Corpse Cold (Immortal Treachery Book 3)

by Allan Batchelder

  “We need to save one of those,” said Yendor. “Might be a way to make more of that stuff if we can hire the right alchemist or A’Shea or whatnot.”

  If we make it through this ordeal alive…Long thought.

  *****

  Mardine, In the Forest

  Mardine rushed into the clearing, glad to be free of shadows at last and basking in sunlight, even if it was cold sunlight. The last few days had proven an emotional maelstrom that had left her by turns on edge, exhausted or weeping. This must be what madness feels like, she ruminated. To be rid of these feelings for as much as an hour seemed too much to ask, too much to hope. Still, she’d felt worse: she’d been dead, after all.

  And how was it she’d managed to come back? By what agency? Alheria’s? She was far more a human goddess than the giants’. But hadn’t Mardine conceived against all reason and borne a half-human child? Was it possible that Alheria had taken a special interest in Mardine, Esmine and Long Pete from the beginning? And, if so, might she not be watching over the girl even now?

  Strange, miraculous things had happened, yes, but Alheria’s intervention seemed beyond reason.

  Mardine stopped a moment and savored the sun on her cheeks. The days were short, and the nights grew longer and longer. She’d heard stories in her youth that claimed if a person went north far enough, the night stretched on for weeks, only to be replaced by an equally endless day. Mardine never believed those stories, but now they worried her. The thought of her little girl wandering an unending frozen wasteland in the dark was unbearable.

  The giantess had to figure out how she’d find Esmine in all that area. Mardine knew well enough how to find north; any fool could do that. But to find a single person in the north? And this was assuming that Esmine was still…No. Mardine wouldn’t allow herself to finish that thought.

  I will find more people. I will ask them if they’ve seen slavers, a child, a skinny little thrall woman. I will ask everyone I meet anything I can think to ask. First, though, she had to find people, and that was proving harder than she’d imagined. There were cities up north, but somehow she kept missing them, walking past or around or between them without ever knowing their proximity. It was frustrating, really. All a person had to do was use her nose, and the location of human settlements usually became evident.

  The unexpected appearance of blood on the snow caused Mardine’s heart to skip a beat and then to race wildly. Esmine! She thought, and then, No. Calm yourself! Cautiously, she looked about for more blood and shortly found an ever-growing trail of it amidst a sea of Svarren tracks. Not Esmine, then. Probably. The Svarren had killed something, maybe even one of their own, and trailed its blood across the forest floor. But so much blood. The pinkish snow gave way to crimson slush, and the stink of death pervaded everything. At the base of a tree, Mardine spied a dead porcupine or beaver. As she drew closer, though, she recognized it as a head of hair…without the head. The Svarren had torn some luckless human’s scalp off, or eaten their way through his head and cast his hair aside as garbage. Mardine felt a terrible shiver that had nothing to do with the cold. Now that she knew what to look for, she saw signs of a massacre everywhere she looked – rib bones, a bloodied boot, a drenched and ragged shirt, an arm bone. Through the trees, she saw a large, square shadow that looked like a small hut or a big wagon. The Svarren were long gone, Mardine knew, but one or two of their victims might have survived and could still be saved. Abandoning caution, the giantess raced through the trees towards the shadow.

  It was a wagon, and a large one, too. It lay on its side in a small lake of blood, smoke trailing from one window and various other, cruder holes. On one end, the remains of what must have been oxen were strewn about. Mardine suspected she’d find the former owners of those oxen inside the wagon, if anywhere. She hoped their end had been as quick and painless as possible, but she doubted it.

  She poked her head in the window and was bewildered by the sight of broken toys, puppets, marionettes and more. The wagon’s stove was still burning, and, amazingly, its flames hadn’t spread through the interior. The Svarren had been either so fixated on eating or in such a hurry to move on that they’d missed their chance at more mayhem in setting the whole wagon ablaze. Mardine wished they had, though. A funeral pyre had more dignity than this grisly abattoir. Sadly, the giantess gave up any hope of finding survivors. She stepped back and took in the scene a final time. Whoever the Circus Family Barr had been, they’d deserved better than they’d gotten.

  An idea came to Mardine, then: the Svarren left little alive in their wake, so there would be nothing of interest in the direction from which they’d come. Where were they going in such haste, however? Stalking a mob of Svarren was a dangerous proposition, but it might just lead to more people.

  *****

  Vykers & Company, On the Road

  It was times like this that Vykers fully believed in Alheria’s deity. She’d done more than strengthen his horses; she’d improved them, improved them to the point that they could no longer really be considered horses. They were something else, and their otherness became apparent almost as soon as Vykers and his men mounted up for the day’s journey. In seconds, the world around became liquid, a swirling mass of colors that was both dizzying and terrifying. But because each of the men could see one another and especially their leader, they maintained their composure and gradually adjusted to this strange new experience. It helped, too, that the horses did not seem in the least perturbed. But how they moved! Their gallop was somewhere between that of a normal horse and a Shaper’s jump, a slower here-there. There was something eternal in it, too, as if everything else was transient and only their movement, lasting. Staring at his horse’s hooves, Vykers couldn’t say whether they even touched the ground. Yet, they devoured it. When the Reaper called for a water break and slowed his mount to a stop, he discovered a landscape he’d not been expecting for another week or more. Was it possible these stronger, better horses had covered so much territory in but a few hours? The evidence was undeniable.

  It was not even midday, but Vykers called for his men to make camp. When Hjuest greeted this request with overt curiosity, all that the Reaper said was “I need to think.”

  “Your pardon, Master,” Igraine said when Vykers reached for the water skin on his saddle. “But that is exactly what I have been doing all this while.”

  “And?” Vykers asked, before taking a great gulp of water.

  “I believe I have reached some relatively sound conclusions.”

  “Go on.”

  “Assume Her Majesty is the goddess Alheria.”

  “I got no trouble with that.”

  “So, she has the power, the ability to destroy you. You tell me she once took your hands and feet. Another time, she allowed you to languish for years from a wound she might have healed with a wave of her hand. Finally, she allowed your Shaper to steal your body.”

  Vykers grunted in the affirmative.

  “But in every case, you were not killed. Her Majesty weakens you, limits your effectiveness, but she does not kill you. I ask myself why. Is it because she cannot? No, we agree that she can. Is it then because she must not? Why? Why must she keep you alive? Because...” Igraine continued, “you serve some purpose that only you can fulfill.”

  “Which is?”

  “I do not know. But consider: she is a goddess, yet she sent you to deal with the End-of-All-Things. From the stories and songs of your battle, Her Majesty did not even lift a finger against the mad sorcerer. And now, she sends you, again, to investigate rumors of his return. Why does she not investigate herself? Why does she not, in fact, already know the truth of it?”

  Vykers didn’t know if he was supposed to answer, but as he could not, he simply waited for Igraine to say more.

  “I believe she does know whether the End has returned or not and, again, she will not be involved in the coming conflict. And why is that? Why would she abstain?”

  “I give up. Why?”

&nbs
p; “Because they share a connection, the End and Alheria.”

  “Meaning?”

  “They were lovers, once, or they’re family.”

  “Family.”

  It made sense. And it also explained why the Queen felt entitled to steal the dagger the End had used to stab Vykers. Possibly, it was a family heirloom. Or it was the only weapon that could truly finish the End or Alheria. But if they were family – or had been lovers – was the End Alheria’s brother or son? Or had he been her husband? Was the End really Mahnus, returned from the endless hells to exact revenge upon his killer?

  “Damn spider’s web,” Vykers muttered. “Closer you get to the middle, the stickier it gets.”

  “An apt assessment,” Igraine grinned.

  “So, Alheria can’t or won’t kill the End because they’re family. Instead, she uses me to do it. But if that’s all I mean to her, why didn’t she finish me off the last time I fought the End?”

  “There are two possibilities: one, she knew you hadn’t fully destroyed the End, or, two, there’s something else you’re meant to do as well.”

  “Such as?”

  This time Igraine threw up her hands in surrender. “I don’t know. Perhaps she has more family members she needs killed.”

  It was an unpleasant thought, but somehow it felt like the truth. Unable to voice gratitude, Vykers patted Igraine on the shoulder. “You’re pretty good at this thinkin’ business. You figure anything else out, you let me know.”

  And against his better judgement, Turley was mollified. He’d made a contribution to Vykers’ cause; he’d made a difference. Despite his continued dissatisfaction with his physical state, he was no longer as miserable and hopeless as he’d been just the day before. With a new spring in his step – or Igraine’s step – Turley returned to his own horse and saddle and continued to grapple with the many mysteries surrounding the Reaper.

  Sometime after nightfall, the party was attacked by Svarren. With the exception of Igraine, everyone was a highly trained and experienced professional soldier – in a group led by the legendary Reaper. The Svarren didn’t have a chance. In fact, the only moment of drama came from an argument about who should have the right to kill the last few savages. If Vykers was selfish in anything, it was in killing. Whilst his men squabbled about the pecking order and propriety, he pushed them aside and flew into the last knot of Svarren, cutting through them with his fell dagger like a forge-heated sword cuts through a snowbank. Ferocious he was, but also canny. He spared the last of the Svarren for questioning.

  While his men pinioned its arms against a large stone, Vykers carved runes in the flesh of the creature’s face and chest with a borrowed blade. For every moment the Svarra hesitated, the Reaper carved another character. Soon, the crazed monster was babbling almost incoherently. Almost. The words “gathering” and “great war” were quite clear. When Vykers had gotten everything useful out of his captive, he released him to Hjuest, saying, “Pour some wine down his gullet and set him loose. He makes it back to his people, they’ll know I’m after ‘em.”

  Hjuest did not argue.

  *****

  The Circus Family Barr, In the Forest

  “D’you reckon we can git down now?” Mads asked.

  “I ‘spect so. Rate those things were movin’, they must be clear to Picksworth by now.”

  “Glad to hear it!” Keenan exclaimed. “I’m tired o’ smellin’ your gas.”

  “’Taint my fault you chose the branch right under me,” the tall brother retorted.

  “Well, let’s git to gittin’!” said Mads impatiently.

  One by one, the members of the Circus Family Barr unwrapped themselves from the pine’s sturdy branches and commenced climbing, swinging and tumbling down to the forest floor.

  When the tallest brother was safe on the ground, he stretched his arms and back, let out a groan of pleasure and said, “We’d best see what’s left of our wagon and gear.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ left of our oxen, I’ll wager,” the youngest brother said.

  “Oh, there might be some odd bits ‘n pieces,” the tallest brother replied. “Nothin’ that’ll pull our wagon, though.”

  The siblings emerged from a deadfall and saw that their wagon was still in one piece, albeit toppled over on one side. Even the stove continued to spout smoke.

  “Papa always built ‘em strong!” Mads declared upon seeing the wagon.

  “Strong but stupid,” the middle brother said as he smacked the youngest on the back of his head.

  The tallest brother, having recognized the beginnings of a brawl from previous experience, jumped between his brothers and ordered peace between them. “Stop it, now!” He yelled. “You’d think we got nothin’ better to do!”

  “How are we gonna right the wagon?” Mads asked.

  “Let’s make a lever outta something, and then we’ll pry ‘er back onto ‘er wheels.”

  It was a solid plan, except that it failed to take into account the many combustibles inside the wagon, which all came into contact as they rocked the big thing upright. Mads had just enough time to say, “Do you smell somethin’ peculiar?” And then the wagon exploded with such force that it sent the Circus Family Barr turning somersaults through the air even as they were pelted and perforated with flying shrapnel.

  *****

  Omeyo & The End, In Camp

  Omeyo was slowly regaining his wits – just in time, he supposed, to be driven out of them again in the End’s service. The two men sat across from each other at a small table the End’s servants had set up in his tent. But they needed a bigger table. There was so much food heaped between Omeyo and the sorcerer that they could barely see each other, but the End would not allow it to be cleared away. Instead, he attacked it like some starving beast, some fierce animal that hadn’t eaten in a season. Omeyo couldn’t recall ever seeing the End so obsessed with food, but his body’s previous occupant, the False Reaper, had burned so much energy attempting to stave off the mad sorcerer’s return that the body had practically perished. Thus, the End was eating to replenish his reserves. And possibly to intimidate his general.

  “I tell you, I’ll not make the same mistake twice with Tarmun Vykers and Her Bitchery. I’ll choose the battle field. I’ll choose the timing. And I’ll make sure the fey have no part in this contest.”

  Wanting something to say, Omeyo mumbled, “That sounds like an excellent plan, Master.”

  “Are you not hungry?” the End grinned back at him. “I am. Eat something, man! Rebuild your strength.”

  The general picked at something fishlike that had been set down by his elbow.

  The End continued blithely on, “As I was saying, I’ll have every advantage this time around. Truth to tell, I’ve seen no evidence the Queen has even mustered an army to face me. After everything we went through before, she still underestimates me. Well, let her, I say! It is my turn to destroy her minions and humiliate her!”

  The End said more, but Omeyo found his attention drifting off. If the sorcerer wanted to kill him for that, so be it. Omeyo had other things to think about. Or he imagined he did. The only thing that really came to mind was the Svarren woman who’d taken him in and…the general was again aroused and disgusted merely thinking of the creature. What had she done to him? Whatever it was, it was in no wise as bad as what her fellows had done. Omeyo returned to the present and saw the End staring at him intently.

  “You’ve been hexed. And sexed,” the End laughed. “Hexed and sexed! But I believe I can help you…that is, assuming you want to be helped.”

  Somehow, the general nodded his head, though he couldn’t have said if he’d done it of his own free will or by force. In the next instant, the End leaned across the mountain of food, placed his hands on Omeyo’s shoulders and infused him with such pain that he rapidly came to wish for death. Just as quickly, the pain subsided, and in its absence, a terrible clarity took hold of the general’s perceptions. The first thought that came to him in this new
ly enlightened state was: What a terrible world this is, how fraught with pointless suffering. The second thought was: I have to kill this bastard. But what Omeyo said was, “Thank you, Master. I feel much better.”

  The End leaned backwards, a smug look upon his face, and selected the next item in his meal. “These Svarren have their uses, of course,” he smirked, “but it’s best not to get too involved with them.”

  Omeyo wanted to grab the nearest goblet and smash the sorcerer’s face in. “I couldn’t agree more,” he said.

  *****

  Kittins & Rem, On the Road

  Rem had spoken to a few of the refuges whilst Kittins rode a good ways off, pretending to scout the path ahead. In reality, he didn’t want to attract any more attention to or with his hideous face than necessary. For that, Rem was more than grateful. The refugees were frightened enough as it was.

  Svarren were overrunning everything, everywhere, and although most villages had defenses adequate to repel a hundred or so, none were equipped to handle thousands of Svarren, and it seemed likely there might even be tens of thousands gathering, with more arriving every hour.

  Some said the savages were being led by the Reaper, others said the End-of-All-Things had returned. Whatever the reason, folks were smart enough to know when the odds were against them, and heading to the more-populated south seemed the only viable response. Also, the Virgin Queen was the most powerful ruler in the land. If anyone was prepared to crush the assembling Svarren, it was she. Or so the refugees hoped.

  Rem rejoined his companion and reported what he’d learned.

  “The Reaper leadin’ an army of Svarren? I doubt it,” Kittins said.

  “I doesn’t make sense, does it?”

  “There’s more men would fight for him than Her Majesty.”

  “Which means it isn’t the Reaper. But that doesn’t make sense, either.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” said Rem, “running about, killing folks in the Reaper’s name is sure to attract the real Reaper.”

  “Maybe that’s the point. Maybe whoever-this-is wants a reckoning.”