Corpse Cold (Immortal Treachery Book 3)

by Allan Batchelder

  It was some time before he could catch his breath and still his trembling arms and legs enough to extricate himself from his icy tomb. Somewhere off in the shadows, he heard the eerie screams of someone’s pony in mortal agony. If he could find it, he’d have to put it down. “Yendor?” he called out. “Spirk? Ron?”

  “Here,” a voice groaned, not far to Long’s left. “Leg’s broke, I think. Arm, too.” A breathy, laboring cackle. “If I lose anything else, you’ll have naught left but my pecker!”

  “The gods forfend!” Long joked, working his way towards Yendor’s voice.

  “The fuck we fall into?” Yendor asked.

  “Can’t say. We’ll find out soon enough, though. Hold up your good arm and let me see if I can find you.”

  But it was the toe of Long’s boot that found Yendor’s ribs first.

  “Aaaagh! Alheria’s a bitch!” Yendor yelled. “Those are my ribs, not my arm!”

  “Apologies,” Long muttered. “I’m as blind as you, down here.”

  It was hard going, but in time they both managed to get Yendor to his feet, leaning rather heavily on Long’s shoulder.

  “Gotta find those boys, now,” said Long. “Don’t know if we can get out of this place without ‘em.”

  “We’re here,” Ron said, catching the captain by surprise.

  Yendor spoke through gritted teeth. “You don’t sound the worse for wear.”

  “Well,” Spirk admitted, “once we started fallin’, I kinda floated us down, like.”

  “Floated?” Yendor bellowed. “Why the fuck couldn’t ya float us down, too?”

  “I lost sight o’ you almost from the get-go,” Spirk replied defensively.

  “Easy now,” Long said. “The boys ain’t to blame for this latest disaster.”

  “Bleedin’ miracle any of us survived.”

  “The horses didn’t,” Long answered. In the distance, one of them continued to scream. “We’ll have to put that one down. Don’t want her dyin’ to bring anything after us.”

  This comment so alarmed Spirk that he nearly started to weep. “What’d come after us?”

  “Nothing, lad,” Long replied. “Just bein’ safe.”

  Snow continued to pour on them in rivers from the surface, which was so far above and behind them, the sky was no longer visible.

  “How far you figure we’ve fallen?” Yendor asked his captain.

  Long shrugged. “Farther ‘n the tallest tower in Moon’s Crossing.”

  “And where ‘ave we ended up?” Ron wondered.

  But no one had an answer or even a guess.

  Long wasted no time in determining the horse could not be saved and put his sword through its heart.

  “Hate to do that,” he muttered. Then, more loudly, “Maybe we should huddle around this old girl while she’s still got some warmth in her. Take some time to figure out what we’re gonna do next.”

  Yendor slid down the horse’s belly into a seated position. “I guess this is where I bravely tell you all to leave me,” he said. “Where I say I can’t let myself become a burden to ya…only, I ain’t saying it. I can see that I’m fucked. I can bloody well see that. But I don’t wanna die alone.”

  His eyes had adjusted to the darkness just enough to let Long see the sad, deflated shape of his old friend against the darker, larger bulk of the dead horse. “No more talk o’ dyin’!” he commanded. “That isn’t helpin’ anyone. Let’s just…let’s just set a spell, like I said, and try to figure what’s next.”

  “We need to bind Yendor’s breaks,” Spirk offered. “Somehow. And maybe I can dull his pain somewhat. Maybe.”

  “You do that, lad, and I’ll never tease you again,” Yendor promised.

  “First, I gotta…” Small flames appeared at Spirk’s fingertips. When he pulled them together, the flames joined to form a decidedly larger one. “We got anything to burn?” he asked. “I need both hands to help Yendor.”

  “Guess we can use some of this pony’s mane. Don’t suppose she’ll be missin’ it,” said Long, as he sheared away a good handful. “Only, how will you keep it from burning up too fast?”

  Spirk reached out and touched the hair, transferring the flames from his hand. “It won’t. I don’t know why, exactly, but it just kinda holds the fire in place.”

  And so it did. The fire behaved like a normal flame in every regard, except that it didn’t consume the horse’s mane. Long swept it to his left and right, casting the light into areas he hadn’t seen before. It appeared tons of snow and rocky debris had come down into the hole with him and his companions. But where it hadn’t fallen, patches of stone flooring were visible.

  “Can you make us a proper fire with that?” Yendor grunted, pointing his nose at Long’s makeshift torch.

  “Prob’ly,” said Spirk.

  Once Yendor’s ‘proper’ fire was burning at the group’s feet, Spirk set about tending to the older man’s injuries.

  “I can help bind him,” Long offered, handing his torch to Ron. “I’ve done it often enough on the battlefield.”

  It was a difficult task, but they got it done to Yendor’s satisfaction. Or what passed for it. “’S good,” he groaned. “Might need a little sleep,” and “Wish I had me some Skent,” he whispered as he drifted into unconsciousness.

  “What do you think?” Long asked Spirk.

  “I’m kinda hungry.”

  Long sighed. Despite the young man’s new abilities, he remained a boy inside. “I was talkin’ about Yendor. What do you make of his chances?”

  “Oh! Uh…I think he’s gonna be okay?” Spirk responded, as if hoping he’d given the right answer this time.

  “But if we try to move him too soon…well, one thing at a time. Let’s make camp here. Ron and I can explore this hole a bit while you keep a watch on Yendor.”

  In truth, the most important part of said exploration was finding the other horses, salvaging supplies, and determining whether or not there were any immediate threats nearby. Holding his horse hair torch, Long beckoned Ron to follow him into the shadows.

  Spirk, of course, was unhappy to see his leader and his best friend depart – especially in such a lightless, eerie place –abandoning him with no one for company but the unconscious Yendor. Seconds passed like hours. Minutes felt like days. And all the while it was cold – teeth chattering, limb-shivering cold. In spite of his anxieties and his physical discomfort, Spirk fell asleep.

  Such is the power of magic.

  ~ SIX ~

  Mureen, In the Cottage

  If Mureen found Tinalia’s appearance unsettling, the Svarra’s eldest son was positively horrifying. It was true that some Svarren had one eye, and others had three, but Baris had multiple eyes all over his head. No wonder he was such a talented hunter! Unfortunately, once he’d entered the room, Mureen never felt free of his gaze, as if a part of him was staring at her at all times. Worse still, it quickly became apparent that Tinalia harbored a not-so-secret desire to make a match between her guest and her son.

  As the three worked to skin, clean and butcher the boar Baris had brought home, Mureen could not escape the feeling that she was the one being readied for consumption.

  “And isn’t my Baris a strong one!” Tinalia remarked. “How many other hunters can bring down a boar single-handed?”

  “And it was single-handed, you know, mum. I hit him a good one right between his ears, and the fight went out of him!” Baris winked at Mureen, and a more disturbing sight she’d never witnessed.

  “What do you say, eh, Mureen? Isn’t my boy a marvel?”

  “Yes,” the giantess was quick to reply. “Certainly, certainly.” It wasn’t much, but it was all she could think to say, her mind now being so occupied with nightmarish visions of conjugal relations with the Svarren male. Shaken, she rededicated herself to the chore she’d been given: collecting the various cuts of boar and placing them on the counter. Baris had already bled the beast, so it wasn’t as messy a job as it might have been. Still,
there was something about the dismembered boar that bothered Mureen.

  When the task was complete, Baris excused himself in order to clean up and change into fresh clothing. Mureen had never known or even heard of a Svarra who cared for cleanliness, but then Tinalia and Baris were not normal Svarren. How they had come to be as they were was a question that vexed the giantess. She had little opportunity to dwell upon it, though, because Tinalia never stopped talking, even as she selected a good-sized piece of loin and prepared it for the fire.

  “Baris, you know, is nearly your size. Quite large for one of our people. You’d make a good match for one another, if you learned to fancy my boy.”

  “Yes, mum.”

  “You couldn’t ask for a better provider or more stalwart companion.”

  Mureen let the comment hang in the air. She could think of no suitable response and hoped that a lengthy silence might communicate what her words had not. But no such luck.

  “After all, dearie,” Tinalia crooned, “It’s the least you could do to repay us for all the trouble we’ve gone to on your behalf. It isn’t easy feeding and caring for a woman of your size. And, as I say, my Baris is quite the prize!”

  Tinalia gestured for Mureen to follow, and the women went back into the sitting room, where the Svarren woman placed the meat and some root vegetables on the fire. “I should do this in the kitchen, but I just adore the aroma of roast meat wafting about the cottage!”

  Baris entered the room, accompanied by a cloud of some powerfully scented perfume. His clothes, like those of his mother, were rich in fabric, cut and design, but seemed somehow out of date and at least one size too small. He actually bowed slightly whilst entering and proceeded to set a table for dinner.

  “And his manners!” Tinalia sang out. “You’ll hardly find better in Lunsford!”

  If Mureen was expecting a bashful Baris to silence his mother, she was sorely disappointed. Instead, he poured something dark from a decanter into three goblets and offered the first to the giantess.

  “It’s only wine,” he smiled, his myriad eyes twinkling at her.

  “Only? That’s Her Majesty’s favorite red or I’m one of the fey!” Tinalia put in.

  Whether it was or wasn’t, Mureen waited until both her hosts had taken a sip before she did the same. The gratitude, the trust she’d felt in Tinalia was slowly metastasizing into virulent paranoia, and throughout dinner, it only got worse. At one point, a now tipsy Tinalia leaned in to whisper in Mureen’s ear. “He’s a bull ‘twixt the sheets, I can tell you that. But I need a little relief now and then!”

  Mureen put her goblet down. “You’ve both been awfully kind, but I’m afraid I’m still too weak for wine just yet. I wonder if I might lie down for a spell?”

  The rapidity with which the levity fled from Tinalia’s eyes was astounding. “Lie down?” she asked. “Already?”

  Mureen nodded.

  “Well, if you must. But be ready to contribute more generously to your new family when you awaken.”

  “Of course!” Mureen replied with feigned enthusiasm. New family? How had everything gone so wrong, so quickly? As she walked away from the table, she couldn’t escape the feeling that her hosts were staring at her back, plotting. When she stepped into her room and turned to close the door, she discovered they were, indeed, watching her every move.

  “Good night!” she said, as sweetly as possible.

  Tinalia waved dismissively and returned her attention to her meal. Baris, on the other hand, maintained eye contact until Mureen had closed the door. Just as the giantess was preparing to climb into bed, she heard the telltale signs of something heavy – the hutch, say – being moved in front of her door. It was nothing Mureen couldn’t work her way past, but it sent a very clear message: you are not leaving any time soon.

  *****

  Kittins, On the Road

  It was as biting, as miserable a winter as Kittins could remember, and he’d been commanded to slog through it in order to accomplish a task that could have been done by magic with much less time and effort. Thus, he could only assume the real goal in sending him forth had been banishment. And if he died in the effort? Well, no one in Lunessfor would mind, that was certain.

  And why was he again letting Her Majesty dictate what he would do or not do? Hadn’t he sworn revenge upon her for what he’d been forced to do under Lord Gault, for what he’d become in Gault’s service?

  His mind unaccountably went to thoughts of Tarmun Vykers, the Reaper, the man Kittins was supposed to locate and spy upon. Now there was a fellow who knew how to obtain vengeance, if the stories were true. Vykers burned for vengeance with the heat of a blast furnace.

  Kittins, though, was cold, colder than the ice crusting on his cloak, colder than the snow blowing in his face. In that regard he supposed he was in his element, that he’d found a kindred spirit in this worst of all winters. There was nothing the weather could do to his soul that he hadn’t already done to himself. Freeze to death? Not bloody likely.

  His horse, however, was a different matter. The Queen’s stable master had given him one of those northern ponies – not large, but stout and with a good, thick coat. Hard to believe the beast was in any way related to the proud stallions of the Queen's Swords. The pony was used to snow, but this snow? This cold? Kittins reckoned he’d be eating the animal before the week was out.

  A bigger problem was the tedium he’d be facing throughout the trek north. In the army, he’d made longer journeys, but he’d had company, been part of a company. He didn’t need companionship, but he worried how he’d respond to endless solitude. He feared going mad, like the End-of-All-Things, and deciding the world would be better off if everything in it died.

  He scanned the road ahead: nothing but grays and whites.

  Thinking of the End brought his mind back to the Reaper. Kittins wondered what it would be like to fight him. The Reaper was faster – faster than anyone, it was said. And he might be stronger. Kittins would give him that. But could Vykers take as much damage as the enspelled captain? It would be interesting to find out.

  An especially powerful gust of wind forced Kittins to rewrap the scarf around his face and pull down on the flaps of his hat.

  Gods, it was going to be a long trek.

  *****

  Rem, In Pursuit

  Not far behind him, Remuel Wratch likewise battled his way through the snow, wishing himself anywhere else in the world. The captain, it seemed, was immune to the cold. That might have been due to his military discipline, or he might simply have taken too many blows to the head. Whatever the case, he plowed forward without the slightest change in pace or direction. Rem, though, felt bullied aside by every clod or clump of ice in his path. For a man who’d made his living on his imagination, he was hard pressed to envision himself surviving this journey. The very idea was laughable, really.

  The Queen’s Mage had conscripted Rem into this spying business, and Rem, ever the narcissist, had fancied himself well-suited to the job, had even supposed it might be fun. Fun! What an idiot he’d been, what a clodpoll! The last time he’d indulged in this sort of work, the Lord and Lady Hawsey had killed one another. And who knew how many others had suffered because of Rem’s clumsy espionage?

  Maybe his current assignment was payment for deeds – or misdeeds – done. There must have been faster, more efficient ways to dispatch an unwanted servant. But sending Rem off on a hopeless task whilst he slowly froze to death? That Cindor had a disturbing sense of humor.

  Other men might plot revenge in such circumstances; Rem thought only of how to survive the next mile.

  *****

  Vykers & Turley, In the Castle

  Vykers pressed his injured guide forward without compunction. Yes, it was possible Turley’s leg might not withstand such stress and strain, but time was growing short. Ever since the encounter with Turley’s kin, Vykers worried that one or more of them might run off to warn Her Majesty of Irgaine’s presence, perhaps even of her theft
of the End’s dagger.

  For that is what the ‘bad thing’ had been, and now Vykers possessed it. Whether he used it for its intended purpose or as a bargaining chip to force concessions from the Queen, the Reaper finally had an advantage that Her Majesty had not already anticipated and countered. He hadn’t felt this confident since he’d been in his own body. And the beauty of the situation was that Her Majesty would assume someone had broken in to steal the dagger. She might even assume it was Vykers, and that he’d make his escape as quickly as possible. She was far less likely to imagine that he’d continue working his way further into the castle – unless it was to assassinate her – and she’d never guess his actual destination.

  Vykers just needed to get out of these rat tunnels and into the castle proper.

  “How much farther?” Igraine demanded.

  “Not. Much,” Turley panted.

  “Good. You get me there, I may let you live.”

  Turley didn’t reply. He wasn’t sure that was a blessing.

  Vykers listened during their flight, paradoxically dreading and hoping to hear the sounds of bodies approaching. Having whetted his appetite for carnage with the unfortunate goblins, the Reaper began to hunger for a greater challenge and more bloodshed. In a moment of rare clarity, he wondered if this was due to his own nature or the dagger’s malevolent influence. He knew from experience that such weapons had a will of their own. The only question was: did they share the same goals? Seeing as the dagger had nearly killed him, Vykers was more than a little skeptical.