looked back at Turley who was now clearly uncomfortable.

  “You…you know it?”

  As low as he’d been mere moments before, Vykers was exultant now. Triumph surged through his veins and set giddy fire to all his extremities. “Steal my sword, will you?” he chuckled, much to Turley’s bemusement.

  Igraine took a further two steps and laid a hand on the wall. The look on her face was of near euphoria. “So, it’s inside the wall, is it? In some kind of vault, I’m guessing. Probably spell-protected on the other side, but this side?” Again, Igraine laughed, which sounded more like a giggle to Vykers’ ears, making him laugh all the harder at the absurdity it. He caught a glimpse of Turley watching him, goggle-eyed, and redoubled his laughter. “Turley!” he called out.

  “Yes, mistress?” the little goblin replied nervously.

  “You little fellers are tunnellers, diggers…”

  “Yes?”

  “You got any tools hereabouts or nearby?”

  “Tools?”

  “Tools! Hammers, chisels. Tools!”

  “There’s always a small supply at every junction. I thought you would have noticed…”

  “Go fetch me some and hurry back!”

  If Vykers was worried Turley might run off and never return, it wasn’t evident in Igraine’s face. The little goblin turned away and scuttled off down the corridor.

  In his absence, Vykers set to work on the wall with Igraine’s dagger. If the Reaper was correct about what lay behind the stones, he’d have no further need of the girl’s weapon. With this thought in mind, he attacked the mortar between those stones with gusto, scoring, pitting and digging at it until he had outlined a good-sized block of granite. In time, Turley returned with the promised collection of tools, which included a small pick, a hammer and three different chisels.

  “Ah!” Vykers called out, “Give me that hammer and one o’ those chisels.”

  But the goblin hesitated.

  “Hand it over!” Vykers insisted.

  “I’m just worried the noise may attract my brethren.”

  Vykers stopped. “It might?” He turned back to the wall and began pounding. “Because I would love to kill something right about now.”

  Turley scampered over to Igraine’s side and planted his back against the wall. If anything was headed his way, he wanted to see it or them before it or they saw him. The trouble was, he couldn’t hear over the sound of Igraine’s hammering, and the longer it went on, the more anxious he became.

  “I think I got it,” Vykers announced at last. But, of course, he didn’t have it. Vykers could have lifted the block from its hole and tossed it aside; Igraine could not. She hadn’t the strength, and it galled the Reaper that he continually forgot that
and was continually reminded. “Maybe I don’t,” he said.

  “Can you pull one end out and reach behind?” Turley inquired helpfully.

  Vykers wasn’t sure what the little creature was saying at first, but he eventually got the idea. “Give me that pick.”

  Turley passed it to Igraine, but his head whipped back the other way when he thought he heard footsteps approaching.

  “What is it?”

  “I am…uncertain. Is this thing you’re after a weapon?”

  Igraine only winked in response. Winked!

  “Well,” Turley fretted, “I hope you secure it soon!”

  “Workin’ on it.”

  Too soon, Turley became aware of footsteps in both directions – large numbers of footsteps.

  Igraine had the stone turned and reached gingerly into the hole. From the goblin’s perspective, she appeared fearful of spiders or some such. But he was mistaken, for Vykers knew well the sting of the thing he sought and had no interest in suffering even the tiniest scratch. Some torments, you need only suffer once. To Vykers’ relief, Igraine’s fingers lightly swept across something scabbard-shaped.

  “Mistress!” Turley interrupted in a tone of rising alarm. “Forgive the intrusion, but…”

  Twin mobs of heavily armed goblins advanced from the left and right. Turley dropped to the floor at Igraine’s feet in a panic and curled into a ball. Igraine yanked the blade from its hiding place, whipped it out of its sheath, and passed it in a broad arc in front of her chest.

  Both packs of goblins lurched to a stop and stared from Igraine to Turley and back. Slowly, their eyes gravitated towards Igraine’s forward hand, which appeared to hold…nothing. The foremost goblins leered at the girl.

  “I know you fuckers speak the Queen’s tongue. You take one more step – any o’ you – and pain’s the last thing you’ll ever know,” Igraine said.

  An especially large goblin pushed his way through his fellows and advanced on Igraine. Though not as quick as Vykers, she flicked out her arm, just as he intended, and sliced the creature’s nose right off his face. And that was just the beginning of his troubles. In moments, his face caved in on itself and left his body twitching and convulsing on the floor. Seeing this, his shocked comrades fell back in terror and disbelief.

  “That’s right, fuckers. You come near, you die in agony.”

  Both mobs backed away, to the edge of vision.

  “Hey, Turley,” Igraine said. “Your friends got any arrows or spears or other distance weapons?”

  Turley peeked out from behind his arms. “Those are not much use down here, with so many twists and turns.”

  “That’s a relief,” Igraine said.

  “Of course, there are always the poisoned blow darts…”

  “Shit!” Igraine tucked the still empty scabbard into her belt, reached down, grabbed the goblin’s arm, and heaved him to his feet. “We’ll have to run over or through ‘em. Can’t stay here and let ‘em shoot at us.”

  Turley was heavier than he looked, and his mass slowed Igraine’s charge enough that Vykers figured they’d never bust through on momentum alone. Again, Igraine extended her new weapon. “Who else wants a taste ‘o my blade?” she yelled.

  Just ahead, several of the goblins had decided they could achieve in a group what their fallen leader had failed to do by himself. Many of them brandished their hatchets, their picks, their hammers and knives in Igraine’s direction. But Vykers’ growing confidence in his new body’s abilities, along with those of the nasty weapon in his hand, made the Reaper eager to brawl with Turley’s former kin. Igraine let out a roar and ran into their midst, her hand flashing about like a hummingbird. Everywhere it went, a new cry of agony followed. In the fray, Igraine dropped her hold on Turley, and he sank to the tunnel floor again, covering his eyes and ears with his overlarge hands and muttering constantly. It might have been a prayer of some sort or a recipe for pottage, for all Vykers knew. He was too enthralled with his new dagger to pay any attention to the little goblin’s predicament. Once he’d killed or frightened off all the others, however, he was again able to focus on Turley.

  “They’re all gone, now. These ones, anyway.” Igraine looked back down the tunnel, but was unable to determine what had become of the second mob.

  “They’ll be back,” Turley gasped. “And in greater numbers.”

  There was a strange gleam in Igraine’s eyes that frightened the goblin. “Then I’ll kill them in greater numbers.”

  Turley could hardly speak. “Yes,” he whispered. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Igraine radiated aggression from every pore; her sweat stank of it. “And what do you care? Those bastards all want you dead, too.”

  The little goblin was smart enough to know when to cut his losses. There was no point in trying to explain goblin ways and beliefs to a human, especially one as hostile as his companion. Besides, this human now held the bad thing – whatever it was. Turley could not see anything in the girl’s hand, but he’d seen death flowing out of it, spectacular, greedy death.

  Igraine pulled him forward until they reached another junction. It was time to make for the Warden’s chambers.

  *****

  Nelby & Esmine, On the Run

  It was not merely cold or even terribly cold; it was the-gods-hate-us cold. Nelby had known it would be, of course, but that foreknowledge had availed her nothing. She confirmed the beginnings of frostbite in her toes and imagined it wouldn’t be long before it appeared in her fingers, nose and ears as well. She was more concerned for Esmine, but, so far, the child showed no signs of the affliction. Perhaps Alheria had not forsaken the two girls after all. Or maybe the constant running had kept the child just warm enough to avert disaster. Whatever the case, they ran – and would continue to run – until they lost the men on their trail or died trying. A small part of Nelby hoped for the second result. It was better to die free than endure another moment in the slavers’ caravan. Surely the cold wouldn’t take long in killing them both, if they chose to stop fighting it.

  So, yes, it was cold, it was dark, and the fugitives were starving and exhausted. Nelby was seconds from deciding to end it when a distant shout got her moving again. Why? She wondered. Why am I running? Where am I leadin’ this lost little one? But no answer presented itself; she knew only that she had to keep them both on their feet and moving forward. She gave Esmine’s hand a reassuring squeeze and was unnerved to receive no reaction from the girl.

  Still, they ran, stumbled, shuffled, plodded. Their pursuers were not far behind, but mercifully never seemed to get any closer, either. If only the countryside offered some hiding place – a cave, an old cabin, a sheltering deadfall, anything.

  At times, Nelby slipped on icy snow or tripped over an exposed root she hadn’t seen and went down on all fours. Gods, it was hard getting back to her feet and seemed to take longer and longer each time. Esmine, by contrast, appeared to possess some inner reserve, some hidden source of strength that defied understanding. How does she do it? Nelby wondered. Poor girl watched her mum die in front of her, and she’s not seen her da in ages. What keeps her goin’?

  The bedraggled brush gradually gave way to taller trees and then forest, and Nelby’s mood improved with it. There were places to hide in a forest – or ought to be, anyway. But there were also new dangers. Nelby decided she’d rather take her chances with wolves than with those following her. Wolves killed out of need, but slavers? Alheria knew what they might do if they caught up with the girls.

  “There!” a voice yelled from the darkness.

  And Nelby pushed harder, fairly dragging Esmine behind her. The thrall woman didn’t know how much strength she had left – a few more minutes, perhaps. If an escape didn’t present itself soon…She was unable or unwilling to complete the thought.

  The woods were lovely, dark, and deep, or would have been under other circumstances. Now, they were an unhelpful maze that favored neither pursued nor pursuers. Nelby could no longer fe
el her feet and suspected her life was a handful of heartbeats from ending. Beside her, Esmine continued to trudge along without emotion. She’d feel something, surely, if she found herself alone in the next few minutes…

  A gigantic paw swept out of the darkness and sent Nelby tumbling through the air and into the bole of a great fir. She hit it spine-first and abruptly lost consciousness from the trauma and pain.

  But something was tugging, dragging her through the snow. She wanted to drift off into oblivion, but this rough handling kept jostling her awake. Or semi-awake. Try as she might, she could not regain full command of her senses. The forest was swirling around her and fading in and out. A better-fed person might have been sick, but Nelby’s stomach was emptier than a dead man’s purse. Unable to focus on everything and unwilling to trust her eyes, she decided to put all of her strength into listening. Had she run into a bear? What had befallen Esmine? And what of the slavers who’d been chasing her?

  The dragging stopped, and Nelby heard feet crunching in the snow. Something was thrown over her, and then another something. The cold, though still present, abated slightly. In spite of her best intentions, Nelby sank back into nothingness.

  *****

  Long & Company, In the Forest

  The weather had been brutal, was brutal, as if the sky had challenged itself to produce more snow than had ever been seen and then dump it upon any souls unlucky enough to pass beneath. Long Pete clung to the leeward side of his half-frozen pony and hoped their combined body heat was enough to keep them both alive. He’d been forced to dismount hours earlier and now put all of his energy into steering the poor beast to shelter – wherever and whatever that turned out to be. His comrades, he saw, had followed his lead, and each also struggled to lead his suffering mount. Earlier, there had been the suggestion of a road. Then it was only a path. Now they plowed a channel through drifts that rose to chest-height on the horses. If it reached the withers, they were all dead, sure.

  A sound like thunder frightened the ponies and their masters, despite their exhaustion. Long had never heard of thunder happening in a blizzard, but up in the Mahnus-cursed north, anything was possible, he supposed. The ground beneath the group’s feet shook under a second deep, rolling rumble. Earthquake? A loud, jarring crack shocked everyone to a stand-still, and then the whole party was toppling, tumbling downward, into a blackness that hadn’t been there moments before. The horses screamed in terror, even as their riders clung to their sides like drowning sailors, grasping at pieces of floating wreckage. Down, down they rolled and slid on an ever-steepening slope, out of the white and into the black. Long caught a glimpse of his pony’s eye, wide with fear, and for an instant they saw one another. Then there was not enough light left to see anything. Still, snow pounded down from above like an avalanche, offering no quarter and driving the beset travelers deeper into the abyss. Against all odds, Long managed to stay atop his mount’s heaving ribs, until a sudden and final bone-rattling thump launched him off the poor beast and into a deep mound of snow some yards distant, where he lay shivering, from cold and fear alike.