When the spell made contact, his first glimpse of Vykers’ camp unsettled him. Giants? Seven giants? Since when had giants and men banded together in warfare? And who or what was that big, ugly fellow who radiated magic? The End didn’t have long to contemplate these questions before the Reaper stepped into view. On impulse, the sorcerer tried to lure Vykers into a trap.
“Lookin’ for something?” he asked.
“I was just wondering why you and I couldn’t settle this man to man.”
“Oh, you’ve found a man to fight for you?”
The End seethed at this comment, but knew better than to let Vykers sense it. “Charming. I meant of course you and me. There’s not really any need to delay this any longer is there?”
“Well, I did promise your mother I’d wait for her…”
Those listening in Vykers’ camp erupted either into gasps of surprise or gales of laughter, and the End became so furious that he sent a blast of deathly cold air through his avatar to silence them. He was gratified to see he had cowed the majority of them, but Vykers remained unfazed.
“What do you know of my mother?” the End shrieked. How was it the Reaper was aware of things that the End barely recalled?
“Alheria?” Vykers yawned. “Seems she never much cared for you. Reckon you were an accident, like most bastards.”
This time, a blast of fire ripped through Vykers’ camp. When the flames cleared, only the Reaper remained in view, vexingly unscathed.
“Anyway,” he said, as if there’d been no interruption, “she’ll be here any time now, and you two can fight it out on your own.”
“But you won’t be alive to see it!” the End retorted, ending the spell and falling back onto his bed in a black rage. He had no choice, now: he had to send the Svarren, all the Svarren, to annihilate the Reaper and his little band before Alheria arrived.
*****
Vykers & Company, In Camp
Vykers’ newfound disdain for Shapers apparently did not extend to shamans, for he showed not the least hesitation in seeking out Karrakan and asking his opinion on a wide range of topics only loosely related to fighting the Svarren. One thing, in particular, peaked his curiosity.
“What do you make o’ these woods?”
Karrakan inhaled deeply, as if he would take all of the forest in through his nostrils. “They are…especially alive,” he replied.
“And this underbrush, here,” said Vykers, pointing at some nearby bushes, “Does it seem to have gotten thicker, since yesterday?”
The shaman’s eyebrows shot up. “What are you asking me?”
“Just wanna see if you can confirm a suspicion.”
“Perhaps I can,” said a voice Vykers hadn’t heard in some time, and out of the shadow of a massive pine stepped his one-time lover, Aoife.
A trace of a grin played across the Reaper’s face; he’d been right about the foliage and right about the A’Shea. As he studied her, though, she was not entirely the woman he remembered. It might have been the quality of light underneath the forest’s ancient trees, but Aoife’s skin appeared to have turned a pale, almost iridescent green. Her lustrous red hair remained as impressive as ever, although it now seemed to have sprouted its own creepers, leaves and flowers. Finally, there was a power to her, an authority that Vykers had never sensed before. Where before she’d seemed vulnerable, now she seemed both immeasurably strong and equally dangerous. Vykers’ smile widened.
As for Aoife’s impression of the Reaper, well, suffice it to say she was confused. The last time she’d seen him, he’d felt somehow smaller, less substantial to her. But here again was the Tarmun Vykers who’d first captured her attention – swaggering, audacious, and as virile as any man could be without transforming into something else completely.
“Can’t stay away, huh?” Vykers cracked.
“I can’t stay away from this particular battle, no.”
“And why is that?”
“Does it matter? We fight the same enemy.”
Vykers looked around, peered into the bushes and shadows. “Where are your friends?”
“They’ll come if I need them. Where are yours?”
“Who? My monsters? They’re all dead, I’m sorry to say. I’ve got a handful of men with me, and we’ve joined up with this good giant and his kin.”
Aoife was shocked. “And you think you’re enough to defeat the End and his Svarren?”
“Might be we are, might be we aren’t.”
“And your Shaper?”
Vykers scowled, actually spat into the snow. “Forget about her.”
Of course, as soon as he said that, the fate of his Shaper was all Aoife could think about. As long as she’d known them, they’d been inseparable, and the Umaena couldn’t imagine what might have occurred to change things. She was also aware that she could not simply ask Vykers, either. Not after the way she and he had left things.
What Vykers said next, though, threw her thoughts into turmoil.
“So, how long’s it been, then? Since we returned from across the sea?”
Why was he offering a false date? Was he pretending that the time they’d spent together in the old cottage was meaningless? Or was he pretending to have forgotten? Or had he truly forgotten it? If he was trying to insult the Umaena, he was doing a damned fine job of it. There were any number of biting retorts she might have made; she chose instead to ignore the question and focus on Vykers’ companion, the unquestionably patient giant.
“And you,” she said to Karrakan, “how have you found yourself in this miscreant’s company?” It came out worse than she’d intended, and she could see the blow landed.
“Well,” said Vykers, patting Karrakan his forearm, “I’ll leave you with the shrub here. I’ve a sword to sharpen.”
Shrub? Gods, the man was infuriating! Not wanting to seem at all affected by Vykers’ comment, Aoife turned to the giant and said, “I sense some magic in you. Shall we stroll the verdant alleys of this wood and search for common cause?”
Karrakan switched his staff into his other hand, extended his now-free hand and answered, “It would be my pleasure.”
Back in camp, Vykers called his inner circle together, which was comprised of Hjuest, Ngoro (though he could scarcely follow most conversation), Igraine, Kittins, and Rem.
“I have this feeling now and again,” he began, “that things are comin’ together of their own accord, or that something – or someone – is pulling ‘em together. This is one o’ those times.” He paused for effect, let his words sink in, and gathered his thoughts. “We’re not many, it’s true, but we’re battle-tested. We’ve got the Dead One,” he gestured to Kittins, “and a handful of soldiers from different lands across the sea. We’ve got giants. And now, we’ve got the most powerful, pain-in-the-ass A’Shea you’re ever like to meet. And what I’m feelin’ is, this ain’t no accident.”
“It is strange,” Kittins hissed.
“Strange indeed. And I’m still expectin’ Her Majesty to join us. Now, you won’t believe what I’m about to tell you, but I’ve seen the proof with my own eyes, and so has Igraine here. The Queen? The Virgin Queen? She’s Alheria, the goddess.” Vykers let that sink in for a moment while Hjuest spoke with Ngoro in hushed tones and Kittins rumbled something to Rem. “I figure you’ll see the proof yourself soon enough. In order to beat the End once and for all, she’s got to quit playing coy and let that fucker have it, else, where’s her army?”
“But if she’s a goddess,” Rem interjected, “why does she need any of us?”
Vykers laughed appreciatively. “I been askin’ the same question for some time. Maybe this is the fight where we’ll get our answers.”
Or we’ll die, Rem thought. Still, what a story, what a play it would make!
“If we’ve been drawn together for some purpose, why aren’t we fighting already?” Kittins complained.
“Because we’re still waiting for someone,” Igraine said, to the surprise of everyone present.
&n
bsp; “Besides the Queen?”
“Besides the Queen,” said Igraine.
Vykers looked over at Igraine in frustration. “Who else is there?”
*****
Long & Company, On the Road
About midday, Ron said he smelled smoke. Long thought the young man might be delirious. After all, they’d been walking forever, with less and less to eat. It was only a matter of time until they…Then Long smelled it, too. The sky was clear for a change, and the captain was able to scan the horizon much easier than at any time in recent memory. Just on the edge of his vision, the land’s crisp, white edge melted into something darker and blurrier.
“There’s a forest up ahead!” Long croaked.
And there was much rejoicing. A forest meant firewood, shelter from the incessant wind, and perhaps even game. Even Yendor offered up a prayer of thanks to Mahnus, Alheria and a dozen minor gods known only to him.
“Don’t waste your energy talkin’!” Long instructed. “We’ll need every bit to get to them trees.”
Of course he was correct. As has often been observed, things seen in the distance out-o’-doors are always farther off than they seem. The sun was quite low in the sky by the time the men came within a bowshot of the forest. Long worried they wouldn’t have time to find wood and make a fire before dark, but, as it turned out, they had a more immediate concern.
Just as they reached the wood’s outer edge, a man appeared and challenged them. And not just any man, but the Reaper himself. Long and his boys nearly fell over backwards in shock and fatigue.
“Who are you and what’s your business here?” Vykers demanded.
“Please don’t kill us, Master Reaper,” Yendor simpered.
“Good. You know who I am. Now who in the infinite hells are you?”
Long Pete bullied himself into his best posture, cleared his throat and said, “I’m in charge o’ these men. I’m a captain in the Queen’s army, but folks call me Long Pete.”
“Or just Long,” Yendor amended. “We fought in the battle against the End.”
“On whose side?” Vykers snarled.
Yendor giggled awkwardly. “Well, that’s the thing, ain’t it? Can I say both?”
“So you fought for the End.”
“Only for the first half o’ the battle.”
“Then you’re all turncoats, is that it?”
“Not me!” Spirk declared. “I fought fer the Queen the whole time.”
Vykers made a face like he’d just noticed Spirk and wasn’t sure where he’d come from. “That so? Well, you’re a mixed lot, ain’t you? What are you doin’ here?”
“Nothin’ you don’t want us to!” Yendor cried.
“Lookin’ for my daughter, who was kidnapped by slavers.”
This pronouncement seemed to stir something in the Reaper, for he responded, “I believe we’ve got your missus with us.”
Long merely stood, slack-jawed, trying to decide if he’d fallen asleep and was dreaming the conversation. “No, no,” said he, “Can’t be. She’s dead, I’m sorry to say.”
Vykers nodded. “That’s what the other giant said, too. But she don’t look dead to me.”
“Her hair?” Long asked, his voice beginning to quaver.
“Red. Orange, really.”
“And she’s a giant?”
“Big, big gal. Yes.”
This time, Long did collapse, falling onto his knees with his face in the snow, sobbing like a child. Several heartbeats later, strong hands grasped the captain under his arms and lifted him onto his feet as if he weighed nothing.
“Follow me, captain,” the Reaper said. “And the rest o’ you, too.”
The whole camp came to a standstill the moment Mardine and Long set eyes on each other, and time ceased to exist. No one breathed, no one moved, and even the fire went curiously quiet as the long-separated husband and wife regarded each other. Afterwards, no one watching could have said how it happened, but Mardine somehow found herself across the camp, in Long’s arms, where both souls wept and laughed and wept some more. How in Mahnus’ name had she escaped death? Why did he smell so awful? Was there a new trace of gray in her hair? What was that terrible smell? She’d gotten too thin! And, really, why did he smell so awful? More laughter, more tears. Finally, Long worked up the courage to mention Esmine, and Mardine almost cracked his heart with joy over the news the child was safe and sound and well out of harm’s way. Gradually, the other members of camp lost interest or gave in to more pressing business and went about their affairs, giving the reunited couple all the space and time they needed.
Later, around the fire, Long and his friends were treated to a hearty meal and an even heartier welcome.
These men, Igraine suggested to Vykers, were the ones they’d been waiting for.
“What, these?” the Reaper asked incredulously. “Look at ‘em! I’ve seen things dead a fortnight looked better than these men.”
“And yet, there’s something canny about that man’s reunion with his wife, isn’t there? In all this vastness, they find each other? Surely that’s not coincidence.”
Vykers didn’t know what to make of it, and, frankly, he’d become tired of all the portents and omens of late. He decided to change the subject. “Gettin’ used to that body finally?”
Igraine frowned, said nothing for a while. “I understand that’s what you’d like, Master.”
Vykers waited for the rest, but it wasn’t coming. Igraine fell to studying her hands as if the Reaper weren’t even there.
*****
The End, In Camp
The End flew into a rage as great as or surpassing any he’d experienced in the past, as himself or any of his earlier iterations. Once he’d identified his target to his Svarren, they balked and refused to attack. They refused! They refused him! Oh, they muttered some incoherent horseshit about the old gods – he was an old god! And it was his will they should assault the forest!
Obviously, he could not tolerate such effrontery from his slaves. He’d have to make an example of some of their leaders, punish them in such a way that the rest would never forget, he’d have to…
Oh, you are doing so much better than I would have! The boy taunted from inside the End’s mind.
The sorcerer did not respond. He would not allow himself to be toyed with by an idiot child that he’d already bested.
Can’t even control a pack of Svarren…
The End shut him out. When he was certain that he was alone and in control again, however, he did pause to ruminate on how the boy had managed to break into his thoughts. Was he, the End, not getting enough rest? Enough nourishment? Or was he simply too distracted? Well, one thing at a time.
He sauntered out of his tent – more a pavilion now – and slowly, casually, walked in amongst the Svarren. They watched him with eyes full of fear, of skepticism, and even contempt. The End saw no obedience and certainly no adoration. Hadn’t some sage once observed that it was better to be feared than loved? So be it: he would be feared.
With a wave of his hand, the End sent a number of miniature storms swirling around the camp, spitting out black matter wherever they went. And wherever the stuff landed, screams of alarm and agony blossomed. The End had used this spell before, but not quite in this way, and he found he rather enjoyed it. All around him, Svarren flesh was dissolving in a mist of blood. The End could almost taste it on his tongue, and though he’d never been a blood drinker, he was surprised at how pleasant the flavor was.
As for the Svarren, they fell away from the End in waves, scrambling, tumbling, fighting to get as far from the little black clouds as possible. Here, a Svarra clawed its way through a family member in a desperate bid for escape. There, a female with child was trampled by a frenzied mob, caring only to put distance between itself and painful, bloody death.
It was an accident, really; he hadn’t meant to do it, but the End laughed at the spectacle before him, and the Svarren saw and heard him laughing. What of it? The End asked himself
. Am I not their leader?
The False Reaper echoed his laughed, but the boy’s was much more cynical.
It was time to finish the child, once and for all.
The End fled to a hilltop far from camp, where the Svarren would never find him, and sank into himself. In the darkness, he found the boy waiting for him.
“What a wreck you are,” the boy called out. “Powerful, but without vision.”
The End grabbed the boy’s spirit and began crushing him. “And you? Nothing more than a nuisance, a child who possessed neither the intelligence nor the skill to rule! I shall consume you as I have all the others.”
“Now!” the boy shrieked.
The faint wisps of the End’s previous selves coalesced into a larger shape and cast a spell.
The End could not move. It was not an elaborate or strong spell, but he hadn’t been expecting it; he hadn’t believed his victims had so much energy left. And what had they accomplished, really? Already, he was picking their spell apart and regaining control of his resources. In minutes, he fought his way free and consumed the last of his enemies’ essences – no more False Reaper, no more Old Hag, no more Ageless Necromancer. He had eaten them all, become them all. He was, he exulted, an army unto himself.
With a thought, he returned to his camp…
Only to find the whole Svarren horde in rapid retreat.
That had been the False Reaper’s gambit!
The End took to the skies and attempted to mollify his allies, but they would none of him. He grew angry and threatened them, to no avail. He shot fire and frost at them, but they only retreated faster. Stealing an idea from the recently vanquished False Reaper, the End summoned all his strength and paralyzed the entire Svarren force and then paused to admire his handiwork. Had any other magician ever accomplished such a feat? Was anyone in the world mightier than he?
*****
Vykers & Company, In Camp
Vykers was taking an afternoon nap when Hjuest came by with the news.
“The Svarren have run away.”
“The fuck?”
Corpse Cold (Immortal Treachery Book 3) Page 42