Steel, Blood & Fire (Immortal Treachery Book 1)

by Allan Batchelder

  The man, a great, lantern-jawed oaf almost too big for his mount, frowned to himself. The woods were awful quiet. Without so much as a “how do you do,” he drove his horse into the trees.

  Long realized his mouth was hanging open. He shut it. He watched the other general travel deeper and deeper into the forest, heard the man’s horse nicker briefly and lost track of him. The woods were lovely, dark and deep. And, suddenly, very frightening. What to do? Alert the End that the Queen’s army had troops in the forest, or simply allow events to unfold as they would. In warning his master, he would betray the Queen’s men, amongst whom, he knew, were the few actual friends he had left in this world. Too, he’d have to abandon his thralls if he hoped to reach the End in time to make a difference. Failure to warn the sorcerer, though, might result in more punishment, and Mardine and his child were never far from Long’s mind. Not much of a choice, when you got right down to it. He turned his horse towards the back of the host and set off.

  It was an exhausting, frustrating and harrowing effort, taking far too much time, but Long eventually reached his objective: the command tent. Normally, a soldier dismounting from a horse wants to do so in style, or, at the very least, with minimal fuss. Poor Long, run ragged by his journey through the host, tumbled off his horse and landed in an awkward heap at its feet. That’ll impress the mercs! He thought. Picking himself up, he staggered past two indifferent guards and into the darkened tent. The End’s voice greeted him almost immediately.

  “What are you doing here, General?”

  Long dropped to his knees, which instantly rebuked him for doing so, and squinted into the darkness while his eyesight continued to adjust. “Our men have gone into the forest, as you commanded. But none have come out. I suspect the Queen’s army has ambushed them.”

  “No. Not the Queen’s army. Something else abides there.”

  Long dared a look at the End-of-All-Things. The sorcerer sat in his accustomed seat, apparently fidgeting with a length of string. “Then…”

  “Yes, yes, I’ve known for some time. Your mission was simply the most efficacious means of determining the nature of the threat. Now we know.”

  Well, he couldn’t say he was surprised by the End’s response. Gods, he was weary. “What is your will?”

  The End looked up from his string, looked directly into Long’s eyes. “Why, return to your unit, of course. We shall be ready to renew our attack by sunset.”

  “Forgive me, master…” He still had trouble saying it without choking. “But…”

  The sorcerer stood. “You want to know how,” he said flatly. “I don’t know which offends me more, your presumption or your predictability.” He sauntered over into a corner, turned his back to his general. “You will be amazed, General. You have that, at least, to look forward to.” The End said nothing more for such a long time, Long finally understood he’d been dismissed. Carefully, quietly, he backed out of the tent.

  *****

  Deda, the End’s Host

  It was during this lull in the battle that Wims walked into what passed for the End’s mess tent, looking for wine. He hadn’t felt well for the past hour; wine was his life-long remedy for everything. Just a cup or two of red – or even better, a nice, crisp white – and he’d be better in no time.

  He might’ve expected the place to be deserted, given that most of the host’s officers were meant to be with their units. Instead, the tent was packed. Generals and mercenaries occupied every table, bench and stool in sight, all of them drinking and gorging themselves as if this were their last meal. Which, of course, it couldn’t be. Wims had a better chance of sprouting wings and flying to the moon than the End had of losing this fight. Maybe that explained it: the men in this tent were having a pre-victory celebration, enjoying what was certain to be an easy and short-lived conflict.

  If he’d been hoping for quick service, he was disappointed. The few slaves employed by the End’s cooks were busy dashing from table to table, carrying trays of food, refreshing mugs of ale – essentially doing everything in their power to keep from getting whipped, or worse. Grumbling, Wims followed one of them until the fellow reached a makeshift bar in the back of the tent. Luck was still with him! A balding, sallow-skinned man behind the bar was busy breaching a small keg when Wims approached.

  “What do you want, then?” the man asked insolently.

  “Got anything white?” Wims asked.

  “My backside!” the man quipped, “Other than that…”

  Wims punched him hard in the mouth, knocking the man to the ground. Nobody seemed to notice. He waited for the fool to right himself. “This is General Wims Deda you’re talking to, mate. You wanna be turned into one o’ them thralls, you keep on with the fuckin’ wisecracks.”

  The bartender’s mouth was bleeding. Strangely, the sight soured Wims’ stomach even further. The faster he got that wine, the better. “Find me some white.”

  “At once, General,” the chastened man fawned. “I believe I have a special stash of it right here…”

  Violent cramps wracked Wims’ guts. He pushed away from the bar, confused. Something was wrong. More wrong than he’d ever experienced.

  “I can find you some white, after all, General…” Wims heard the bartender say to his back. Sod the white. He needed a jakes and fast. Or a surgeon. His legs seemed to have a will of their own, propelling him into the thick of the tent’s diners, giving out on him unexpectedly, so that he toppled over onto a nearby table. Cups, plates and all their contents went flying. Men reeled back in surprise and anger.

  “What the fuck?” some bearded lout roared in Wims’face. “That ain’t funny!”

  “Get the hell offa there!” someone else commanded.

  “You drunken son of a bitch!” a third yelled.

  The pain and pressure in Wims’ belly were unbelievable. To make matters worse, his vision and hearing were faltering, too. Gods, was he dying? He felt like nothing so much as a fish tossed onto a dock somewhere, goggle-eyed and gasping for air, thrashing about, unable to return to his element.

  “I. Said. Move!” the second man shouted, before slamming a knife into Wims’ stomach in a swooping, overhand blow.

  Wims barely felt it, but he did have a split second to see his entire abdomen explode in a gory shower of entrails, changing the angry expressions around him to those of horror. Wims faded into oblivion amidst a chorus of terrified shouts and screams.

  *****

  The End-of-All-Things heard panicked screaming, and then he was there, in the center of the mess tent, which now lived up to its name. With a word, he stilled everyone and everything in the room. Even the flames of nearby candles seemed to solidify at his command.

  What had occurred, here? Scanning the gruesome scene, his eyes settled on the disembodied head and shoulders of General Deda. It was the work of several minutes to find the lower half of the man’s body, half-buried under a table that had fallen over in the corner. The End examined every face, body and other surface in the tent. There was none without evidence of Deda’s blood in the form of splotches, splashes and almost invisible spots.

  Whatever had been done to his servant in Lunessfor, the results were impressive. The End had no doubt the whole tent was contaminated and, if left unmolested, would do considerable damage to the rest of his host. A ring of flames raced outwards from his body and soon the whole tent was on fire. Better to burn the whole thing to the ground than suffer one more loss from Deda’s…illness. The End blinked outside again, to a distance of twenty-five yards or so and watched the mess reduced to ash. The Queen’s forces had embarrassed him enough for one day. Or forever, in fact. If he was honest with himself, the End hadn’t really been giving this battle his best effort.

  That was all about to change.

  *****

  Janks and Company, In Battle

  “Here they come!” someone shouted. Everyone in Janks’ vicinity sat up and looked downslope. It was true: the enemy approached in a massive, dark w
ave. And right at sunset, Janks observed. The men of the Queen’s army rose en masse from the ground, reached for weapons and generally readied themselves for whatever the next few minutes might bring. But…they’d heard no sounds of wood chopping in the forest on either side of the meadow. How did the enemy plan to bridge the chasm that separated the two armies? Janks saw confusion and worry on every face he inspected.

  At length, the End’s thralls achieved the very brink. In the growing darkness, he saw several push through to the front of the clamorous swarm and begin to convulse erratically. Janks happened to catch Kittins looking over at him, and for once there was no hostility in his expression. Plainly, the other man was every bit as flummoxed as everyone else as to what this new action might signify. It was common – typical, even – for the enemy’s thralls to moan and mewl, but the ones in front began screaming, as if in rage or agony. If that was all they did, Janks thought, it was more than enough. The sound was as unnerving as he could imagine. One by one, the screamers erupted from their skin, like butterflies emerging from chrysalises. Their outer flesh dropped away, revealing sinewy, crimson creatures of muscle, bone and little else. They looked like hunger incarnate. Unconsciously, Janks took a step backwards and then caught himself. Ridiculous! Frightening as these new apparitions were, they could never –

  One of them leapt the chasm. It was unimaginable, but Janks had just seen it done. The men around him, he saw, unanimously joined him in stepping back. Another creature soared over the chasm, and another. Kittins and Bash were having none of it. They rushed forward, weapons swinging, and engaged the fell creatures the moment they landed. The sky grew darker and so, thought Janks, did his prospects of surviving this conflict. A titanic, earth-shattering rumble knocked bodies to the ground on both sides of the crevasse. It was unclear whether the gap was growing or closing; no one could begin to guess which side was responsible. And Janks had his hands full, anyway, in helping Rem and Spirk fight off one of the End’s ghoulish changelings. The thing was fast, far too fast to have ever been human, surely. With one swipe, it took a terrible gash out of Rem’s arm, catching Spirk on the chin at the end of its swing. The eyes in its horrible, skull-like face fastened on Janks; it seemed he was next on the menu. He fought back, trying to match the thing’s ferocity, hoping it couldn’t cope with his long knife, his axe and the continued efforts of the Actor and the Idiot. More of the creatures landed on or near neighboring soldiers.

  Janks heard an enraged bellow and saw Kittins lift one of the ghouls over his head before hurling it into the still-shifting fissure at his feet. “To the hells with you!” the big man screamed. It was then Janks noticed that half the man’s face had been torn away. Too early to tell if that was an improvement or not.

  In a blaze of light, D’Kem appeared nearby, tossing bolts of energy that disintegrated the monsters on impact. At the same time, he seemed in some fashion to be battling the rift between the two armies. Every time it managed to narrow, D’Kem’s thunderous voice commanded it wider, chanting an unending litany of alien words and sounds.

  Janks had never been so inspired. “For Pellas!” he yelled and smashed his assailant’s skull in with his axe, before rushing to D’Kem’s side. Here was a man for whom he would fight to the death. D’Kem gave only the slightest sign of having heard him, but was either too preoccupied to object or had finally chosen to reveal himself. Janks’ companions, however, wholeheartedly agreed and took up the refrain: “For Pellas! For Pellas!”

  “Corporal,” D’Kem said, stress evident in his voice, “You have a choice, here. I can either eliminate these bloody creatures, or widen this gap for good and all. I cannot do both.”

  Janks understood. Right now, the ghouls were ripping the Queen’s men to shreds. Better to face waves of normal thralls than any more of these things. “Kill the ghouls!” he replied, much louder than he’d intended.

  D’Kem nodded and started revolving. In seconds, he transformed into a pillar of the purest, most-blinding light Janks had ever seen. Hastily, he looked away, afraid to be blinded for even a moment in the face of his enemies. There followed – how to put it? – a soundless explosion and the fighting instantly came to a stop. Left and right, Janks saw bemused fighters standing before smoking piles of ash. Janks searched out the Shaper, who had tumbled onto his seat in a dazed condition. “Somebody get Pellas to safety!” he shouted, then realized he trusted no one else with the job and rushed to D’Kem’s side, himself. Cautiously, almost reverently, he bent down to lift the older man to a standing position. “I’ve got you, Pellas,” Janks said softly.

  “I never doubted it,” the Shaper said.

  Downhill, the gap shuddered closed. The sea of thralls advanced, urgently.

  “I need to get higher up,” D’Kem said. Before Janks could respond, he found himself standing atop one of the army’s wooden towers at the very height of the meadow. D’Kem seemed surprised to see him at his side.

  “Er…sorry about that,” he said. “Still a little woozy from that last effort.”

  “No apology necessary. I quite understand.” Janks paused. “Not really, o’ course, but, you know.” He looked down and out over the battlefield. From this vantage point, the seemingly infinite size of the enemy’s host was even more apparent and dispiriting than from below, despite the almost complete arrival of nightfall. At least down there, he only saw his opponents a few hundred at a time. Up here – “I gotta get back down there,” he muttered.

  “Thank you for your help,” D’Kem told him and whisked the corporal back to the front with a thought.

  Janks reappeared not ten paces from Rem and Spirk, feeling more than a little nauseous. Rem, he saw, had managed to bandage his wounded arm; Spirk’s chin bled freely, but he’d never die from the wound, unless it went septic. He pointed to the boy’s injury. “You gonna have that looked at?”

  “Rem says it’s good.”

  “That right?” Janks asked the actor.

  “Oh, we cleaned the hell out of it, if that’s what you’re after.”

  They all heard the next wave of thralls scrabbling closer.

  “Back to it!” Janks said, with more confidence than he felt.

  *****

  “Pellas?” the End screamed in Long’s face. “Pellas?” As if it was somehow Long’s fault. “You have my word, my absolute guarantee I will kill your giantess and your child for this treachery.”

  Long snapped. If death was coming, let it be now. “Kill me, instead!” he yelled back. “Enough of the threats, kill me already or tell me how I’m to blame for Pellas’ reappearance.”

  “You brought him into my host!”

  “You captured us!”

  “You covered his escape!”

  Gods, it was like arguing with a willful child. Exactly like it. Long narrowed his eyes.

  The End glared back at him. “What is it you suddenly think you know of me?”

  “You’re a child,” Long replied, his voice devoid of emotion.

  He saw the backhand coming, couldn’t quite muster the energy to duck it in time. “And you are an insect. We’ve been over this. I will not kill you, General Long. I treasure your suffering. You do it so well. It is, perhaps, the only thing you do well.” Just as Long was about to respond, the End spoke again. “But I grow tired of your insolence, I weary of your voice. That, I will take from you. Forever.”

  Long felt an odd rustling sensation in his throat and knew he’d been rendered mute. He chose not to give the sorcerer the satisfaction of proving it.

  The End continued. “My thralls will continue our assault through the night. At dawn, you will lead a very special charge into the enemy’s center. I want you to be able to see all that transpires and know that I put you there.” He blinked away again.

  Although he’d lost his voice, Long realized he’d grown in power: he no longer feared the End-of-All-Things. Oh, he feared for Mardine and their child naturally. But the sorcerer himself and his infantile behaviors no longer frightened Lo
ng. He pondered how one goes about punishing an unruly, all-powerful brat.

  *****

  The End-of-All-Things was as angry as he’d ever been. He’d been mocked by that worm, Long Pete, in the most inexcusable manner. And yet, Anders had allowed him to live. Again. He struggled to understand his inaction in this case. What was it about the fool that fascinated him so?

  At the back of his mind, he became aware of a large force approaching his host from the north. His anger grew. He probed the mysterious army for details and was dismayed to discover the familiar blind spot that signified Tarmun Vykers and his damned sword. Of all the demons in every hell! He’d left his back vulnerable to the Reaper while he’d been unexpectedly distracted by the Pellas of legend. And he still had to reckon with whatever lurked in the forest on both sides of the battlefield. He was boxed in! The End, who had never known fear, felt his first faint frisson of the stuff and found it unpalatable. This could not be so.

  ~ TWELVE ~