Corpse Cold (Immortal Treachery Book 3)

by Allan Batchelder

  “I s’pose so.”

  “Do it. You might find those slavers we’re lookin’ for. You might even find Esmine.”

  It was a rather sophisticated thought for Spirk, but he wanted to tell his friend not to get his hopes up. He wanted to tell him to protect himself, protect his heart. There were a lot of things in the night, and few of them were good or helpful to Long’s cause. Then…

  “It’s comin’!”

  Long scrambled to his feet and began shaking Ron and Yendor awake. “Something bad’s comin’ and we need to build this fire as big as possible.”

  Neither man asked for clarification, but jumped right in to the effort to stoke the fire.

  “Anything else you can tell us about this thing, Spirk?” Long asked.

  “Uh-uh. Wait, no! It’s that thing from…below.”

  Nobody had to ask which thing from below.

  “Son of a bitch!” Long shouted.

  “Where’s a good stone doorway when you need one?” asked Yendor.

  “He’s fast,” said Spirk, the pitch of his voice rising steadily.

  Soon, the men had thrown all of the night’s wood on the fire and had nothing left to add.

  Long tapped Spirk on the shoulder. “Direction?”

  The Shaper pointed off into the night. Beyond the fire’s light, everything was black and blacker. A distant thudding noise began to grow in intensity.

  “Backs to the fire, boys!” Long commanded. “I’m hopin’ this bastard doesn’t care for flames.”

  Ron nocked one of his few remaining arrows, figuring, if they didn’t survive the next few minutes, that saving one or two would have been pointless. Long held his sword up as well, and even Yendor extended a dagger in what he hoped looked like bold defiance. What it felt like was futility.

  The monstrosity appeared and seemed to pause for a moment, as if relishing its certain victory.

  “’S times like this, I wish I’d lost both my eyes,” Yendor quipped.

  “He’s in my head, he’s in my head, he’s in my heeeaaad!” Spirk screamed, his voice cracking and dying off on the last note.

  The thing staggered nearer, but Long wasn’t sure where to focus his attention, on his suddenly overwhelmed Shaper or on the monster. Spirk let out a final shriek and sank to his knees, both hands over his ears. Ron let fly with his arrow, which landed with a satisfyingly fleshy thump, and reached for another without once taking his eyes off his mark. Long put a hand on his Shaper’s shoulder, as reassurance, if nothing else. Suddenly, the fire extinguished itself and the men all gasped or cried out in alarm. With a groan, Spirk fell face-first into the snow, and it seemed to Long and the others that the end had come. Just then, something much larger and heavier than Spirk hit the ground as well, and Long held his breath, not daring to move, not daring to hope.

  In the silence that followed, he knelt by his fallen friend and felt for a pulse: the boy was alive.

  “Lads?” Long said softly.

  “Here,” Ron whispered.

  “Me, too,” Yendor added.

  “Anybody hurt?”

  “Besides the Shaper?”

  Long ignored the comment. There was no point in speculating. Instead, he got down on his hands and knees and felt for the fire, hoping to find coals that could be rekindled. There were none.

  “That’s some trick,” Long said, whistling quietly. “Killed our whole fire.”

  “Never mind about the fire; is that monster dead?” Yendor said.

  “Are you volunteerin’ to go find out?” Long snapped. When Yendor said nothing in response, the captain continued. “I’m going to see if I can’t restart this fire. If the monsters don’t get us, the cold will.”

  A quarter hour later, the group was once again nestled around a bright, roaring blaze. Long sat closest to the fallen creature, while Ron and Yendor tended to the still-unconscious Spirk.

  Abruptly, Long stood up and let out a heavy sigh. “’S’pose I oughta go put a sword in that fucker.”

  “What?” Ron asked, shocked. “Why?”

  “In case he’s only injured, like our Shaper here.”

  Yendor pointed his lone eye at Ron and said “Captain’s right, Ron. It’s gotta be done.”

  And, apparently, it had to be done by Long. Such were the rewards of leadership. “How about one of you brings a torch along so I don’t stab myself by accident?”

  Wordlessly, Yendor pulled a thick branch from the fire and rose to follow his captain.

  The creature was much larger than it had seemed from a distance, maybe as tall as three men. Long wasted no time in stabbing its tumorous head – and not just once, but over and over, until there was no possibility the thing lived. When he was satisfied, Long stepped back to admire his handiwork.

  Yendor waved a hand in front of his nose. “Damned thing stinks more’n a leper’s privy.”

  Long was silent. He’d noticed that his sword was now smoking, so he stepped over to the nearest snow drift and plunged it in, repeatedly.

  As Yendor and he walked back to the fire, Yendor asked him, “What do you think that thing is?”

  That very question had been bothering Long since the first moment he’d seen the thing down in that Mahnus-cursed hole they’d all fallen into. What was it? He thought he knew, but didn’t dare give voice to the idea. How could he tell his friends they’d just killed a god?

  *****

  Vykers & Company, On the Road

  What most men called nightmares were simply dreams to Tarmun Vykers. Images of death didn’t frighten him, because he’d seen so much and caused most of it. Fire? Fire was a weapon, and he liked weapons. Dreams of loss or falling or monsters amused him. In fact, the only aspect of his dreams that bothered him to any degree was the frequent appearance of places, people or things that seemed familiar, but which he felt certain he’d never seen before. In his life, the Reaper had suffered tremendous pain of every sort, but he’d survived. He prided himself on his self-control. How was it, then, that he could neither banish nor explain these mysterious images? Rather than acknowledge his frustration, he chose to shove the question aside, to ignore these riddles. He opened his eyes, and immediately spotted another persistent annoyance.

  Her Majesty stood just outside his tent, like a robin at a worm’s hole, waiting for him to appear.

  “What?” he snapped.

  “Good morning to you, too.”

  At least it had stopped snowing. “This ain’t how I like to start my days.”

  “You’d prefer putting someone’s head on a spit, would you?”

  Vykers grinned in spite of himself. “Yeah. Something like that.” He crawled out of his blankets, pulled on his boots and stepped into the morning air. “You never visit unless you want something. What is it?”

  The Queen said nothing, at first, so Vykers stared back at her. She had not bothered to dress for the weather and, being a goddess, it probably didn’t affect her as much or in the same ways as it did men. As he looked at her, though, he caught a glint in her eye, something, the tiniest hint there was mischief in the offing, and he had no patience for it.

  “Well, if you won’t talk, I’m going to get a drink of water and…”

  Her Majesty stepped aside, and revealed Turley – or rather, Arune – crouching behind her in the snow.

  With dizzying speed, Vykers blew past the Queen and kicked Arune so hard that she flew backwards and collapsed on the ground with her arms and legs splayed wide.

  “Stop!” Alheria commanded.

  Vykers rounded on her, furious. “You knew this would happen.” Again, he flashed his invisible dagger to her throat.

  Her Majesty did not bat an eye. “I’d like that back, by the way.”

  “Sure. Where should I stick it?”

  This time, she rolled her eyes. “Must you always be so insufferably juvenile?”

  “What are you doing here, and why did you bring that…thing with you?” Vykers said as slowly and clearly as possible, withdrawin
g the knife from her throat. He noticed that none of his companions had awakened during the commotion save Igraine, who gazed longingly at Arune.

  “I came to congratulate you on your decision to investigate this villain in the north.”

  “Ha!” Vykers scoffed. “That’s weak. And I’m not doing this for you or your kingdom.”

  “Oh, I am sure of that, Reaper.” Alheria walked over to where Arune lay in the snow and waved a few fingers at her. Evidently, this achieved some desired effect, because the Queen then turned around and approached Vykers again. “But I thought that your former Shaper and I could transport you lot up there faster than an endless succession of horses.”

  “Anything you offer comes at a cost.”

  “The same is true of you, is it not?”

  “That’s as may be,” Vykers retorted, “But I’m not the one rousing you outta bed.”

  “What is the harm in jumping you up there?”

  “It changes the amount of time I have to get to know my men before we’re in the shit together. It changes how much time I have to think on things.”

  “I’ve never known you to be so deliberative.”

  “You’ve never known me.”

  The Queen pulled that secret smile of hers again, the one that made Vykers want to smash her face in. As he was contemplating that possibility, she said, “Do you have any aversion to me helping your horses, then?”

  She’d confused him again, damn her.

  “My horses?”

  “I take it your plan is to ride them into the ground and replace them as often as necessary? That seems such a waste.”

  “They’re my horses and my coin.”

  “Yes, but if I could...improve…your horses, make them stronger and faster…?

  “In exchange for?”

  “Call it a peace offering.”

  There were a lot of things he might have said in response to that, but he let it go. The truth was he was tired of the conversation. Sometimes, talking to the Queen made him feel thousands of years old, and he just wanted to be done with the chit chat and gamesmanship and go about his business.

  Seeing he did not overtly object to her proposal, Alheria walked into the center of Vykers’ little encampment, did a half turn, and then reversed herself and did a full turn in the opposite direction. The Reaper was pretty sure the gestures, movements and such were for show, and that all Her Majesty really needed to complete her magic was the will for it to be so. She was a goddess, after all.

  But this begged a whole series of questions that Vykers preferred not to dwell upon in Alheria’s presence.

  Having finished her spellcasting – or whatever it was – the Queen crossed over to Arune, touched the goblin’s hand, and said, “If this troublemaker up north does turn out to be the End-of-All-Things, you can count on my help in putting him back in the ground.”

  There was a faint whump! And then Her Majesty and the Shaper were gone.

  Igraine was still at the opening of her tent, staring at the space where the goblin’s body had been moments ago. When she caught Vykers’ eye, she ducked back inside her tent and pulled the flap shut.

  He didn’t have time to worry about Igraine right now; Alheria had disappeared again, and Vykers needed to spend some time sorting through all of his misgivings about her while they were still fresh in his memory. He decided to walk the perimeter of the encampment, ostensively to check for signs of visitors in the night. In reality, he needed the movement to clear his mind.

  Her Majesty was a goddess. Or was she? He’d seen her do things with magic that not even Arune, the Historian, or Pellas together could have accomplished. But if she was a goddess, why could she not simply destroy her enemies with a snap of her fingers? Why muster an army to fight the End if she had the means to eliminate him on her own? And why did she rely so heavily on Vykers’ abilities, especially when she knew how little he trusted her and how much he coveted her crown? Why did a goddess need a mortal crown in the first place?

  It was no use. He hadn’t the skill or the patience to sort through riddles.

  But he knew someone who might.

  “Igraine,” he called outside her tent. When she did not respond, he spoke another name at a much quieter volume, “Turley.”

  There was a rustling inside the tent, and then Igraine emerged. Without looking at Vykers, she crawled out into the snow, stood up and at last turned his way.

  “Let’s take a walk.”

  Igraine fell into step beside Vykers, Turley’s unhappiness and resentment evident with every step.

  “I think I told you you’d get your old body back one day,” the Reaper said.

  Turley’s response was barely audible. “Yes.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  Vykers had killed men – scores of ‘em – for less than that. He wheeled on Igraine, put his hand around her throat, and pulled her face closer to his.

  Turley’s response was not what he expected. “You…have…fangs.”

  “I do,” the Reaper grinned menacingly.

  “And claws. You are not human?”

  “I don’t know.” Vykers dropped his grip and stepped backwards, suddenly pensive.

  Igraine, by contrast, was more animated than he’d ever seen her. “You don’t know? But how is that possible? Every story in your legend proclaims you the greatest of human warriors! Even my people tell of your exploits.”

  The Reaper glanced over at the collection of tents, worried that Igraine’s voice might rouse everyone from sleep, and then disturbed that it hadn’t. “Why’s everyone sleepin’ so late?” he said, more to himself than Igraine.

  “I believe Her Majesty enspelled them. If they’re not dead, they’ll wake eventually.”

  Vykers looked at the horses, all hobbled together under a large fir. They, at least, seemed okay. “You understand Her Majesty is Alheria?”

  “I’ve seen sufficient evidence.”

  “Sufficient evidence.” Who in the infinite hells talked like that…besides Alheria? “Right,” said Vykers. “So, there’s a few things I don’t understand.”

  Igraine stood by patiently, waiting to hear more.

  “Such as, why does Her Majesty always call on me when there’s a problem? If she’s really a goddess, what does she need me for?”

  Igraine’s face lit up, the first sign of happiness he’d ever seen from her whilst she was occupied by the goblin. “An excellent question.”

  “And she knows I don’t like or trust her. More, I want her throne. Why doesn’t she just kill me?”

  The young woman was practically dancing with excitement. “I don’t have any answers for you yet, Master, but I will think on these questions. You can be sure of that!”

  Exactly as Vykers had suspected and hoped, Turley needed something to distract himself from his misery, and nothing, it seemed, pleased him more than a puzzle. And since the Reaper needed answers to these questions as well, it proved a mutually beneficial situation. “Good,” he said. “Good to hear it.”

  Whilst Igraine ambled back to her tent, Vykers walked over to the horses and made sure they were warm enough and safe. As he approached them, though, he saw them watching him with new vision, with eyes full of understanding and knowledge that no other horses had ever possessed.

  *****

  Kittins & Rem, On the Road

  They’d taken to travelling together. They both figured Cindor knew about them now, so there was no point in trying to maintain the illusion. Rem was consumed with the question of what they’d do when Cindor finally recovered, although he was still finding it difficult to believe that anyone could recover from what he and Kittins had done to the man.

  Kittins, on the other hand, didn’t seem overly concerned. “I expect he’ll torture and kill one or both of us,” he said, matter-of-factly. In the meantime, the captain just wanted to reach his destination in the north, to find this character calling himself the Reaper, and rep
ort back to Her Majesty.

  “And how do you plan to report back?”

  “The fuck should I know? I’m just doing what I was ordered to do.”

  “Does that include killing her Shaper?”

  “Hey, he’s the one who sent you spyin’ on me. If anyone’s gotta apologize to the Queen, it’s him.”

  Rem had never before realized what an optimistic fellow the captain was. That, combined with his scintillating conversational skills and his astonishing good looks made, him an excellent companion for such a long journey.

  In other words, Rem was lonely and bored.

  He leaned forward in the saddle to dust some of the snow off his horse, but the long-suffering beast hardly noticed, and Rem guessed he probably had more in common with his mount than his captain.

  “Why doesn’t Her Majesty investigate this fake Reaper herself?”

  In a single grunt, Kittins managed to convey several thoughts: he didn’t know, he didn’t care, and he wanted to be left alone for a while. Rem was impressed by how much meaning his companion had eked out of such a brief, seemingly inarticulate response.

  Then: “Do you think you could defeat the real Reaper in combat?”

  Now Kittins came to life. “Been wondering that myself, lately. They say he’s impossible to hit, faster than fast, stronger than strong – all o’ that nonsense.”

  “He did kill the End-of-All-Things.”

  “Aye, there’s that. But he nearly got himself killed in the process, didn’t he?”

  “Because the End stabbed him with an enchanted dagger.”

  “How’d he stab him if Vykers can’t be hit?”

  A good point, Rem had to admit. “So, you think maybe you could hit him? You haven’t got a magic sword, have you?”

  Kittins shook his head. “What I got’s a magic body.”

  “Some girl tell you that?” Rem cracked.

  “Yep,” the captain growled. “Her Majesty.”

  Just when the conversation was finally getting interesting, Kittins fell silent and stayed that way. Rem leaned forward in his saddle again, this time to get a better look at Kittins’ expression, but the big man ignored him completely, as if he weren’t even there.

  Rem then tried to think his way through his current engagement to something like a logical conclusion, some point at which his work would be done and he could move on to other pursuits. He thought then of Long and his other friends. He would love to have known if they’d had any luck in finding Esmine, or whether…well, he hoped Long wasn’t suffering, anyway. That poor son-of-a-bitch had been through it and then some.