Corpse Cold (Immortal Treachery Book 3)

by Allan Batchelder

  Turley closed his eyes, seemed to think about the problem for a while, and eventually said, “Why don’t you post bills, advertising that the Reaper will be at a certain location on a certain date. People will talk, rumors will spread. The Reaper will be dying to know why this promise has been made and who, if anyone, shows up in his name. Thus, his curiosity will compel him to attend, allowing you to…to…spring your trap?

  Vykers was stunned. “That is fuckin’ brilliant,” Igraine smiled. “I’d no idea you were such a sneaky little bastard.”

  “Thank you?” said Turley, unsure if he was being insulted or complimented.

  “Now, I’ve just got to find a scribe.”

  “Actually,” the goblin said, “I’m a fair hand at the Queen’s script.”

  Igraine was agog. “Of course you are.”

  “But I’ll need supplies.”

  “Perfect. We need a new place to live, anyway. I’m tired of these crazy old women pryin’ into my affairs.”

  The new place turned out to be an apartment upstairs of a vintner who was down on his luck. He owned the whole building, ramshackle as it was, and was desperate to rent the space and offset his losses. Vykers was only too happy to pay for two months, though, in truth, he could just as easily have purchased the building. Previous experience, however, had warned him against being too free with his money – especially whilst living in Igraine’s body. And if the vintner had any curiosity about the young woman occupying his apartment, he showed no sign of it.

  Once Igraine and Turley had settled in, Igraine went off in search of ink, quills, and parchment. Along the way, she bought a week’s worth of breads, dried meats, cheeses and other foodstuffs to sustain herself and the goblin while they worked and waited.

  By morning, Turley had crafted several dozen posters announcing Vykers’ appearance at a blacksmith’s shop in the warehouse district a week hence, though the goblin had been rather reluctant to oblige once he learned of Igraine’s intended target.

  “Gotta say, Turley,” Igraine announced when perusing the goblin’s work, “you surprise me at every turn. I figured if I ever saw any goblins, they’d be like rats, like mindless vermin.”

  Turley pursed his lips. “You’d be even more surprised at what my people think of humans.”

  Igraine scoffed. “You don’t need to tell me. We’re worse than mindless vermin.”

  Patience had never been the Reaper’s strong suit, and the next week felt more like a month. He used that time, as Igraine, to spread the news of Vykers’ impending visit. She gossiped in every tavern, brothel and market stall she encountered. Igraine also made an effort to learn about her goblin companion, and to fill Turley in on the finer points of the plan. When and if they caught sight of Vykers, the goblin would have a role to play, too.

  Turley was frustrated, though. He understood the details of Igraine’s plan, but not the reasons for or behind it. Why do these things? Igraine hadn’t explained that part, and it didn’t look like she was in any hurry to do so. Too, Turley worried about his own future. Igraine might well have saved him from death in the goblin warrens, but how long could he survive outside, in the humans’ world? Somehow, his calm, settled existence had been thrown completely out of order, and he now lived moment-to-moment, at the mercy of a woman who was generous with things but not with her innermost thoughts. In short, Turley had no idea where any of this was going.

  The big day arrived, as all days do, regardless of Igraine and Turley’s readiness. Igraine had chosen a blacksmith’s shop near the warehouse district. The weather had warmed a bit, turning the accumulated snow to slush, and the air was smokier than usual; too many fires in too many stoves and hearths, and not enough breeze. If the problem grew much worse, Shapers from all over Lunessfor would convene and summon a storm to scrub the sky over the capital. As it was, the weather seemed to emphasize Vykers’ mood: it was a dark, dreary day, a day for vengeance.

  *****

  Arune, In Lunessfor

  There was a mob in the blacksmith’s street, with the greatest concentration located just outside the man’s shop. Although Arune was baffled by this event, it wasn’t until she spied the young woman at the mouth of an alley across the street that the Shaper knew she’d been drawn here on purpose. But what was that purpose? Arune didn’t sense Aoife’s presence anywhere in the city, so the Shaper’s worst fears hadn’t yet come to fruition. There didn’t appear to be any other magicians of any sort in the vicinity, either. If this was a trap, Arune couldn’t for the life of her imagine how Vykers might spring it.

  As she pondered the question, the girl happened to make eye contact, and she recognized Arune, disguise notwithstanding. The girl then turned away down the alley. The Shaper set off in pursuit, at what she gauged to be a safe distance. Arune used all her arcane gifts to look for Vykers’ hidden accomplices, but she found none, no assassins hiding on rooftops, no ruffians lurking just beyond the next corner. And Vykers’ young woman gave every indication of trying to escape any encounter with the Shaper.

  The alley opened into a broad industrial street, fronted by a row of large warehouses. From Arune’s perspective, Vykers’ girl appeared to be looking for a place to hide. The first two warehouses were guarded and, the Shaper presumed, locked. When the girl reached the third warehouse, however, she found it abandoned and unlocked. Once the girl went inside, Arune crossed the street and followed, scanning the building for signs of magic or hidden henchmen. Strangely, she found no sign of life, despite having just witnessed Vykers’ girl run in. Arune was aware there were magics that made a person invisible to Shapers, A’Shea and others. Somehow, Vykers must have gotten a hold of such magic and used it to hide from Arune. But if anyone should have been hiding, it was Arune, from Vykers.

  Then, there was the mystery of the front door. This was no abandoned building, slowly decaying into the river from years of disuse. The sigils on the door suggested it was, instead, property of the crown, of Her Majesty. Why had it been left unguarded and unlocked? Arune again found no sign of magic, not the least iota.

  What was Vykers up to?

  The girl was just ahead of her, running into the warehouse’s vast storage space, now currently filled with sand. When she hit the sand, Vykers’ girl struggled to make progress, her feet sinking and stumbling with every step. Arune closed the gap with ease and stepped onto the sand just seconds behind her quarry.

  Only it wasn’t sand. It was salt. The instant she set foot upon it, she knew, as any Shaper would. Well, she didn’t need her magic to catch the girl and question her. Arune sprinted at her target, reveling at the strength in Vykers’ legs. In no time, she was within two strides of the girl.

  And then disaster struck. She heard an odd whooshing noise and looked up to see an avalanche of salt bearing down on her. She had just enough time to cover her eyes and close her mouth, and then she was buried. Unable to use her magic to escape, Arune tried to fight through the still falling salt. She was blind and couldn’t breathe, but at last she managed to push her head free of the pile and was promptly struck unconscious by a monstrous blow to the head.

  *****

  Kittins & Rem, On the Road

  Rem had gone downstairs and fetched a hot meal for both men.

  Kittins nodded his thanks. He wasn’t one for big, showy expressions of gratitude, and he’d come to mistrust just about everyone and everything, so the nod was the best he could do. Truth was, he was glad Rem had come along, spy or not. The captain had been ugly enough with half a face, but once the Shaper had burned the lot, Kittins had a hard time getting service, information or even eye contact from anyone. Having a traveling companion would grease the skids, as the saying went, as long as the actor didn’t talk too much. Kittins hated that.

  After both men had finished eating, Kittins said, “It’s gonna work like this: you’ll be in front, like you’re on my trail, and I’ll be in back. If the Shaper shows up, detain ‘im long enough for me to catch up.”

  “You
don’t really think you can kill the Queen’s Shaper, do you?”

  “I nearly did.”

  “And you nearly died.”

  “Dyin’s nothing. Living’s the bitch.” Kittins stood, packed his few extra items into his bed roll. “What’d Cindor tell you about my trip north?”

  “Something about rumors of the Reaper up there. The hell of it is, I was already up north when he magicked me down to Lunessfor for this errand.”

  Kittins threw his bundle over his shoulder. “What were you doing up there?”

  “Looking for the captain’s…for Long Pete’s kid.”

  “One child in the whole north?” said Kittins incredulously. “They’ll never find her.”

  “Maybe they won’t, and maybe they will,” Rem replied angrily.

  “I’ll see you outside,” Kittins said as he left the room.

  Rem didn’t like thinking of his friends endlessly wandering the frozen north. He would have given anything to rejoin them. If there was any bright side to his current fix, it was the prospect, however slim, of exacting some measure of vengeance upon Cindor. With that almost happy thought in mind, Rem lurched to his feet and worked his way out the door and downstairs to the common room, where he discovered, to his surprise, that Kittins had already settled his account.

  Outside in the snowy street, Kittins stood holding the reins of his own horse and Rem’s.

  “Where’d you find her?” the embarrassed actor inquired.

  “Other end of town. Wasn’t hard to locate her, but I had to kill the man sittin’ on her.”

  Rem was aghast. “You’re kidding.”

  Kittins shot him a look with his death’s head face that suggested the captain had never experienced a single moment of humor in his life.

  “Okay,” Rem gulped. “Is that, uh…is that going to be trouble for us?”

  “I kill bastards like that every day; nobody ever misses ‘em.”

  “Right,” said Rem, mostly to himself.

  “Now mount up,” Kittins commanded, “and remember, you go well ahead of me.”

  There was something strangely liberating about being in the lead, not having to squint through the storm at a phantom’s back, but instead being the first to ride through fresh snow. It felt like being the first man to plot a course in a new land. Of course, in the back of Rem’s mind, he was aware that Cindor might appear at any moment and spoil his mood. He was also still smarting from the theft of his identity, career and theater company, but that was a worry for another day. He understood his old mates needed to work, and he could hardly blame them.

  And this business about the Reaper? What was this nonsense? Sacking towns, cities and kingdoms was the Reaper’s mission in life. Or so Rem had heard. As long as Vykers didn’t come for Lunessfor or, say, Bysvaldia, it was no particular concern of Rem’s. For all he knew, the Reaper would make a better ruler than half the lords in the land.

  Out of nowhere, Rem was hit by a thought, a question so astounding, it nearly knocked him from his saddle and into the snow: what was the name of this land? He knew the names of the various kingdoms, baronies, city-states, et cetera. But what was the name of the greater whole? Had he forgotten it? Had he ever known it?

  He pulled back on the reins, stopping his horse in its tracks. He needed to talk with Kittins, and Cindor be damned. Only Kittins was being entirely uncooperative. When Rem had stopped, Kittins did likewise. Rem tried walking towards the captain, and Kittins retreated. Finally, Rem jumped off his horse and began waving his arms.

  It was a very unhappy Kittins who arrived at Rem’s side some five minutes later.

  “What?” Kittins asked, as sharply as possible.

  “What is the name of this land?”

  The captain grimaced (hard as it was to tell) and said, “I don’t know. Aren’t we in Serefordshire?”

  “No,” Rem answered, “I mean, the larger land, the whole land. What is the whole of it called?”

  Now, even Kittins became alarmed. “It’s, er…it’s…”

  “Can’t think of it, can you?”

  “’Course I can. I just wasn’t expectin’ the question. It’ll come to me.”

  “I’ve got a Merchant says it won’t.”

  It didn’t.

  “And what’s that s’posed to signify?” Kittins demanded defensively.

  “Signify?”

  “I was teachin’ myself to read before all o’ this shit with the Great Eight,” Kittins explained.

  And shit it had been.

  Whatever it was they’d been talking about, Rem couldn’t regain the thread of it. Reluctantly, he remounted, flicked his mare’s reins and continued in the direction he’d been heading. When he looked back, Kittins was already quite a ways behind him.

  Rem couldn’t shake the feeling he’d forgotten something.

  *****

  The Giants & Nelby, the Forest

  They followed the oursine tracks back to the spot where the beasts had run into Nelby. In the growing light of dawn, it was easy to see there were prints all over the place, but no sign of blood or bodies.

  “Can you read this mess?” Karrakan asked.

  “Can I? How long have you known me?” But as Karrakan opened his mouth to respond, Eoman said “Don’t answer that.” The king of the giants got down on one knee and scrutinized the various prints. “There!” he cried. “You see that?”

  Karrakan followed his friend’s outstretched finger until he saw it: a boot print.

  “Oursine, unshod human feet, and that,” Eoman declared. “I reckon one of those slavers took Mardine’s child. Again. And you see these funny looking prints here?” he indicated a pair not far from the boot. “Those aren’t human feet, and they’re not rightly giant, either.”

  “That’s all? But one man? It shouldn’t be too difficult to rescue the girl then.”

  Eoman squinted at the snowy ground, color in his cheeks the only sign of his growing excitement. “I believe you’re right, unless he meets up with more of his kind before we catch him. And more’s always welcome to my axe.”

  Karrakan took a moment to readjust his hold on Nelby, since it looked like he and his king would soon be off again. “What do you say?”

  “We follow the boots. If we stop to rest, we may lose him.”

  The sky continued to brighten, but Karrakan’s mood did not, for he knew Eoman’s thirst for vengeance would not be sated by the death of one man. Karrakan looked down at Nelby, still fast asleep despite the constant jostling, and pulled his coat flap more tightly around her. If he could just save this one human, he might not feel so terrible about what was coming. When he looked up again, Eoman was already several hundred strides away. Even from that distance, he could see his king put a finger to his lips: silence. That suggested that he thought the slaver was nearby.

  By mid-morning, they found the cave-like place in which Innoman and the child had spent the night. They had to wake Nelby and ask her to crawl inside, because the opening was too small for either giant. She was hesitant, at first, but then realized that she was probably safer in the giants’ company than she’d been in months. If they were unafraid of what they’d find in the cave, it stood to reason that Nelby had nothing to fear as well.

  It was rough going, those first ten or fifteen feet. All of the strength and coordination seemed to have drained right out of Nelby’s arms and legs, making her feel a thing of rags and string. The further she crawled, however, the stronger and steadier she got. At the cave’s center, the scent of Esmine almost brought Nelby to tears, and she cried out briefly, a short, sharp sob.

  “What is it?”

  “She was here,” Nelby managed. “She was here.”

  But that man had also been here, that Innoman, and his scent was as powerful as Esmine’s, though far less pleasant.

  “How many others you reckon?”

  “Just one.”

  “For now,” she heard Eoman mutter to his friend.

  Nelby crawled back out, blinki
ng in the light.

  Karrakan smiled at her. “You’re looking better.”

  “Feeling it, too, thanks to you.”

  “I still can’t let you walk,” the giant said. “You’ll be too slow. But you can ride on my back. That’ll be a good deal easier on both of us. Unless…” he trailed off, looking towards his friend.

  “Unless what?” Eoman growled.

  “Unless you want to carry her a while.”

  Eoman stared at Nelby, his deep set eyes almost lost in shadow under his bushy brows. “Nah,” said he. “I don’t.”

  As Eoman set off in search of Innoman and Esmine, Karrakan leaned into Nelby before hoisting her on his back. “He doesn’t like humans, but don’t you worry: we’ll change his mind yet.”

  *****

  Long & Company, Underground

  The new chamber was filled with hundreds of mummified remains, all in a kneeling position, all facing the doorway in which Spirk, Long and Ron now stood, supporting Yendor between them.

  “Those aren’t children,” Long said. “They look more like really small women.”

  “Women,” Yendor breathed wistfully.

  Spirk started into the room, but Long restrained him. “Let me,” he said. “You just make sure nothin’ jumps out and gets me.”

  The captain walked forward, still holding his glowing sword in front of him like some sort of religious talisman. By its light, he could see about half of the corpses. They had elongated heads with unusual braiding down the sides that came together in larger braids down their backs. Each wore a simple leather tunic, tied at the waist with more braids, though whether these were of hair or some other fiber, Long could not tell. The arms and legs of the supplicants, as Long thought of them, were ritualistically scarred in labyrinthine patterns that caught the captain’s eyes and made him dizzy. Refocusing his thoughts, he saw that the fingers and toes of each body were far too long for humans, and the sunken eyes were much too big. The floor underneath each body was scratched and scrawled with symbols and runes Long had never before seen.