Steel, Blood & Fire (Immortal Treachery Book 1)

by Allan Batchelder

  A second friend had failed – or been unwilling – to recognize him. It had to be more of that Mahnus-fucking End-of-All-Bullshit’s work. Long pantomimed writing.

  “He wants to tell us in writing,” Rem said.

  The sergeant seemed skeptical. “You can write?” he asked Long incredulously. “The fuck kinda soldier can write?”

  “An officer,” Rem told him. “And, er, me,” he added almost shyly.

  The sergeant looked at the actor as if he’d offered to bugger his commanding officer. “No wonder we’re losing this damned fight!” he spat. “Okay,” he sighed heavily, “Get him back behind the lines and see what the prissy poet wants to write for us.”

  *****

  The cavalry, led on the right and left sides by Generals Branch and Lescoray respectively, exploded around the ends of the Queen’s front and stormed down the alleys between the End’s forces and the woods. The End-of-All-Things, having enjoyed tremendous success to this point without a cavalry of his own, was not overly concerned at this latest development. He should have been. While the being that was the End had spent hundreds of years studying magic of every sort, the Queen had studied military strategy. Though not a soldier herself, she knew the function, value and strengths and weaknesses of every type of unit imaginable and had taken great pains to train or acquire the best. The End had faced cavalry before; he had never faced the Queen’s cavalry. In front, her heavy lancers overwhelmed the sorcerer’s thralls, smashing them underfoot like so many eggshells. Behind, knights in full armor with massive swords, axes and hammers obliterated each and every body they encountered.

  But no battle is completely one-sided, especially when the enemy’s fighters do so without fear or scruple and appear to have no end. If a knight paused for any reason, thralls attached themselves to him and his mount like leeches. When enough thralls gained purchase, the knight and his horse went down, often causing the next knight to stop or stumble and suffer a similar fate.

  The noise of the cavalry’s twin charges pulled the End from his games at the front and back into the sky. Naturally, he intended to intercede on his army’s behalf; the question was: how to do it? If he came to the aid of those on his left, he could no longer monitor the progress of those on the opposite side, across the wide meadow, and vice-versa. Frustrated, he sent a short burst of fire into the ranks of the cavalry on his right and swept down upon the knights on his left. The End saw that brief blasts of fire had little effect on the heavily armored knights; Lightning had a much more desirable result. The enemy screamed and howled and cooked in their little steel ovens. Weirdly, Anders found he liked the odor.

  An unearthly wailing commenced at the End’s back, and he knew he’d guessed wrong. The real action was on the other side of the field. Up he went, again, more determined than ever to break this enemy. For all that, he was unprepared for what he saw: the forest itself descended upon his right rear flank, drawing many of his thralls off the Queen’s cavalry and into an altogether different engagement. When he looked back to the left, he saw the same thing occurring on the left rear flank. His sister and her strange allies had leapt in on the Queen’s side.

  Everyone he hated, gathered against him.

  *****

  Vykers stalked over to the old Shaper. “You’re gonna have to adjust your plans, friend. I’m not sittin’ out the biggest battle in ages.”

  Pellas, looking drained and more than a little beleaguered, continued to urge patience. “Can’t you see? Our enemy is trying to draw you out, in conditions that favor him.”

  “Yeah? Well, they ain’t gonna favor him as soon as I show. You do what you gotta do, and I’ll do what I was made for.” Without another word, Vykers made for the ladder and started heading down, his three chimeras in tow.

  “Well,” Pellas sighed to the empty platform, “I suppose we can try it your way.”

  Don’t worry, Arune told the old man. Whenever and wherever you appear, it’ll still be a bigger surprise than the End-of-All-Things is ready for.

  I hope you’re right, child, Pellas told her.

  Child? Funny thing to call a ghost, old man.

  Pellas wheezed in laughter, stepped off the back of the platform and floated to the ground.

  *****

  The children of Nar and the Queen’s cavalry made uneasy allies, but they immediately recognized each other as such and refocused their attentions on the legions of lunatic, bestial peasants the End threw at them in wave after wave. In fact, as the Queen’s men discovered, the wisest choice was to ignore the fey folk altogether. Something about them was terribly beguiling, almost hypnotically dangerous. They also killed their adversaries in a far wider array of ways than most humans thought possible. These forest folk, the men thought, would not make good enemies.

  *****

  On his way to the front, Vykers was intercepted by Major Bailis, who wanted to introduce him to some new recruits – volunteers. The Reaper barely glanced at them, until one face in particular caught his eye: a red-haired hill man with a broken left cheek and a broad chest. Seeing the Reaper had recognized him, the man looked down at his feet.

  “Wasn’t there something you wanted to say to me, friend?” Vykers prompted the man.

  The redhead said nothing, looked uneasily left and right.

  “Something about how Tarmun Vykers is a son-of-a-bitch and other suchlike pleasantries?”

  The redhead’s companions backed away from him. The man, himself, seemed to shrink in upon himself, blushing furiously all the while. “I…regret…my choice o’ words when last we met…” he began.

  Vykers let out a lusty laugh and clapped the man on both shoulders. “You picked a good day to die, my friend, and good company, too. Welcome, to the Queen’s army!”

  You never saw such a look of relief on a mortal face! The redhead smiled sheepishly and received a hearty ribbing from each and every one of his mates. Good company, indeed!

  The Reaper erupted from the Queen’s front, his sword flashing in great, lethal arcs and making an eerie keening sound. Behind him, the Three tore into the nearest thralls with a speed that all but defied human vision. Tarmun Vykers was home, at last.

  *****

  Long, the Queen’s Army

  Long bent over a scrap of parchment he’d been given by Rem and was just about to put quill to paper when someone called his name.

  “Long Pete?”

  He looked up and his jaw dropped. D’Kem stood not fifteen feet away, a look of astonishment on his face. Long was certain it was the twin of his own expression. D’Kem looked at once taller, older and more powerful than the old sergeant had ever seen him.

  “Long?” Rem questioned.

  D’Kem waved a hand and Rem stumbled backwards.

  “Alheria’s tits! It is Long! What in the infinite hells happened to you?” Rem stammered.

  Long tried, but still could not speak.

  D’Kem crossed nearer and placed a hand on Long’s shoulder, frowned. “An enchantment disguised your face. Easy enough to dispel. I’m afraid I cannot reverse the damage done to your voice, though.”

  “Some wine, here!” Rem yelled.

  “Wine won’t help, either,” the old Shaper said.

  “It’ll help,” Rem scoffed. “It just won’t help his voice.”

  A shadow loomed over Long’s shoulder, offered a wineskin. Long grabbed it and took a tremendous swig. Then, another.

  “Sergeant Long,” D’Kem said, “May I introduce Sergeant Kittins.”

  Rem shot him a furtive glance that warned him this was deadly serious: Do. Not. Laugh.

  “Sergeant Kittins,” D’Kem continued. “Sergeant Long.”

  “So you’re Long, eh?” Kittins asked, for want of anything else to say.

  Long nodded.

  “That explains why you were killing thralls and fighting one o’ the End’s mercs.”

  Long shook his head. But he couldn’t explain. He knew he’d lose it if he tried.

  “Well,”
Kittins said, “this little reunion is nice and all, I’m sure, but we’re gearing up for the final push. It’s-shit-or-get-off-the-pot time.”

  “Where’s Spirk?” Long scribbled on the parchment.

  “Back in the mess tent,” Rem replied.

  “Good,” Long wrote. “Keep him out of this.” He stood and Kittins jabbed him softly in the ribs with the hilt of his own sword. Long tossed the now empty wineskin aside and gladly accepted the weapon.

  “The Reaper’s just charged onto the field!” a panting soldier yelled to everyone within earshot.

  For the first time in memory, Long Pete smiled. But it was a cold, eager smile.

  *****

  Surrounded by her “children,” Aoife stood in the middle of the conflict, cloaked in a kind of protective haze. Her brother could see her now, she knew, but would have difficulty hurting her while attempting to orchestrate the overall battle. Aoife used the time to help and heal as many of the Queen’s Knights as she could reach. Most were shocked to see her, of course, but none refused the A’Shea’s ministrations. In battle, a gifted A’Shea could keep a man in action almost indefinitely. Of course, Aoife’s attentions were spread too thin for that; she had the whole of the cavalry and some of her children to care for. The thralls could not penetrate her protections, it was true, but neither did she possess limitless energy.

  *****

  The End-of-All-Things was thoroughly engaged with raining fire, lightning, poison and disease down upon the fey folk and the Queen’s cavalry, and yet he did not – could not – fail to notice Tarmun Vykers’ arrival onto the battlefield. Just southwest of him, up the hill, Vykers and his thrillingly freakish chimeras wreaked havoc on the End’s thralls and mercenaries. Truly, it was like watching a quartet of giants attacking a bunch of blind school children. The End took a second – just one selfish second – to marvel in envy at the Reaper’s gift for destruction. Shame to kill such a man, but if the fellow wouldn’t be reasonable, what choice did the End have? Besides, in order to be great, Anders had to conquer the great – wasn’t that the warriors’ trite standard? He made a quick assessment and judged that his troops could hold the left and right flanks until he’d defeated Vykers. It would be a challenging duel, but, he felt, shouldn’t take more than a few minutes. And the death of the Reaper might very well destroy what little morale the Queen’s men had left.

  *****

  Her Majesty’s troops came pouring from the line behind Vykers like angry wasps emerging from a threatened hive. Wherever the Reaper went, the Queen’s men followed in his wake, putting the sword to anything that so much as moved one muscle. It is fair to say, though, that each of these men grabbed his chance to watch the Reaper at work.

  Vykers continued to make the impossible routine. His anticipation was uncanny, his speed, inhuman. A soldier standing witness could see a hundred or more thralls incapacitated or killed before he could count to twenty. And Mahnus forbid the same soldier stole a look at the Reaper’s chimeras. The Three were surrounded by a constant mist of blood that never dissipated, so long as they moved. It was the kind of carnage an army was capable of, in mere seconds.

  The Reaper had always loved combat; for him, this was better than sex. And his sword made it so much better; he almost wished he could tackle the End’s host by himself. With this sword in his hand, there was no limit to the ways in which a foe could be killed. It was endlessly fascinating and invigorating. And he was making an obvious dent in the enemy forces. What had been an unbroken wall of thralls was now a more manageable, more familiar mob. So what if it stretched back a mile or more? Vykers and the Three would kill them all.

  Vykers was a weapon in and of himself, and a weapon could not be killed.

  *****

  The End and Vykers, In Battle

  The End appeared in the air, not far from Vykers, and blasted the Reaper with a full barrage of arcane energies. They scattered every which-a-way well before reaching their intended target. That had to be the sword, the End knew.

  Vykers’ head snapped ‘round and he stared right into the End’s eyes. “Aha!” he sneered. “The sniveling bully appears at last!”

  “Sniveling? Bully?” The End shook the earth at Vykers’ feet, intending to send him into a chasm. Again, his spell dissipated before reaching its goal. The End touched down and drew his own sword. Instantly, both men’s swords began shrieking. “It appears our weapons like one another no more than we do.”

  Like a great cat, Vykers circled stealthily to his right, hoping to observe his opponent’s adjustments to his movement. The Three spread out.

  “It seems your pets need something to occupy their attention,” the End said and beckoned to his nearest thralls. As before, this group of thralls began to wriggle and writhe, struggling within their own skins. Again, they burst in showers of gore, leaving glistening crimson ghouls in their stead. Two of the Three were upon them before this change was complete; Number 17 stayed put and incinerated the closest with a flash of light so bright even Vykers winced.

  “Well done! Well done!” the End crooned. “But I can do this all day. Can you?” He eyed Vykers and shifted his stance to protect himself against a sudden onslaught. His sword whined with ever-increasing urgency.

  “I won’t need all day,” the Reaper smiled, showing eye teeth that had, mysteriously, gotten a good deal larger and sharper than normal.

  The End found this somewhat unsettling. “Been mating with dogs, have you?” He barely had time to parry the Reaper’s opening effort – and certainly wouldn’t have, if not for his own magic sword. When the two weapons made contact, the noise was bizarre and ear-splitting.

  The Reaper feinted a thrust at the sorcerer’s left shoulder and instead muscled his sword around for a swipe at the End’s right knee. For a second time, the man was saved by his sword. Vykers stepped back, circled to his left for a change.

  The End made more of his ghouls bloom into being in order to keep the Three out of this fight and held his sword upright, in what he understood to be a guarded position. His sword did not resist, though it clearly wanted to reengage Vykers’ weapon.

  Vykers’ ears were abuzz with the sounds of flesh rending and sinews snapping. Beyond his immediate vicinity, he heard the more usual sounds of battle – weapons clanging, bones crunching, flames burning, men screaming in pain or fury – but he kept his eyes entirely focused on the End-of-All-Things. So far, the man was fighting a defensive battle, which seemed out of character for one so ruthless. Vykers goaded him.

  “You wanna die while attacking, or die while defending yourself?”

  The End arched his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Oh, are you offering a choice? How kind of you, really. But this is my fight, my day, my vict…”

  The Reaper came at him like some sort of demonic whirlwind. His blows came so rapidly and with such fury that even the End’s sword barely blocked them all. Indeed, the sorcerer found himself cut in a dozen places, and each was singularly painful.

  “That’s just a taste,” Vykers growled in an almost carnal manner.

  The End had never been hurt. Never. It made him angry. With a colossal effort, he sent forth shock waves that blasted everything away from him for twenty-five, fifty, seventy-five yards. Except for Vykers.

  The Reaper surveyed the scene. He and his foe now stood alone in the center of an enormous circle. Beyond its perimeter, the fighting continued. He hoped his chimeras were still alive. “Nice trick, that,” he said to an enemy noticeably unhappy to find him still present.

  Finally, the End came at him, swinging his sword with lethal intent, but nominal skill. His sword, though…his sword had skill. It feinted and jabbed, thrust and slashed. A normal man would have been dead a hundred times over; Vykers was a ghost it simply could not locate. On the rare occasions when the Reaper needed to parry, the End’s sword hung greedily upon his own, as if attempting to mate with it. Throughout, both weapons continued their unearthly, plaintive songs.

  “Stand still, d
amn you!” the End screamed. “Your cowardice is unbecoming!”

  Vykers froze. “Cowardice?”

  “You heard me. Stop dancing around like a two-penny harlot. If you would cross swords with me, cross swords. Otherwise…” The End extended his left hand, made a circling motion over his head and stepped backwards, smirking.

  “Otherwise what?” Vykers said.

  “I shall play games, as well.”

  Keeping his eyes fixed on the End’s, Vykers queried Arune, ???

  I am here.

  I bloody well know that. What the fuck’s this bastard on about?

  It’s something unfamiliar…I can’t quite…Alheria’s mercy!

  He didn’t have time to ask what the problem was before everyone on both sides began shrieking in terror. Vykers risked a glance to one side and, sure enough, the End came at him the moment he looked away. This time, the Reaper didn’t move; he knew whence the blow came and batted it down before it reached the midpoint of its journey. The End tried again: same result. In the background, the panicked wailing of both armies reached a fever pitch. Vykers looked beyond his nemesis and saw something that made no immediate sense: blood – everyone’s blood, anyone’s blood, all the blood – was catching on fire, burning with infernal black flames, producing a ruddy, noxious smoke. Another strike came towards the Reaper’s head; he slapped it away.