Corpse Cold (Immortal Treachery Book 3)

by Allan Batchelder

  “My eye’s gone dark,” Yendor said, lifting his eyepatch to reveal his ruined socket, “and now I can see in the dark.”

  “Show me.” Long led Yendor outside the cabin and closed the door behind them. Absolutely nothing could be seen beyond three or four strides, so Long asked, “What can you see?”

  “Fifteen, no, sixteen other buildings – cottages, a stable and such. Looks like there’s a well across the road.”

  That wasn’t good enough for the captain, who walked several steps away from his friend, held up two fingers and said, “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “Two, and stop scowlin’ at me.”

  Long shot him an obscene gesture.

  “One, now, and did you greet your ma with that finger?”

  The captain returned to Yendor’s side. “Okay. You can see in the dark. You just got yourself a new job: point-man whenever it’s dark.”

  “Can we go back inside now? I’m freezin’ my nuts off!”

  *****

  Mardine, In the Village

  On the other side of town, Mardine’s eyes snapped open at the sound of laughter. Or what she thought was laughter.

  She’d given up on the Svarren tracks earlier in the day when she thought she saw light through the trees. Following this new lead, she stumbled upon the village, elated at first, and then disappointed at its emptiness. She found a few things to eat in a root cellar and bundled herself into a storage closet in the middle of one of the homes, reasoning it would be easier to keep warm in such a tight space. She was cold, but she’d been colder. Much, much colder.

  Long and his friends never checked this house when they came into town, and the noise of their search never roused the exhausted giantess. In the middle of the night, though, everything was so quiet that the slightest unexpected sound was like an alarm. Mardine sat in her makeshift den and listened, listened, listened for any further noise, but heard nothing. Perhaps she’d imagined it, or maybe it was something left over from a dream she’d been having. Try how she might to stay vigilant, sleep got the better of her again. The next time she woke up, the whole cottage was lighter.

  It was morning, neither early nor late, but right in the heart of it. Mardine snacked on a handful of nuts she’d been given by her friends and decided to get on the road as quickly as possible. There was no one else in this village after all, and nothing of value to be gained by lingering. She despaired of finding anyone anywhere, in fact. It seemed the whole north had been evacuated, for reasons she’d yet to discover.

  She gathered her many furs and blankets, threw them over her shoulders, and left the cottage. The day was overcast, but at least the snow had stopped falling. Mardine said a quick prayer to Alheria and set out in the direction that felt the most northern.

  Once she’d gotten some ways from the village, she thought she heard more laughter coming from it, but it was too much effort to turn around and go back. There was no help to be found there, anyway.

  The further north she travelled, however, the more Svarren signs she came across, which might, she supposed, have accounted for the lack of people. The Svarren were – what? – migrating? Massing for war? Raiding? Svarren were incapable of good, Mardine knew, thus, whatever they were doing had to be evil. The question was, was it any concern of hers? Mardine was desperate to find her daughter, her own. If the rest of the world burned while she searched, what did it matter? Hadn’t Mardine given enough already?

  Unfortunately, she didn’t entirely believe such arguments. Like it or not, she was, had been, a citizen of the world. She, like anyone, had the power to tip the scales one way or the other. Sometimes, she felt such anger, she was afraid of her own potential for evil. There were days when all she wanted was to smash, crush, obliterate. There were other times when the memory of her daughter, new as it was, was like a beacon in a storm, drawing her ever closer to comfort and safety.

  If only she could find her daughter. Everything, anything else was moot unless and until she found Esmine.

  Find Esmine, she commanded herself. Find Esmine, find Esmine, find Esmine. It became her mantra, her only guiding principle.

  *****

  The Circus Family Barr, the Forest

  The wolves ate well, for three curtain calls is enough for anyone, even the Circus Family Barr.

  *****

  The End & Omeyo, In Camp

  “It is time to bait the trap,” the End said to Omeyo. “My predecessor, the boy, did little to draw our enemies hence. I think perhaps he was a coward.”

  Omeyo blinked in plausible agreement. Nodding required too much energy, too much commitment.

  “Butchering a bunch of peasants so far from the capital is hardly enough to attract Her Majesty’s interest, to say nothing of the Reaper’s. And I doubt either of them cares overmuch for the little people, anyway. No, I will see how Tarmun Vykers enjoys a glimpse of our frozen A’Shea. If he chooses to come after us, I’m certain the Queen will follow.”

  It was a strategy the general had heard over and over for days. He wondered if his master’s mind was damaged in some way, that he kept repeating himself to no purpose. “And when will we begin, Master?” he asked, careful to include himself so that it would not appear he was demanding anything of the End.

  “This evening, I think. The spell I’m thinking of works best in the dark.”

  Omeyo couldn’t help himself. “And what of your old plans to destroy the world?”

  The End regarded him as if he’d crossed a line, but then seemed to relax. “One cannot eat the whole cake before one has taken a first bite. Let us dispatch our enemies and then turn our attentions to everyone else.”

  When had the End become so rational?

  As if he heard Omeyo’s thoughts, the sorcerer continued, “I have learned a great deal during my brief exile. I have learned from the many mistakes – and some victories – of all my predecessors. I have acquired their memories and their skills. The next time the Reaper and I meet in battle, he will be facing a very different End-of-All-Things.”

  The End appraised his general’s condition and then said, “Yes, I have changed. You have changed as well. I sense a growing apathy within you. I would not tread too far down that road, were I you.”

  But you are not me, Omeyo thought. “Your pardon, Master. How does this offend?”

  “Those who no longer care make reckless decisions. You remember that cretin, General Shere?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes. Of course you do. I will not have a recurrence of that fiasco. I will have your loyalty, Omeyo, and I will compensate you generously for it.”

  “As you say.”

  “But I feel a test is warranted.”

  Here it comes.

  “I want you to kill the Svarren witch who has ensnared you so.”

  Omeyo looked back at the End with dead eyes. “As you say.”

  It was nighttime at last, and the End dismissed all his slaves, servants and other handlers. He needed privacy, he needed focus. He sent out a series of Questing Eyes and Ears, far more than he’d ever been able to manage in his earlier existence. If the real Reaper was out there somewhere, the End would find him. Oh, Vykers would be stunned to discover his nemesis alive again and more than stunned to learn the End held the A’Shea captive! The sorcerer almost cackled in anticipation, but quickly suppressed the urge as something the old End would have done. Now, he was calm, rational, and in complete control.

  *****

  Vykers & Company, On the Road

  Every time he dismounted, Vykers was reminded of the fantastic nature of his horse and the other horses in his group. In little more than three days, they’d covered a month’s journey. They’d almost gone too far, too quickly. The Reaper wanted more time to sit with whatever was coming, more time to formulate some sort of plan. If this idiot who’d been calling himself the Reaper was really the End as Alheria claimed, then the lunatic was probably setting a trap. Rushing into it could prove fatal.

  Th
e things that had worked so well against the End last time had been disruption and distraction. The End had believed himself to be facing a much smaller, single force that had dug itself in at the top of a hill; he hadn’t expected or anticipated attacks from multiple directions by several different types of opponents. Ultimately, he’d been forced to confront the Reaper directly, and that, ironically, had been the end of the End. Or so everyone thought.

  Would the same tactic work a second time? Doubtful. And anyway, the Queen had said nothing about sending her troops north to support Vykers. And the fey? The Reaper wasn’t expecting to hear from them, either. Not after the way he and Aoife had parted company. That left the Svarren, and from everything Vykers had seen, they were on the End’s side this time around. Well, fuck ‘em. Vykers would find other allies, or he would fight his way through the End’s hordes by himself.

  He was in the middle of removing his horse’s saddle when Igraine approached him. She looked left and right to ensure no one else was listening and then said, “Why does a goddess need a mortal throne? So that she is easier to find.”

  Vykers was amazed that he hadn’t thought of this himself. But after further thought, he said “Easier for who?”

  “Someone who knows her true identity, like a relative.”

  The Reaper threw a blanket over his mount and fed her a handful of oats, while he turned this new idea over in his head. “That fits what you said earlier, that Alheria and the End are related in some way.”

  “Doesn’t it, though?” Igraine beamed.

  “Not sure I find it as funny as you do…”

  “Not funny, not remotely amusing. But I think we are untangling this knot.”

  Vykers patted Igraine on the shoulder. “You are untangling it. The real question is, what do we do with the rope once it’s straight again?”

  Although they hadn’t been travelling with Vykers long, his men had established a precise routine for setting up camp and another for taking it down. By the time the Reaper was done caring for his horse, a healthy fire was burning in the center of a ring of fast-rising tents, and one of the men was beginning to boil something over the flames. Vykers thought to fetch firewood, but as he turned to go, he saw Ngoro approaching with a great armload.

  “You stay. Get warm. I go,” he told Vykers.

  Normally, the Reaper didn’t allow anyone to order him about, but he supposed the Ntambi meant it out of respect; he didn’t want the Reaper to bother with such a lowly task, which only meant he didn’t know the Reaper. No task was too low, and no throne was too high. If he had to kill Alheria at the end of all this shit, well, so be it.

  He found a wood axe near the fire and again thought of helping procure firewood when Hjuest approached him.

  “He told you to stay, yah?”

  “He did. And I don’t like being told what to do.”

  Hjuest shook his head. “He vas meaning to save you verk.”

  “Huh,” Vykers grunted. “I need to do something besides sit in the saddle all day.”

  The red knight smiled. “I understand dat.”

  “Look,” said Vykers, “I know Ngoro’s not of your tribe…”

  “Country.”

  “Right, country. But what about these others? How is it you can talk to them?”

  “I just…learn. Is strange. Back home, I never knew I could speak like dis. So many langvages.”

  This peaked Vykers’ interest. “How many?”

  “Nine. With my own.”

  “You speak nine languages?” the Reaper repeated, stunned.

  “Yah, but not very good.”

  “Good enough. You’re a capable fighter. You are. But you shoulda been a herald, or an ambassador.”

  Hjuest looked well pleased with the comment, and Vykers resolved that if they all survived the next few days and weeks, he’d send the knight off to university. The Reaper had never had much use for bookish types before, but between the red knight and the erstwhile goblin, Vykers was discovering the value of talents that didn’t involve bloodshed. He must have understood this before, surely, but relevant memories eluded him. As always.

  Dinner was stew of a type Vykers had never tasted before. The ingredients were recognizable enough, but the company’s self-appointed cook had used a combination of herbs and spices completely unfamiliar to the Reaper. The flavors were at once hotter and smokier than he was used to, and yet he found he could not stop eating the stuff. He was about to reach for a fifth bowl when the ground beneath him trembled and shook, causing him and everyone else to abandon their meals and brace for trouble.

  Night had fallen, and shadows had grown to usurp the world around the camp, making it difficult to see the source of the tremors now growing in magnitude. Suddenly, the snow and ice surrounding the camp coalesced into something huge and manlike. In seconds, a face formed, and icy eyes swept Vykers’ crew in search of the Reaper, himself.

  “Ah!” said a booming voice that the Reaper recognized in an instant. “There you are, Reaper!”

  Vykers gestured to his men to stand down, as he stood up. “Nice lookin’ snowman you’ve got there.”

  The ice golem sneered at the comment. “As witty as ever, I see. I wonder, will you laugh when you see what I’ve got to show you?”

  The End expected Vykers to follow his script, to ask “What have you got to show me?” But that was not Vykers’ way. Instead, he sat back down and reached for his stew, as if the golem didn’t even exist. Following his lead, Vykers’ men did likewise.

  “Fool!” the End screamed. “I’ve captured your A’Shea friend. How can you think to defeat me without her?”

  Vykers remained seated, but turned at the waist and regarded the icy apparition. He casually dipped a hunk of hard bread into his bowl as if he were dining with a friend. “Caught the woman, did you? Good luck with her!” he quipped.

  The End opened a window in the night air and an image appeared of a large boulder of ice with something dark trapped inside.

  “Well, if it’s really all the same to you, I think I shall have a little fun with her before I freeze her completely.”

  “Freeze her, don’t freeze her. I’m still going to kill you again. And this time, I won’t even leave enough of you for the worms to enjoy.”

  The golem roared and attacked. Its massive arms were like logs, smashing Vykers’ men out of its way as it fought to close with the Reaper. For a moment, Vykers considered using the dagger, but decided against it. Better to leave that secret ‘til needed. He grabbed the wood axe he’d almost taken earlier and bounded towards the ice monster. As he drew near, it blasted him with a gust of air so cold that he almost fell over from the shock of it. Fortunately, his men were seasoned, determined fighters. With Vykers occupying the golem’s attentions, they spread out around the thing and attacked its legs. The golem’s breath seemed to have a much greater impact on Vykers’ companions, and several of them did fall to the ground, curled up like babies to conserve their waning warmth. The monster could not last, however, with so many men attacking it and Vykers in front. The Reaper dodged a sweeping blow from an arm and planted his axe halfway through the creature’s shoulder with one mighty cleave. Soon, the attached arm would be lost to it. Vykers held onto the axe haft and kicked hard against the monster’s torso in an effort to free his weapon. Because his men had been at work on the creature’s flanks, its legs were weakened and it began to topple backwards. The Reaper jerked his axe free and delivered a second blow to the same spot, sheering right through the golem’s shoulder. With a crack, it fell away, only to be replaced by the rapidly growing nub of a new arm. Again, the thing blasted Vykers with impossibly cold air, and he felt his skin burning under the assault. New arms – several of them – sprouted from the thing’s torso, making the men’s job that much harder. It made sense to Vykers, though: this monster wasn’t human. Why restrict itself to human anatomy?

  “Let’s throw this fucker in the fire!” he yelled to his men.

  The monster’s
legs fused into a central column that made it harder for the thing to move, but also harder to be moved. Vykers ran to the fire, placed the head of his axe in the coals, and took up a burning branch instead.

  “Here!” he called to the nearest man. “If we can’t pull him into the fire, we’ll rebuild the fire around him!”

  Soon, the other men had caught on to the Reaper’s plan and numerous pieces of blazing firewood began to accumulate around the monster. Vykers retrieved his fire-heated axe and took great, sweeping swings at the thing’s face, more to provide cover for his men than in any hope of doing real damage. There was a peculiar hissing of air, and a number of men yelled in surprise or pain as they were pelted with icicles shot from the golem’s torso.

  “Gods! The cold!” one of those stricken cried out.

  “There’ll be worse if we don’t stop this bastard!” the Reaper said. With a great lunge, he planted his axe in the monster’s neck. It did not howl, as he might’ve expected, but only grimaced in his direction and continued its assault on his crew. But Hjuest and the others were relentless in building and stoking a fire around their assailant and, as powerful as it was, it was only a matter of time before the combined might of the flames and Vykers’ men proved too much for the golem. It did not die abruptly, but rather it slowly diminished until it was nothing more than a large pile of slush.

  The End-of-All-Things’ laughter rang out of the lowering sky. It was not a sound full of rage, but delight.

  ~ TWELVE ~

  The Giants, In the Forest

  It was a surprisingly difficult parting for the giants and Esmine, who put her little hands onto their faces and studied them in their smallest details, as if she would sculpt her dead mother’s face from theirs. Karrakan, who’d come to care the most for the changeling girl, seemed utterly stricken to leave her behind, and even Beesmarch was more subdued in his habitual negativity. But it was Eoman who seemed to suffer most, which was odd, because he’d tried so hard to avoid becoming attached.

  “I am king,” he explained to his friends, “but I’ll be king of nothing if we don’t have more wee ones like this here!”