Steel, Blood & Fire (Immortal Treachery Book 1)

by Allan Batchelder

  As predicted, the End-of-All-Things appeared, as if from nowhere, wearing his customary, otherworldly armor. “You fear your death,” he said almost casually.

  “I fear the pain of it, aye. I fear the things left undone,” Long responded.

  The End did not laugh, as Long might’ve expected. “And the pain of dying is less, somehow, than that of living? All you mortals ever do is complain about the pain of living.”

  Mortals?

  “As for the things left undone, that suggests your kind is capable of more, of better. You are not. That is why your world must be undone.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Long murmured.

  “What? No bold defiance? No brave last words?” the End scoffed. “You disappoint me.”

  The old campaigner knew better than to even imagine a retort, so he said nothing.

  “Very well, then, General,” the End sighed in exasperation. “Prepare your thralls for battle. Use your whip and horse to move them forward when the time comes and try not to get yourself killed in the opening skirmish; I may have need of you later.”

  Again, Long bit his lip, kept his head down. “As you say, Master.”

  “Do you recall your assignment?”

  “Third line, fourth position.”

  “Correct. Right between Generals Daurits and Ni-Nmen.”

  “But…” Long stumbled.

  “Yes?” the End asked, a hint of mockery in his voice.

  “Normally, General Plotz’ unit is on my left.”

  The End broke into a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Not today. Would you care to guess where I’ve placed him?”

  Long had a sinking feeling. “First line, third position?”

  The End nodded, approvingly. “You are learning. Yes, front-and-center. We have seen the last of General Plotz, I’m afraid.”

  Long hoped to hell his friend was still good and drunk.

  *****

  Janks, Before the Battle

  Some mornings, the first rays of sunshine give everything a pinkish hue, but even this small pleasure was denied the Queen’s soldiers on the morning of battle. The sky merely went from black to grey. If a soldier has to die, he wants to do so with the sun on his face, gazing up into the infinite. This morning, though, the sky was low – a featureless, colorless blanket that did nothing to shore up the mood around camp, where men rose from their fires, shook hands one last time, and moved off to their final rituals before combat. Some fell to their knees and prayed, others oiled and sharpened their blades for the umpteenth time, and still others checked and rechecked the bindings and straps on their armor. Some visited the latrines, some drank. One crazy bastard kept bashing his forehead into a wagon wheel and laughing louder and louder after each blow. Whatever it took.

  Janks had no rituals, but wished he’d had the foresight to create one. He’d just never been in a war he expected to survive. As he was making the rounds, wishing his comrades well, D’Kem showed up, brightening everyone’s mood considerably. It was true Janks hadn’t seen much of the old Shaper lately, but the man looked positively hale and hearty. The lines in his face had diminished, while color had crept back into his hair and beard. Strange to imagine the Shaper as a younger man, with a full head of auburn hair. He also seemed taller and more solid, somehow, than when Janks had seen him last.

  Spirk was overjoyed to see him, too. “D’Kem! Good to see you! I knew you’d come!”

  Just as Janks began to worry that Spirk’s jubilant shouting might provoke a premature attack from the enemy, D’Kem reached out and placed a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, whereupon he became almost somnambulant.

  “Nice trick, that. Care to teach the rest of us?” Janks joked.

  D’Kem laughed, a surprisingly deep, jolly sound. “Alas, I expect I’ll be too busy, shortly.”

  A small crowd of D’Kem’s former mates gathered ‘round. “Seems you’ve been plenty busy already,” Rem observed.

  “Oh, aye, I’ll not deny it. But how about you? Are you folks ready for this morning’s action?”

  Janks was amazed at the man’s relaxed, almost easy manner. Suddenly, he had an epiphany. “You’re him, ain’t you?”

  “I am…me,” the Shaper said, coyly. “All I ever was or hope to be.”

  “But you can take him, right? This End-of-All-Things?” Janks asked.

  “I don’t intend to find out. It is, after all, our army against his army. And you all are a big part of that.” D’Kem reached out again and patted Spirk on the back, reanimating him.

  “And I’ve still got my lucky stone!” Spirk blurted out helpfully.

  “Ah!” D’Kem intoned with exaggerated gravitas, “then we have little to fear!” He turned to the group. “I hope to see you all after the battle, whether it be tonight, tomorrow or the next full moon. Let us show this tyrant what the Queen’s men are made of!”

  Watching the Shaper stroll away, Janks felt something he’d never felt about his former companion before: awe. Glancing at his fellows, he could see they were all equally inspired. If this was magic, it was magnificent. Janks dared a peek towards the enemy’s host, lurking to the north. He found he was no longer afraid of it.

  *****

  Vykers, On the Battlefield

  The ground behind the End’s host was as blighted as any ground, anywhere, could ever be. The passage of upwards of two-hundred thousand feet, along with all the feces, urine and worse dropped by the owners of those feet, had churned the frosty turf into a loathsome mire. Once blood and bile were added…Vykers doubted any scavenger was that desperate, but time would tell, he knew.

  Vykers?

  Burn?

  There’s some movement a few hundred yards to the south.

  Sure enough, someone or something was struggling along the ground in the wake of the enemy’s host. Vykers made eye contact with the Three and said, “Care to join me?”

  Of course they did! In two minutes’ time, they stood behind one of the End’s thralls, pulling himself along the ground with his forearms, because his feet had largely rotted off. And yet, he still fought to keep up.

  That is one strong compulsion, Arune noted.

  Disturbing, Vykers agreed. Drawing his sword, he rammed it through the thrall’s back and into his heart.

  “You are merciful and wise to have done so,” Number 17 offered. “The man’s mind was gone.”

  Vykers stared at the corpse, an emaciated peasant with matted blond hair and filthy, ragged clothing. His death wound hardly bled. “Mercy?” the Reaper asked. “I came here to kill these bastards; this one’s just the first.”

  How’s our little project coming? He asked Arune.

  Hard to say. Obviously, the longer the Queen’s force can engage the enemy, the better our results will be.

  The old crone’s cunning. She’ll have some excellent officers, well-trained troops and plenty of arms and armor.

  You hope.

  I know. I’ve thought of taking her on myself a time or two. I’ve had her thoroughly scouted.

  Well, she did capture you…Arune goaded.

  And I’ll settle that score one day, too. Right now, I’ve got to deal with the End-of-All-Things.

  ~ ELEVEN ~

  Janks & Company, Before the Battle

  Mid-morning came and went and still the enemy had not attacked. In the trenches of the Queen’s army, frustration was mounting.

  “Fuck’re they doing?” Bash grumbled under his breath.

  “My guess?” said Janks. “They’re testing our patience, tryin’ to see if they can provoke us into coming down there.”

  “That ain’t gonna happen.”

  “’Course not. But they lose nothing by trying. And the longer they stand down there, the longer we have to look at ‘em.”

  In that instant, the End’s host began to scream in unison. It was the loudest, most intimidating and most awful sound anyone on the Queen’s side had ever heard. Up and down the trenches, men grabbed their weapons and prep
ared for an assault. The unholy din went on for several minutes and then stopped abruptly.

  Here it comes, thought Janks.

  But it didn’t come. The enemy became quiet and still again. More minutes passed. Just as the men of the Queen’s army began to relax, the End’s horde rumbled forward, screaming again. “To arms!” rang out all over the slope, more than enough to ensure every soldier got the message. In the distance, Janks could hear the longbow men being ordered to draw and take aim – not that aim was required in such a massive sea of targets. Given the incline and the intended storm of arrows, it would be two or three minutes, at least, before the first of the End’s thralls reached the heavily staked front line. Behind that, an entire division of pikemen stood ready to repel any who made it through. The archers came next, but they would continually retreat behind successive lines of heavy infantry, needful of cover to carry out their jobs.

  Janks watched the approaching flood with a mixture of terror and disbelief. If ever an avalanche rolled uphill, surely this was it. Fervent whispering on his left drew his attention away briefly; Spirk was talking or perhaps praying to his magic stone. Another ritual. Janks smiled grimly to himself, amused to realize that he wished he, too, had a magic stone. Anything to give him hope.

  The sound of several thousand arrows being released simultaneously is unique and unforgettable. Normally, a foe would look up, however fleetingly, to track the progress of those arrows. The thralls did not, but barreled forward unawares. Just before the arrows were to find their marks, an enormous flash of light lit up the sky and reduced most of them to ash. This was followed immediately by a concussive blast of thunder at the rear of the enemy’s host, resulting in more white light and tendrils of black, sooty smoke. The Shapers had begun their own battle. Another volley of arrows flew, and, this time, were not destroyed en route to targets. Dozens, hundreds of thralls and mounted mercenaries fell. It made no difference. The End-of-All-Things had an inexhaustible supply of replacements. From somewhere at the back of the Queen’s army, trebuchets launched their deadly payload at the oncoming enemy.

  *****

  Long, On the Battlefield

  The End had given him a good horse, if nothing else. Long wouldn’t have blamed the beast for bolting into the woods, after the horrific and prolonged wailing of the thralls, but it had stayed calm, unperturbed. Long would’ve given anything to feel the same, or maybe the horse was just a better actor than he. Either way, this was as frightened as the old soldier had ever been. When at last the End’s thralls charged, Long felt almost relieved. Won’t have to endure this much longer, whatever the outcome.

  He kept his eyes peeled for signs of Yendor, astride his red pony. Somehow, the End thwarted the first flight of incoming arrows, saving countless lives. Or rather extending them, briefly. But a huge explosion to the rear of the host nearly caused Long to piss himself – an increasingly and distressingly common occurrence. Nothing but nothing was scarier, more unpredictable than magic. There was no effective armor against it, no telling where it would strike or what kind of damage it might do. And he took no solace in the fact his master was using it also. Fighting fire with fire was all well and good, if you liked living in ashes. Long did not. He lost sight of Yendor for a moment, and then the third line pushed forward, carrying Long and his unit with it.

  Already, the bodies of the thralls were piling up and the first line hadn’t even reached the enemy. Long had to maneuver his horse briskly to avoid trampling on fallen troops felled by arrows, boulders and smaller stones. For every step forward, he seemed to take ten or a dozen to either side, all the while trying to keep an eye on his only friend in the host and dodge anything coming his way. In selecting this meadow, the Queen’s officers had chosen well; if he ever did reach their troops, he’d be too exhausted to engage them.

  Not far in front of Long, a thrall went down with not one, not two, but three arrows through his neck and head. Lucky bastard! In that instant, Long lost his fear of arrows. “Do your worst!” he yelled up the slope, though he knew he’d never be heard over the clamor of battle. He pushed forward another ten yards and was at last within bowshot. “Hit me, you Midlands sons-o’-bitches!” Shafts hammered down all around him, taking out several more thralls. Long remained unscathed. Still, the surging horde pressed him forward, forward, ever forward. He searched the hillside for any sign of Yendor, but all was chaos, right up to the enemy’s front.

  *****

  Janks, In Battle

  His new, army-issue armor was heavier than he’d worn in years and made him sweat something fierce. The chain hauberk and leather breastplate and greaves had a reassuring bulk to them, but were also more restrictive than the random merc’s gear to which he’d been accustomed. Janks lamented not having had time to drill in his new armor for a few weeks – or months – before seeing action.

  From his defensive trench, he had an all-too clear view of the enemy’s advance. It was hard to believe there were so many people in the world entire, much less on one battlefield. Janks and his comrades had been warned the End-of-All-Thing’s host was composed of enslaved and ensorcelled peasants. He’d thought himself prepared for the sight of them, but when they finally drew within a spear’s throw, he was stunned, mortified by their frenzied, animalistic affect. Here was a girl – a girl! – leaping over the sharpened stakes and throwing herself at a pikeman, froth exploding from her lips. There, an old man, scrambling up the slope on all fours and cackling madly to himself. Another fellow about Janks’ age inexplicably hurled himself on the stakes and lay there, twitching and writhing, while other thralls ran over him. A monstrous creature who must have once been a blacksmith batted several pikes aside and charged into soldiers behind them. Janks was amazed that he heard no panic, no dismay; personally, he could not have been more frightened.

  All along the line, thousands of thralls were hurling themselves against the army’s defenses. The Queen’s men cut them down by the hundreds, but “hundreds” was not good enough by any measure. Soon, Janks knew, the wretched, desperate creatures would be upon him and his mates. He hefted the single-bladed axe he’d chosen from the armory in his right hand, drawing a long knife with his left. Some folks preferred the sword and shield; not Janks. To his mind, twice as many blades meant twice as much damage. The things coming at him weren’t trained professionals, they were beasts. If needs must, he would cut them down like beasts.

  *****

  On a platform above and behind the Queen’s army, D’Kem had problems of his own. Whatever else he was, the End-of-All-Things was an obscenely powerful sorcerer. He had, on numerous occasions, overwhelmed one or another of D’Kem’s colleagues and caused the poor Shaper’s head to explode in a shower of blood, brains and bone shards. The effect on the other Shapers’ morale was predictably devastating. But it just made D’Kem angrier. If that’s the way the End-of-All-Things wanted to fight, the old Shaper was more than ready to answer.

  *****

  Anders exulted in his superiority over the Queen’s Shapers and was preparing to deal them a final, decisive blow when four of his own froze solid with an eerie crackling sound and slowly turned to crystal. The End-of-All-Things was not easily astonished, but a thrill of dread rippled through him as he stared, confounded, at the transparent statues of his former Shapers. One of the survivors let out a cry of alarm. Another took several steps backwards, as if considering flight.

  “Hold your positions!” the End commanded. “I will deal with this threat!”

  Two more of his Shapers froze and turned to crystal, and the rest fled in the variety of ways magic allows. The End bellowed with rage. Powerful as he was, he could not orchestrate the assault on the Queen’s front and chase after his cowardly Shapers. He glanced around: a few stood strong. “I will protect you,” he assured them and threw an ancient and elaborate spell upon them. A violet glow suffused the area, and the remaining Shapers felt no harm. “Destroy their archers!” the End screamed. “And let me deal with the enemy’s ma
gicians!”

  *****

  “Gods!” Vykers roared. “I can’t stand this waiting! I need to get into this fight!” From his vantage point, the Reaper could see clouds of arrows, flashes of sorcerous energies, vast boulders crashing down and sending bodies flying. It was as if the sight of warfare made him drool with hunger, the way a nice piece of meat will make a dog drool. Burner! Arune! He thought, urgently. How’s it coming along?

  Well, I’ve got both 17 and your sword working with me this time. Between the three of us, it’s looking hopeful.

  Hopeful? Hopeful? The battle’s started, by Alheria’s tits! This had best work, or the Queen’s army’s lost!

  Which wouldn’t be in complete opposition to your long-term goals.

  Shit! Know why I liked that General Shere? He wouldn’t take nothing he hadn’t earned. That’s the true warrior’s way, and that’s how I feel about the throne. I don’t want it handed to me; I want to take it.