Aoife cried out in earnest and sat up, awake and trembling.
Toomt’-La was nowhere to be seen.
*****
Shere, In the Moors
Damn the man. He had gone into the moors. Of course he had.
“Your will?” one of the captains asked.
Shere took his time in answering. He probed the edges of a broken tooth with his tongue. Well, it was suicide, was what it was. Following Vykers into the murk and muck was absolute suicide. Shere rubbed the back of his neck, thinking.
“You can’t be thinking of going in there!” one of his Shapers protested. “With real soldiers, we might have a chance. This lot will drown within the first mile!”
Shere ignored the man, started pacing.
“General!” the Shaper complained.
“What would you have me do?”
The man sputtered.
“Uh-huh. I thought as much. Leave me.” Shere commanded.
The Shaper sniffed petulantly and stalked off, muttering to himself just loudly enough for Shere to note the man’s disapproval. The general pointed his chin at the sky and arched his back, stretching the soreness out of his muscles. Bookish types! He’d never had any use for them. Still, the question remained: what was he to do?
He couldn’t make camp and lay siege to the moors, hoping to wait Vykers out, because Vykers might exit at some other point and melt into the wilderness. And Shere couldn’t very well attempt to go around the moors and cut Vykers off, because, again, there was no way to know where he’d emerge. It might be possible to surround the moors with the End’s entire host, given another few months. But merely suggesting this to the End was unthinkable. In short, Vykers had outplayed him: Shere had no options that wouldn’t result in abject failure. Which meant Shere was already a dead man.
He pondered this for several minutes. Shere had no future in the End’s service, whether the sorcerer won the coming war or not. On the one hand, if his master triumphed, it would mean the end of anything worth living for; on the other, if he lost, Shere would become a pariah at best and a wanted war criminal at worst, to be run down eventually and put to death. And there was the issue of his son. Son? Whatever he might once have been, he was no son now. Shere doubted he was even human, anymore. He sighed, flexed his hands. Well, what was a dead man to do in these circumstances? When the answer came to him, he laughed out loud, alarming some of his mercenaries who’d been loitering nearby. Shere didn’t care. This was brilliant: he would follow orders.
Yes, following Tarmun Vykers into the moors was suicide, for him and everyone else in his army. But what better way to strike back at the End-of-All-Things than damaging the larger host’s strength by doing as he’d been told? Who could the End blame but himself? In addition, should any of his mercenaries survive, this effort might rehabilitate Shere’s reputation, dying in one last, heroic pursuit of the legendary Tarmun Vykers. Finally, on the off-chance Shere succeeded, well…surely, the End would find some way to reward him. But that last was foolishness: Shere and his army would die in these moors. He only wished he could see the look on the End’s face when the bad news arrived.
Bolstered by this paradoxical act of compliant defiance, Shere signaled his captains. “We’re following him.”
His men exchanged worried looks.
“Now,” Shere clarified.
*****
Vykers, In the Moors
“They’re coming after us,” Number 17 said.
“Huh,” said Vykers, shaking his head. This was going to be an obscene waste of lives, but if that’s how the other side wanted to play it, the big man wasn’t going to complain.
Arune couldn’t argue, which brought her back, obsessively, to Brouton’s Bind. Time was, she’d have ranted at Vykers – or anyone like him – for his lack of humanity. Now, though…
“What shall we do?” Number 3 asked.
“Keep moving,” Vykers replied. “Cover as much territory as we can and hope the whole damned army sinks into the quicksand.”
Arune gave it a try, anyway. No misgivings about sending twenty-thousand slaves to their deaths?
No. It’s the only freedom I can offer them.
The Shaper would like to have said he was wrong, but couldn’t find the words.
Life in the moors knew no morning, noon or nightfall, but existed in an everlasting twilight that fluctuated from nearly dark to almost light, depending upon the mists, fogs and other vapors that reigned there. The myriad pools, bogs and sluggish sloughs that snaked throughout each had their own attributes, their own personalities, which only intensified the unpredictability, the unknowability of the place.
Yes, there were things that lived in the moors, things of shadow, things of scale, some infinitesimally small, others – from the sounds they made in the distance – unimaginably huge. Without exception, they feared the sword, which gave Vykers an unsettling feeling of invulnerability – unsettling because he knew it wasn’t so, couldn’t be so. The siren call of hubris had killed many a legendary warrior in the past; Vykers would not join their number if he could help it. He was no Burner, for sure, but neither was he stupid.
“Gotta be honest,” Vykers said to break up the eerie silence, “I am sorta itchin’ for a fight.”
One of the chimera – he couldn’t see which – grunted in agreement.
They all slogged deeper into the moors.
*****
Arune looked out Vykers’ eyes onto the pitiful campfire she’d started hours earlier. At the moment, the Reaper and three of his chimera were sleeping. Or so she’d thought.
Out of nowhere, Vykers asked, Hey Burn, what’s ‘Brouton’s Bind?’
If she’d had a body of her own, she would have gasped in shock.
Come on, Arune, I know you’re there, her host prompted.
Where did you hear of Brouton’s Bind?
You’ve been fairly shouting it at me these past few weeks, ‘specially when you think I’m sleeping.
She took a moment, composed herself. Aries Brouton was a Shaper, and a rather renowned one, at that. He discovered that on occasion the prolonged possession of a subject –
Like me.
Yes, like you. The prolonged possession of a subject can lead a Shaper to lose sense of himself and to…sympathize so greatly with the subject that he, in effect, ceases to exist as a separate being.
Vykers sat up sharply. The lone chimera on watch turned towards him, inquisitively, but Vykers ignored him. Which means what?
The Shaper sees himself as the subject, essentially becoming absorbed into the host’s personality forever.
Vykers broke a nearby stick in half and tossed it into the fire. He didn’t know how to feel about this. There were a million things he could have said, perhaps should have said. He chose, And if we try to get you out right now?
I would cease to exist.
Because you need a body. Wouldn’t the same thing happen all over again?
With a living body, yes. I need a newly dead body, someone who is seconds from having passed.
We’ll find plenty of those on a battlefield.
It’s not that simple.
Vykers threw another stick into the flames. It never is. He cast about for scraps from the evening meal, found none. In his sleep, one of the chimeras, Number 4, kicked his feet and murmured something that sounded like, “The jaws that bite, the claws that catch.”
So, what do you need to make it work? Vykers asked Arune.
I need to be with the body before, during and immediately after death for maybe an hour on either side.
And how soon we gotta make this happen?
The sooner, the better.
Not bloody likely, in these moors, Vykers said to himself, being careful to shield the thought from Arune. Wouldn’t do to get her any more riled up than she clearly already was.
He pulled out the sword – he didn’t yet think of it as his sword – and began moving through an exercise so old he knew neither its name n
or its origin. Sometimes, exercise was the best distraction.
*****
Long, the End’s Host
Yendor approached his newest (and if the truth be told, his only) friend. General Long or General Pete or Sergeant Long Pete – whatever he called himself – sat on the ground in a heap, legs splayed and head bowed. Yendor knew what that meant: he’d been broken to the Master’s will. Well, had to happen sometime or other. He just hoped there was enough left of the man to talk with when the tedium got unbearable.
“Glad to see you made it back!” he offered, though he knew his friend would be unresponsive. “There’s some as don’t.”
To his surprise, Long Pete rolled to his knees and wobbled unsteadily to his feet. Against all reason, the man began dancing what appeared to be some sort of jig. In short order, he was whooping, laughing and kicking dust into the air. Aye, broken indeed.
It began to rain.
“Ya prob’ly don’t wanna be doin’ that,” Yendor cautioned, looking around to make sure no one else was watching. “One o’ the other generals catches you, who knows what he’ll tell the End?”
Long stopped instantly and completely. It was hard to tell he’d even been moving.
“That’s more like it!” Yendor said.
Long started whistling.
Yendor rolled his eyes. “For the love o’ Mahnus, man! Are you tryin’ to get us killed?”
Again, Long stopped, stared hard at Yendor. “If only it were that easy,” he answered tonelessly. “But I’m doomed to see this through to the end, come what may.”
The rain fell harder.
“You there!” a gravelly baritone called out.
Both men turned to see a rough and solidly-built soldier squinting at them through the deluge.
“Get your units ready to move. The End’s gotten tired of rotting in this hell hole and wants the whole host out of here by dawn,” the man said.
Yendor halved the distance between them. “What’s the word, though? We foragin’ or fightin’?”
“You’ll have to ask the End that; he’s not told me.”
“Ask the End,” Yendor muttered to Long under his breath. “And why don’t I goose him while I’m at it?”
The soldier yelled over again. “Up and out by dawn. Make sure of it!”
As the third man walked away, Yendor continued his lament. “That’s the problem with this fuckin’ army! Too many generals and not enough privates.”
Long glanced at the pitiful thralls that comprised his unit. No matter how many times he looked at them, their vacant-eyed, slack-jawed demeanor never got any easier to accept. They were people, for Mahnus’ sake, or had been. Now? Swine had more presence of mind. How the End-of-All-Things would provoke them to attack an enemy was beyond Long, and he found it increasingly hard to care, either way.
“I guess I’ll head back over to my unit, yell at a few o’ these mouth-breathers and get some shut-eye,” Yendor said.
*****
In the morning, Long attended his first official briefing as a member of the host’s command. As before, the End stood near his uncanny map of the local terrain. His generals were in a tightly-packed clump some ten-to-fifteen feet away, clearly apprehensive about their master’s seemingly buoyant mood.
“Change of plans!” the End announced abruptly. “I see no point in waiting any longer to assert our will upon this region, nor do I see any value in allowing the bitch Queen and her little hero more time to assemble and organize their forces. Indeed, a quick, decisive strike now could well cripple the Queen’s ability to interfere with our plans forever. And without her in our way…” the End trailed off.
Long’s new colleagues dared not a word; he followed their example.
“In moments, we shall begin our advance on the enemy’s force to the southwest. I am quite confident we’ll find them woefully unprepared to deal with us. They may even take to their heels when they see us coming. But we shall get them running, inevitably, which time we can either cut them down or augment our own numbers, as occasion permits.” The End paused, surveyed his officers. “Come now, I know you have questions. Show a little courage and ask them.”
A hulking figure near the front of the group cleared his throat. “You mentioned the Queen’s hero, milord. What of him?”
“Ah, yes, the legendary Reaper,” the End crooned, “destroyer of nations, bane of empires, and first pastry chef to my lady’s cuckold!”
Polite laughter, Long thought. Then, politically necessary.
“This fearsome being, this demigod ran – ran! – from General Shere’s army and even now hides himself in a glorified mud puddle.”
Forced laughter.
“It seems the reports of his valor were somewhat over-exaggerated. The man’s a barbarian, little more than a brute, really. If he joins with the Queen at all, it will be far too late to be of any help.”
The hulk spoke again. “That is reassuring. And, master, how many days’ travel do you estimate before we catch sight of the enemy?”
The End shot a look at another general – Omeyo – who instantly replied “a week. Ten days at the outside.”
“Excellent,” the End breathed. “A final word, then, generals: your responsibilities in my host are few. You know this. I direct the thralls, the Shapers and the A’Shea. You have only to keep the whole of it moving in the right direction and motivate the mercenaries when the time comes. Everything depends upon our numbers and the ferocity of our thralls. If the host is not at strength and in condition to fight when the battle is joined, we shall all suffer for it, and none more than you.”
The last was said in Long’s direction, but he hadn’t the nerve to meet the End’s eyes today. He had no trouble imagining the threatened torment.
“Yet, I am not an unappreciative ruler. Obey me in act and in spirit, accomplish everything I ask of you, and the spoils of this battle shall be yours and yours alone. Now…let us march!” the fiend yelled, and they were dismissed.
~ Nine ~
Long, the End’s Host
Normally, Long loved the sound of an army on the move. It made something stir in his chest, affecting him more than the sound of crashing surf, music, wind in the trees, or a woman’s sated sigh. The thunderous cadence of thousands of booted feet marching in unison, along with the hooves of horses and oxen, as well as the rumbling of supply wagon wheels never failed to make Long feel a part of something bigger, grander than himself. The additional noises of armor clinking, leather creaking, and pennants snapping smartly in the breeze simply enhanced the experience.
But the noise made by the End’s host was nothing like that. Where there should have been the rhythmic pounding of feet, there was instead a titanic cacophony of shuffling, staggering and stumbling that overwhelmed all other sounds, save the occasional crack of a whip. It was an eerie, foreboding roar that set Long’s already too-frayed nerves on edge. And it continued to rain, which didn’t help matters.
Still, Long was at least glad they were finally leaving the Mahnus-forsaken cesspool the host had made of this valley. Armies always left land worse than they found it, of course. It was just the unavoidable consequence of forcing so many people to live in such a confined space on a temporary basis. But the thralls – gods! – they were little more than drooling, pissing and shitting machines. It was probably possible, Long mused, for a determined (if perverse) person to cross the entire valley without ever stepping out of the muck left behind by the thralls. And there didn’t seem to be a hint of vegetation, even a single blade of grass that had survived the host’s passing. A more loathsome, foul-smelling and blighted place, Long could not envision.
“My generals ride,” an all-too familiar voice said from Long’s right.
He bowed his head and swiveled his eyes towards the End, who sat atop a beautiful black stallion. In his gloved hand, he held the reins to another horse that trailed a few feet behind.
“And besides, there are things we must discuss before we engage the
Queen’s forces.” The End extended the reins in his general’s direction, and Long accepted them without comment. Slowly, carefully, he hoisted himself into the saddle. It was the first time he’d seen the host from this height; the sight left him even more frightened and depressed than before.
Steel, Blood & Fire (Immortal Treachery Book 1) Page 33