The Bitter War of Always: Immortality Shattered: Book 2

by Christian Warren Freed

  “Though we pulled out a minor victory, the facts haven’t changed. We are still outnumbered at least three to one and the Black has suspiciously disappeared,” Dlorn argued. “We need to fight a delaying tactic. Turn back and assault here, retreat a little, and fight again. Heads up confrontation will result in nothing less than our annihilation.”

  A flaxen haired man of middle age and rounded belly rose. “How long and how far do you intend to retreat? We have already been expelled from our homelands. How far, General?”

  Dlorn eyed him respectfully. Daril Perryman was a fine man, and an even better strategist who was well respected and revered throughout the army.

  “For as long as we must, Commander. We are not only fighting for our homes but that of the entire Free Lands. Will you forfeit the lives of millions for selfishness?’

  Perryman stood his ground. “I will forfeit my own to keep my men and their families alive. We don’t even know what this damned wizard wants. I say leave him be and let us return home.”

  “He comes for me.”

  All eyes shifted to the partially shadowed face of Aron Kryte. Their collective gaze left him feeling cold, shallow. After all, he was but a single man. Why should the world die to keep him safe?

  “What makes you so damned important?” Perryman asked.

  “To be truthful, it’s not exactly me. I have a thing he very much desires and will stop at nothing to obtain. The Black has been blinded by the prophecy of Ils Kincannon. He follows the law of the heretic, seeking to become a god.”

  “Nonsense,” Perryman defended. “Kincannon is barely a memory.”

  Aron continued, working out his thoughts for personal reasons rather than explain everything, again, to those few faces he didn’t know. “To most men, the Staff of Life is naught but a myth, forged in the illusions of drunken stupor. To me, and those who ride with me, it is a token as real as the air we breathe. This Staff, not me, is important. It needs to be taken back to Meisthelm. The High Council will do what needs doing.”

  Perryman laughed, despite failing to notice he was the only doubter. “And all of our troubles will magically wither away? Your Hierarchy doesn’t seem to be doing much good for the Free Lands now, does it?”

  Eager to quell his anger, Aron said, “No. The problems which you so proudly stake claim to as your own will not go away. The madness of the Black will grow, even thrive, until he has the Staff in his possession. What we fight for is much more than the insignificance of self.”

  He fell silent and moved to the center of the tent, staring with empty eyes into the roaring flames of the fire pit. Karin cast a wicked glare at Perryman before going to her lover’s side in support.

  “Now you see, Commander Perryman, why I cannot give way to the dark hordes. The value of the future is too much for me to abandon,” Dlorn echoed.

  Defeated, Perryman sat. He’d been a loyal son of the crown all his life and would remain so. Doom or not. Dlorn would have his full support. “I know nothing of wizards or tokens of power. Sometimes I know not the hearts of men, but to this I swear. You have the full support of my men in your quest, Lord Kryte. General, forgive my outbursts. They were uncalled for and unbecoming of an officer in the Galdean army.”

  Dlorn nodded in consent, silently wondering if he would have done the same if the situation was reversed.

  “What we need,” sang the golden voice of Andolus, “is a diversion. We need to find a way to keep the darklings from attacking. For if we continue as we are now, they will soon be able to cross the river on the backs of their dead.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Calri asked. He’d been able to clean some of the blood and gore before answering the summons.

  “Darklings are brutal, efficient killers, but they’ve never been exceptional. Much like conventional armies, they have a body of leadership. If we can cross the river and cut off the head, so to speak, their army will devolve, making them far easier to deal with. I would suggest that your Gulnick Baach is in command. Kill him and we stand a chance.”

  “An admirable plan,” Dlorn noted, “But who is suicidal enough to lead the raid?”

  Long Shadow, last of the Lords of Teranian, stood. His grim façade spoke for him.

  A horrible clamor arose from the northern flank of the army before any could question Long Shadow. The darklings had plans of their own.

  ELEVEN

  Redirection

  Gulnick Baach was once considered among the very best of the Hierarchy commanders. A fact the Galdeans had forgotten. Using the cover of darkness, he sent battalions of darklings farther north to cross the river and attack south. Five thousand killers waited in the shadows in utter silence. This was a campaign of probes. Gulnick absorbed the losses of the initial battle while developing a counter plan.

  Wrapped in a thick cloak, he went as close to the river bank as he dared and listened to the night sounds. The waters of the mighty Simca River lapped against the rocks and chunks of ice, tempting one to slip in. Cloud cover blocked the moon, giving Gulnick cause to wonder if the wizard had had a hand in it.

  He watched the illuminated sentinels on the far river bank, scant meters away. Common sense told him the last units on duty had already been replaced with fresh troops eager to be blooded. Again came the dreams of being in their camp, if only to feel the exuberance of victory. He missed the days of enjoying a cask of wine with his men.

  Minutes danced away, turning into hours. He toyed with the idea of sending another assault across in diversion for the main assault. Gulnick watched as units continued to emplace a wall of spikes and spears, making any frontal assault all but impossible. His mind was focused on finding any weakness in the defenses and exploiting them, not turning his army into worm food.

  The sounds of battle erupted from the north. He sighed. So begins another round of slaughter. It’s going to be a long night. He went back to his tent. Sleep was needed if he was going to maintain the pace of battle. Hopefully, his tactic would be successful enough to keep his enemies away from the tender embrace of sleep. Either way, he’d find out in the morning.

  Ignoring the protests of his men, Field Marshal Dlorn took his command staff into the fray. Axe and sword rose and fell. A large body of darklings was already deep into their lines, driving the defenders back on a path of mutilated bodies. Some died in their sleep, a terrible price paid for dozing off. The rush came unexpectedly, catching the weary soldiers off guard. Reinforcements were slow in coming, leaving the brave men on the flank alone. Until Dlorn arrived.

  Long Shadow ran with blinding speed through the steel ranks. His might crashed into the darklings, wielding death as a powerful friend. Those unfortunate enough to come across him fell without much of a struggle. Elven hunters joined the battle behind the example of their prince. Arrows whistled through the air, decimating the darklings. The elf prince checked their fire enough to allow the surging knot of Dlorn’s men room to attack. It was a bitter fight. Heads were lopped from shoulders. Bodies cut in half. A man of weak stomach wouldn’t have lasted.

  Seizing the initiative, Dlorn and Calri Alsimmons led one hundred men into the flank, driving the confused darklings back toward the river. The old man fought like a caged beast. His sword was an extension of his flesh, his very spirit. Parry. Thrust. Slash. The foul bodies of his foe fell again and again under the onslaught of his fury.

  Yet even his remarkable strength ebbed. A darkling barreled into him, knocking him to the ground. Another swept in, threatening to tear his head off. The darkling doubled over in air, entrails spilling down onto Dlorn’s chest. With the second darkling distracted, Dlorn pulled out his dagger and stabbed. Blade sank through flesh and sinew in the back of the darkling’s knee. The creature howled, giving Dlorn the opportunity to drive his weapon into the darkling’s exposed throat.

  Daril Perryman helped his general to his feet and surged past with the flow of battle. A great cheer arose from the opposite side of the fight. Terror sparked in the darklings near
and far as a fist of golden armor plunged into them. Fifty of the best warriors in the Free Lands exercised their pent-up aggressions. Over three times their number fell as the darklings were entirely overrun. The Golden Warriors provided the Galdeans that spark they needed to rally.

  They worked as one, the culmination of Hierarchy training standards and instilled discipline. Yet even the renowned Golden Warriors weren’t enough to make the darklings retreat. They redoubled their attack but the Galdeans had rallied. Unable to break through or wrap around the edges of the defense, the darklings were forced to pack tight and rely on numbers. Back ranks, oblivious to what was happening in the front, continued to surge ahead, trampling many of their own out of sheer bloodlust.

  Snow started falling in gentle amounts. Bodies slipped and fell, grappling to the death. Back and forth the battle rage, neither side gaining or losing. Dlorn read the situation and despaired. Darkness prevented him from ascertaining the darkling numbers. Confronting the unknown, he needed to develop a counter strike before his entire northern flank collapsed.

  He was stepping through bodies when searing pain lanced across the back of his calf. Dlorn slashed down instinctively and killed the darkling. Scowling, he searched for more pretending to be dead. Then he caught a glimpse of Calri and a handful of others. They were surrounded, fighting for dear life. Several darklings fell, pierced with arrows, before Dlorn could head that way. The elves surprise assault was enough to enable Calri and his men the opportunity to break free and back to the safety of the line.

  Dlorn eventually made his way to Calri and grabbed him by the collar. “Send a runner to Lestrin. I want the heavy cavalry here now! That should be enough to break their backs.”

  Slowly, but gradually, the defense lines began to break. Pockets of resistance were swarmed over and killed. The Galdeans made the darklings pay for every foot of ground. It was a price the enemy was willing to pay. Dlorn fought with his men but knew the futility of the situation. Unable to summon reinforcements from the river, he prayed his men could hold long enough for the cavalry to arrive.

  Killing with vengeance, Aron Kryte smote all enemies as they presented themselves. His men were equally vengeful. They made him proud to be their commander. Darklings shied away, knowing this threat was the most dangerous. Golden Warriors were trained to fight like no other man. But the darklings had never known fear and refused to back down, even as the men in golden armor slaughtered all.

  Fighting with incredible intensity, the demons of Suroc Tol raged with berserker strength. Meter by meter, the alliance of men and elves were forced back. Aron Kryte and his band did their best to quell the tide. Firelight reflections danced from the fist of gold, delivering hope where none was to be found.

  Each Golden Warrior was a master at arms. Each had been under the knife at various points in their lives and were well versed in battle. Some grinned savagely behind the anonymity of their faceplates. They killed with ruthless efficiency. Soon the bodies piled beyond count. Despite this, Aron saw the hopelessness of their predicament. They were locked in a no-win scenario.

  “Fall back!” he ordered.

  A staggering Amean bumped into him, blood stained and exhausted. He’d lost his helmet along the way. His hair was pasted to his scalp. A sharp cut above his right eye dribbled blood down his face.

  “There are too many,” he gasped through waves of pain.

  “Take the men back to that rise. Form a line and wait for help. We’ve got thirty thousand men here and less than two in the fight. This is a foul night,” Aron scowled.

  “What about you?” Amean asked.

  “I’ve got to get to Dlorn and the others. If we’re to stand a chance at all, we need all the help we can get. Now go!”

  A thunder unlike any they had heard in a long time resonated across the river valley and over the darkling ranks. Timorous madness sparked and grew among them. The rumble grew louder, until darklings begged for deliverance. And deliverance arrived, on horses girded in iron. Teeth gnashing. Hooves crushing. Two thousand cavalrymen burst from the cloak of darkness and smashed into the darkling horde.

  Enemy ranks held for a moment only. Notions of valor were short lived as hundreds died as the opposing forces met. The darkling attack broke. Those still unaffected ran for their lives. It was a vain effort.

  Dlorn was down on one knee. Disbelief registered on his face. Never had he been suckered into such a debacle. His men, on the brink of utter collapse, endeavored to retreat in orderly fashion. A fighting withdrawal. Many were already dead. Many more wounded. Broken pennants and guide-ons lay buried under corpses. Some continued to wave in the stale breeze. The sad realization that this was just the beginning crept into his mind.

  Beaten back by considerable strength, the tireless might of Long Shadow, the silent killer, now stood next to the general. Several minor cuts and scratches decorated his steel-like body. He didn’t show the pain he felt. Instead, he stood like a rock. An immovable object against an ocean of hatred. Dlorn found courage in him. If only he had a hundred more. Buoyed by what may well be a fleeting vision of false confidence, Dlorn rose and planted a broken standard in the snow.

  “I will not let these damned beasts pass. Who will strike with me through the heart of darkness? For crown and kingdom!” he bellowed, with sword raised high.

  A cheer rose from those nearby. Charging into the darklings was suicidal, but all had sworn oaths to the crown.

  “Long Shadow, will you stand beside me as well?” Dlorn asked, knowing he couldn’t command the foreigner.

  The silent killer nodded once. This was what he was born for.

  “Men of Galdea! Rally to me!”

  Five hundred strong, they doubled their efforts and crashed into the darklings with unmatched brutality. Men and beast continued to fall as the death toll increased. Lives and dreams were shattered in a ghastly contest of primal instincts. Dlorn had never been prouder of his men, though he knew the act was doomed to fail. They lacked the numbers and it was but a matter of time before the darklings realized it.

  The thunder echoed. Dlorn shoved a lunging darkling back and stabbed it through the chest. The cavalry was upon them. Monster after monster fell as a tidal wave of horse flesh bore into them. Soon, much faster than he anticipated, the battle was well beyond him and already beyond the original defensive positions.

  A rider reined to a halt and saluted. “My apologies, General, but we had some difficulty on the other side of camp. It appears the darklings are much more coordinated than we expected.”

  Dlorn had feared as much. “No demon commands this army, but a man of Valadon. My thanks for arriving in time, Lestrin.” He paused to drink deeply from his canteen. “What is the status of the river flank?”

  “It still holds, though not by much. They hit us hard and only minutes after the attack from the north. I’m a bit surprised they didn’t continue the assault,” Lestrin said.

  He was a thin man, much younger than the other senior commanders in the army. Sweat coated his exposed flesh, lending him the look of a man unmistakably lethal. His frame was thin and lightly muscled, covered splendidly by leather armor many others frowned upon.

  “They yet may,” Dlorn growled. “When this mess is cleaned up, I want all commanders in the command tent. I’ll be damned if they catch us with our trousers down again.”

  “Sir,” Lestrin said as he remounted and hurried back into the fray.

  Dlorn and those few around him limped their way through the hundreds of bodies and limbs. Surgeons and medics raced across both ends of the battlefield. The groans of the wounded wailed long into the early morning hours, far longer than the clash of steel had. Soldiers not involved with the mopping up actions, helped move the wounded. The dead stayed where they fell, for the moment.

  Three hours later, Dlorn’s council began.

  “We are playing right into the Black’s hands,” Aron said, his voice thick with sleep. “Baach is going to keep us off balance long enough for Ime
lin to get here and find a way to steal the Staff.”

  His words echoed the thoughts of those assembled. Calri sat at the corner of the war table, head down and fast asleep despite his best efforts. Lestrin and Perryman spoke quietly in front of the fire. Karin rested her head against Aron’s shoulder. She’d fought alongside the elven archers and was beyond exhausted. Andolus, Long Shadow, and Amean were present as well, battered but alive. Jou Amn rounded out the last of the council. His shoulder was heavily bandaged. Like a true warrior, he sat through the pain.

  “Precisely the reason we need to strike now,” Perryman looked up and said. “Andolus gave us the plan. All we have to do is implement it. To do otherwise is to invite our doom.”

  Aron disagreed. “Suicide isn’t going to win the day. There has to be another way.”

  “What of the wondrous Staff of Life? If the Black wants it, there must be power undreamed of locked within,” Perryman said. Like the others, he found no valid point in arguing until dawn.

  “Because I have no idea what to do with it. I’m no wizard, nor do I profess any wealth of knowledge regarding it.”

  Dlorn rose, his legs shaky. “I think perhaps we are avoiding the purpose of this battle. We stand against the armies of the dead. A last hope for the world. For that hope to retain significance, young Lord Kryte must escort the Staff of Life to the wizards of Meisthelm. This is why we fight. We may not find victory, but if we can delay the enemy long enough for the Golden Warriors to gain a large enough lead, there might still be hope.”

  “Thank you, General, but we can’t leave just yet,” Aron replied with a forced smile. “The Black needs to see that I am here. I imagine he can sense it already. When he sees me, and I will ensure he does, he will settle down for the long fight. I know a little about him and he is considered a man of infinite patience. The night he arrives, my companions and I will slip away, probably toward the town of Drim. With us gone, the Black will likely only leave a token force behind to delay you.”