The Bitter War of Always: Immortality Shattered: Book 2

by Christian Warren Freed

  “I stood next to them,” Perryman said. “My first impulse was to drive my blade through Baach’s bowels, but Kryte stopped me. I think he made a wise decision by letting the general live.”

  “There are some who believe that snakes make good pets until they are bitten. Can we trust a serpent who has already sold us out?” Lestrin argued.

  Long Shadow shifted uneasily in the corner.

  “We are losing focus on the one factor that makes us who we are. Humanity. A man cannot be good or wholeheartedly evil in a matter of months. No matter how far gone, there is always a measure of good still within,” Andolus said.

  The horse commander was outraged. “I can’t believe my ears! Are you saying we should embrace him as one of our own after all he’s done here? I trust no man, or elf, responsible for murdering his own kind on the whims of a dark wizard.”

  “We waste precious time bickering over inconsequential matters. It is not a question of who believes Baach but who has to listen,” Dlorn said in a calm voice. “If all he said is true, Meisthelm stands in greater peril than Galdea. Sadith Oom come back from forgotten nightmares. Gulnick Baach just may have given us what we needed to save this army.

  “Long days ago, our advance scouts discovered the might of his army and it stretches far beyond the reach of the naked eye. We cannot hope to contain or defeat it. Cut in half we have but a small chance. But if what the traitor says is true, we have the opportunity to salvage the bulk of the army and escape to fight another day.”

  Dlorn fell silent and patiently cleaned his pipe before putting it away. He had said enough, and though fully interested in what his council had to say, had already made up his mind. Even if Baach had offered a whisper of truth, Dlorn needed to do all he could to save as many men as possible. The war promised to drag on for many months, perhaps even years. The hope of men had need for all resources, if it was to survive.

  “What the General says may indeed be true,” Calri stated, “but the deceiver could well be leading us to slaughter. Suppose Baach has us retreat. We already know half of his army has moved south to another campaign. We also know of their airborne capabilities.”

  “Your point, Captain?” Andolus asked. He was growing weary of childish fears.

  “My point is what is to keep Baach from sending us into the second half of the army and trapping us between the two forces?”

  “If they wanted us dead, we would not be having this conversation,” the elf prince rose. “I have fought these monsters for over one hundred years. Their tactics do not change, whether led by man or beast. They remain.”

  A messenger burst into the tent, pallid and drained of energy. His words, when spoken, were of abject terror. “He’s here! The Black Imelin is here!”

  The Black Imelin glared down at Gulnick Baach with obvious disdain. “I see you have thus far managed to survive the brunt of the fighting. Tucked away in your tiny corner of security, perhaps?”

  His words struck chords so deep, Gulnick struggled to maintain composure. He barely noticed the solemn form of Hurst slip from behind a tree to stand a half step back.

  “Casualties thus far?” Imelin demanded.

  Hurst scoffed as he picked a piece of meat from between his teeth.

  “Ten, maybe fifteen thousand,” Gulnick replied. “The Galdeans fight most determinedly with their backs to the wall.”

  “Making such a bittersweet victory. I shall enjoy destroying them. It will take close to two days to get the rest of the darklings in place and ready to attack. The scrathes will be here shortly before dawn. When I give the command, I want an all-out offensive across the river. Drive Dlorn and his rabble to the Arindl River and kill them to the man.”

  Gently tapping his horse’s flank, the Black rode away.

  Hurst leaned threateningly close and vowed, “He’s going to find out about you, Baach. One way or another, you’re a dead man.”

  Gulnick Baach stood alone amidst a host of thousands, the arid wind cracking his already dry skin. The war was well underway, but his personal torment was only just begun.

  Dlorn looked into the troubled eyes of his captains and field commanders. They reflected his doubts and strengths, giving his army at least a fighting chance.

  “The time for deliberations is finished,” he announced. “Today we must decide our course of action. Do we stay and fight against odds the world cannot defeat or run and live to fight again?”

  Again it was Perryman who took the first opportunity to voice his opinion. “I say run. We turn this war into a series of guerrilla campaigns and we stand a better chance of winning.”

  Long Shadow nodded agreement.

  “Such a campaign would take years. Although the plague will be engaged, thus giving Meisthelm and the Hierarchy the time needed to marshal the army. We run.”

  Dlorn shifted his focus to the field commanders, hardened veterans forged by necessity. He purposefully passed over the Golden Warriors in doing so. They were an issue he couldn’t afford to dither on. Lestrin and Calri remained uncharacteristically quiet. Dlorn took that as a good sign. With the matter out of the way, he was left with two major issues. The first was what to do with Princess Elsyn. There was no way he was going to jeopardize her safety for the sake of a madman’s whim. The second, and infinitely more problematic in his eyes, was the Staff of Life. He didn’t dare keep it with the army, for the token drew the Black. No other living man had the required bloodline needed to wield it, and none he knew wanted it. Dlorn silently longed for the days when the enemy and objectives were clear.

  Karin slipped quietly through the tent flap. She ended beside Long Shadow. Her appearance was haggard. Unkempt hair matched the rawness in her eyes. The tears had long since dried up, leaving a heart of ice.

  “I am taking the Staff on to Hyrast and them Meisthelm,” she said with utter finality.

  None moved to oppose her.

  “Who rides with me?”

  Andolus let a timid smile escape and slid in behind her, followed closely by Long Shadow. So, too, did Jou Amn and Amean Repage.

  “The Golden Warriors will be honored to escort you,” Amean announced.

  Dlorn felt the great weight shift a little. He’d been expecting, and praying for such a move. “I think it has somehow fallen into your hands regardless. You will have to leave under cover of night.”

  “Understood.”

  “I will have men tend to your mounts and pack enough provisions for one week. It should be more than enough to get you to Hyrast, or at least the town of Drim.”

  “Fair enough,” Amean said.

  As one, the tiny band filed out of the command tent. Desperate times called for desperate decisions and Dlorn had willingly parted with his greatest combat asset for the greater good. He hoped he wasn’t making a mistake.

  “This, gentlemen, is how I propose to deal with our enemies,” he said.

  All eyes fixed on him.

  Elsyn wiped the tears from her eyes and tried to recall the voices outside of her tent. She was past fed up with the current turn of events. Cold, freezing actually, her body ached. The army camp lacked virtually every comfort of home. She missed the sanctuary of her life, her real life, and prayed for its swift return. Disappointment was a cold, hard fact she was now forced to endure.

  “Enter,” she said finally.

  Elsyn wasn’t surprised to see Dlorn follow her words.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, upon catching the sag in his shoulders and long face.

  He almost laughed. “What’s wrong indeed! A more apt question would be what’s right. The world seems to stand against us, Princess.”

  “You’ll beat it. You always do.”

  Dlorn loved the innocence of her youth. She turned twenty in four months and was already far too mature for her age. Her parents would have been proud.

  “To have your faith for one day, just a day,” he sighed. “Alas, I must live with the lot I’ve been given.”

  Elsyn picked up on the
distraction. “Why did you really come? I know it wasn’t for a boost of morale.”

  “You are so much like your mother, have I ever told you that?” Her gentle smile almost made him forget his problems. “We are leaving, Princess.”

  Leaving? How? Why? “What of the Black? Is it possible to escape?”

  He shook his head. “Escape is not my intent. The army is already preparing for the next phase in the campaign. We are going to retreat deep enough into the countryside and draw the darklings in, striking them piecemeal. By that time, the Staff should be secure in Meisthelm and the whole of the Free Lands risen up against the Black. If all goes according to plan, we’ll be able to pinch his army between us and do away with the threat of this traitor for good.”

  Listening to his own words, Dlorn was almost impressed. He understood the inherent risks in such a maneuver and fully expected little to go his way.

  “When do we leave?” Elsyn asked. She smoothed a part of her dress, catching his involuntary wince upon being asked.

  “It pains me to do this, but there is little real choice. I’m sending you to Lord Felbar. It should be safe there once this storm moves on.”

  “No,” she insisted. “I will not sit idly by while the vengeance of my father carries on.”

  “Elsyn, this is more than just your father’s legacy. What we are doing is buying the rest of the world time. How they use it is up to them but if I die today, it will be with the knowledge that we gave the Hierarchy what it needs to prepare. My legacy will not be vengeance.”

  His face flushed when he realized he’d raised his voice. Dlorn offered a hasty apology.

  She accepted and asked, “What of Lord Kryte and the Staff?”

  “Aron Kryte died last night. You know this.”

  “I refuse to believe it until I see the body.”

  He did his best to reason with her, to tell her there was no way anyone could survive the freezing waters for more than a few minutes, but she was sharp when agitated. At times, she was too much like her mother.

  “You may believe what you wish, and if those beliefs help you in dealing with the severity of the future, the better for them. However, there is no possible way any man could have lived,” he said.

  Dlorn hung his head, instantly regretting the harshness of his words. Decades of service to throne and crown had sharpened his tongue nearly as much as his sword.

  Elsyn saw their argument quickly headed in the wrong direction and decided on a different approach. “What of the one who bears the Staff? What path do they follow?”

  “They ride out before dawn. With a little luck they should arrive in a safe haven in Almarin. Our hope is they pass unnoticed, leaving the Black thinking the Staff is still with us. This is a costly game we play,” he added in afterthought.

  “Thank you, General. I think I am going out for a brief walk. Dinner as usual?”

  He bowed ever so slightly. “Of course, Princess.”

  Dlorn left her, knowing what she intended. His only wish was that she went in safety. Having her anywhere near the front lines of the coming battle left him twisted. She was his greatest concern and most pressing weight. With her safely away, he could resume focus on the war.

  Elsyn barely waited for the tent flap to swish shut before she began stuffing random possessions into a travel bag. Once done, she donned a grey winter travel cloak and readied to enjoy her final meal in the company of the army commanders, her commanders. Thoughts of Aron pained her, for she was already lost to the initial twinges of love. He was alive and she wasn’t about to give up on him.

  FIFTEEN

  A World Goes to War

  The tireless efforts of the Golden Warriors worked in concert with the setting sun. They stopped working just long enough to take in a last hot meal before setting out. Though a certain spirit of demise plagued them, hopes buoyed with the arrival of the elf prince and his silent friend. The duo almost made up for the death of Aron Kryte. Many of the small company took pride in the fact that their actions might prove the salvation of the rest of the world. It was a small comfort in the face of such loss.

  Finishing with his bags, Andolus excused himself to bid farewell to his brethren. Traces of memory flashed as he walked. Of the happy times at Dol’ir and her eventual fall. He sorely missed all of those who’d died in the betrayal but was never in a position to avenge the wrongs committed. Until now. Andolus found the elves grouped together in a loose knot in the middle of the army. They hailed him, offering food and wine, which he graciously declined.

  He found Jerns Palic warming his hands.

  “Winter is particularly cruel this year, is she not?” Jerns asked, as his commander fell in beside him.

  “More so than we can know. He’s going to attack tomorrow.”

  “We know.”

  Andolus shuffled his feet, trying to think of how to say what he felt. “Odds are that we probably won’t last much longer. I’d like to think otherwise but the host arrayed before us is quite impressive.”

  “Ten times that number will not be enough to make up for the loss of one of our brothers. We will fight bravely on the morrow,” Jerns said.

  “I wish I could be with you,” Andolus admitted.

  Concern sparked in Jern’s eyes and then faded. “A more pressing mission perhaps?”

  “Yes. Long Shadow and I are going south with the Golden Warriors. The Staff of Life must reach Meisthelm.”

  Jerns approved. “Elves have long stayed away from the affairs of men, though I deem this to be more important than what we attempt here. Go with the fortune of us all, Andolus. Mayhap we shall meet again.”

  They clasped arms and spoke a silent parting. With much pain and sorrow, Andolus, prince of the Dol’ir elves, turned his back on his people and entered a world much larger than any he’d ever witnessed.

  The first units of the Galdean army began an organized retreat shortly after midnight. These were the hardest hit from earlier engagements. Wagon trains of sick and wounded, much more than Dlorn would have liked, immediately followed. Low level officers supervised the movement, while line units covered down and dug in deeper to prepare for the coming assault.

  Fresh soldiers, still wide-eyed with the ways of the world, experienced levels of fear strong enough to buckle knees and burst hearts. Veterans attempted to calm their nerves but knew there was little to be done. The only way to avoid fear was to fight it away. Field commanders and generals supervised the restructuring of the army, while letting their subordinates do what needed to be done.

  Catapults and heavy siege weapons were readied and moved back to cover the opposite river bank. Dlorn organized his artillery in three ranks. The first would fire into the initial darkling assault. Once the enemy paused to reorganize, they would drop into range of the second rank. The third would be used for close support. Archers filled in fifty meters behind the already formidable ranks of pikes and swords. Ground units provided enough space for the artillery to retreat, should it come to that.

  Donning his winter cloak, Dlorn made his rounds, hoping his face would inspire renewed vigor before the storm broke.

  The Black Imelin sat in total darkness, mentally preparing for the wholesale slaughter about to begin. The ghosts of dead men no longer haunted him. It was much too late for that. They faded into shadow, ready to watch the collapse of life. He alone was on a level with the gods, in charge of not only his destiny but that of the entire world.

  His meditations opened veiled eyes, allowing Imelin to see intricate webs of treachery and deceit. The quest was anything but simple. Each singular piece of the puzzle developed into conflicting webs. Too many people were involved. Too many chances to share his glory. Imelin frowned. He needed to eliminate the multitudes of loose ends before proceeding. Plans within plans formed. Alone in the dark, the threat of the future seemed less.

  ***

  An unseasonable wind ravaged the sleepy spires of Galdarath. Fires burned in every home in the vain attempt of staving off th
e chill but there was a shortage of fire wood and oil, thanks to the war in the east. Wood cutters were fearful of leaving the safety of the city walls. One of the largest cities in the Free Lands was brought to a standstill, one where the repercussions would be felt for many years to come.

  Enshrouded by the wall of shadows coming off the main castle, three figures slinked past the guards and hired help. Their riding clothes were dusty, the color of midnight. Two were heavily laden with expensive weaponry. Two men and one woman managed to elude all the enhanced security on their way to the stables. In the coming weeks, guards would attest to the use of magic, for surely there was no other means possible. Only a select few knew that certain guards and staff had been ordered elsewhere as the trio passed. Regardless, the stealthy exit was a minor victory in an altogether separate war.

  The trio mounted previously selected and prepared horses and struck out down a dark path consisting of alleys and seldom used roads to come to the base of the walls where they waited patiently.

  Guards stationed atop the walls patrolled at normal intervals, unsuspecting of the goings on. Harrin Slinmyer had taken ill and was off duty for at least week. His absence allowed Jent Tariens the option of taking a final shift on the wall. He was welcomed with cheers and slaps on the back, to which he responded in kind.

  Midnight saw him descending to the ground, inspecting the guards positioned at a series of bolt holes. The city designers built dozens with dual purpose. Not only could archers repel invading enemies, but they provided an exit point should the city fall. Thus far they had yet to be used, but that was no reason to ignore them.

  Tariens approached the guard on duty. The man was motionless, bundled in a thick cloak with his spear in hand. Shifting eyes adjusted to his commanding officer and he tensed. Tariens offered him a mug of hot tea and began idle conversation. They spoke for a few moments before he moved on to the next bolt hole.

  Scant seconds after Tariens left, the guard began to feel the effects of a drug-like state. The world spun uncontrollably. Dizziness whelmed his senses and the world went black. He struck the ground hard and was still. The half empty mug shattered on the frost covered cobblestones.