The Bitter War of Always: Immortality Shattered: Book 2

by Christian Warren Freed

  He took a moment to blame himself for not anticipating his foe’s tactics as another round burst nearby. Gulnick caught sight of the mercenary, Hurst, sweeping ahead with a wave of darklings. He decided to make for the man. Impossible to predict where the rounds were going to fall, he gave up dodging and weaving to bore a path straight into the inferno.

  Everywhere he walked, he stepped on a body or pieces of one. Had he been a new soldier, he would have been sickened by the catastrophe unfolding. But this was what war was meant to be. Before he knew it, he stood upon the river bank. At last, he saw a thing of such great horror it turned his stomach sour.

  Daril Perryman felt his heart skip a beat when the darklings regained their feet and carried on. Unlike the powers of nature, Imelin’s forbidden magic had turned the river into a sheet of solid ice overnight. Each new catapult strike sent ice and stone fragments wildly on their killing paths. He saw that it wasn’t enough. The darklings managed to recover far too quickly.

  “Determined aren’t they?” Perryman asked, in a vain attempt at levity.

  A few of the younger soldiers nearby offered queer looks as they prepared for the hard fight. It was coming much faster than any wanted. The artillery barrage had been going on for an hour already. The thunder of massive chunks of stone exploding and death screams was more than enough to leave permanent scars on their psyche.

  Through it all, the darklings kept coming.

  “This is it, men!” he shouted. “No more probes or quick attacks. They seek to swarm us under. Will you let them? Pikemen, ready the lance!”

  Hundreds of armored pikemen shouted back and lowered their deadly barbs. Visors concealed their nervous faces. Most didn’t want to fight, but were left with no choice. Fireballs sizzled overhead, showering them with sparks. Ranks of swordsmen filed down behind them and remained concealed. Most elven archers took elevated positions and nocked missiles. Perryman held the world in the palm of his hand. Once he dropped his arm, the battle would begin in earnest.

  The darklings surged so close, the front ranks of defenders could almost feel their breath. Still the order to hold remained. The first beast jumped atop the berm, dagger drawn and already bleeding from several wounds. It howled with rage at the armored men and leapt down to attack. Perryman dropped his arm and drew his sword.

  Three hundred arrows whistled, striking cold flesh. Darklings fell in masses. A wall of barbed pikes stabbed and parried with the experience of years. The lead darkling somehow managed to avoid being killed and broke through the lines of pikes. Once clear, he ran straight for Perryman. Raw hatred twisted its face.

  A squad of swordsmen raced to intercept, as eager to get their blades wet as to save their charismatic commander. The darkling assassin ducked beneath a slashing blow and rolled. It stabbed up into the Galdean’s groin and kept moving. Perryman appeared out of nowhere and struck the darkling’s head from the shoulders. The body remained standing a moment longer before toppling over.

  “Swordsmen up! Drive them back to the river!”

  Leading the charge, Perryman hungrily sought his next victim.

  The rider reigned to a stop close to Dlorn, his breath haggard and unwilling to come. He was a young man whose name the general couldn’t place. Giving a ragged salute, the rider finally exhaled and managed his report.

  “Sir, Commander Alsimmons reports we are in danger of being flanked. He requests immediate reinforcements.”

  Dlorn scowled. It was still much too early to give up ground. Gulnick Baach was acting up to top form today. “Tell Lestrin to attack with his heavy cavalry at once.”

  “Yes, sir!” he saluted again and rode off.

  “Runner!” Dlorn shouted and a young soldier rushed to his side. “Get to the catapults. Tell Monchere to swing the number one battery right. Open fire as soon as emplaced. I want as much fire pouring into that flank as we can get. Those are our boys down there and I want them kept alive. Now go!”

  The runner dashed off, leaving Dlorn standing alone in a sea of men and steel, wondering if the catapults would do the trick until Lestrin and his force arrived. He prayed they would be in time.

  “Fall back!”

  Those were the last orders Calri Alsimmons had hoped to issue so near the beginning of the battle but he was left with no choice. The darklings attacked with much more intensity than any sortie previously launched by either side. So intense the assault almost came as complete surprise. Calri and his men barely recovered.

  Dozens of his men, faceless soldiers and friends alike, fell within the first moments. The rest did a commendable job at plugging the holes but the effort was much too late. Darklings were already within the perimeter and driving. He understood the importance of being on the flank and knew that if he couldn’t hold, the entire army was lost. Calri hefted his broadsword and plunged into the fray with a hundred fresh soldiers at his back. They would either repel the enemy or die trying. In which case, the army was doomed regardless.

  “Swing about for maximum range,” the master gunner bellowed just as soon as the order came down from higher command. “Open fire and do not stop until told to.”

  Scant minutes later, the first round rocketed toward the enemy.

  Darkling confidence waivered slightly as round after round of burning oil and rock plunged into their massed lines. In doing so, they paused the attack long enough for the Galdeans to disengage and reform. The darklings were almost as fast. Calri was threatened with despair. Even with the aid of Monchere’s artillery, he doubted he’d last much longer. His only hope was that Dlorn managed to receive his message and was acting on it.

  “Here they come again!”

  Calri tightened his grip and braced against the wall of gnarled bodies crushing against him. Steel bit flesh and the ground soon became soggy with fresh blood. Teeth and claws tore limbs and punched massive holes in the armored chests of the defenders. Screams were intense enough to make the gods cringe. Then the worst happened. Not only did the barrage wither, but rounds began to fall short, crashing into the Galdean ranks. The darklings surged again.

  “No!” Calri screamed, as the first round landed in a knot of pikemen.

  He ducked and darted through the missile-like debris and battling men to reach the relative safety of the signal man. The veteran frowned as he looked upon a boy who couldn’t have been more than fourteen. Were things so bad that children had to fight?

  He grabbed the boy by the shoulders, noticed the heartfelt fear in his eyes, and said, “Look here, boy, we need you. Soon this will all be over and you may return to your family, but not yet. Signal the firing battery. Tell them to cease fire immediately. They’re killing our people.”

  The boy tightened down his helmet and jumped atop a large knoll. Incoming rounds soared overhead and hundreds died behind him as he spelled out the message with his flags. The barrage lifted almost at once, but the damage had been done. Calri Alsimmons knew despair. Retreat was impossible. The darklings were too intertwined with his soldiers. He had no choice but to stand and fight, but without reinforcements, they wouldn’t last past midday.

  Lestrin scowled. Moments after receiving word, his force was on the move. They had been prepared, while idle, since the first day and he was itching for a fight. The Golden Warrior, Jou Amn, rode at his side. Together, they headed for the pages of destiny. The cavalry commander halted his force atop the main rise running diagonally through the camp and gasped in horror. The battle being waged went far beyond his expectations. Lestrin scanned the field and developed his plan of attack. Captains immediately came to him to receive orders.

  “Divide into three wedges. Keep it tight and smash their lines. I’ll take center. Don’t let up until we’ve crushed all organized resistance. As soon as you are formed, we attack.”

  The others left and he looked at Jou Amn. “I hope this is what you chose to stay for.”

  “I stayed to fight. The last I knew, there wasn’t a good way to do it,” he replied.

  Lest
rin nodded and looked over his men a final time. Both captains signaled their readiness and he exhaled sharply. Just before he dropped the visor to his helmet, he let out a single word which rumbled like thunder across the fields.

  “Charge!”

  Things could not have been fouler for Duoth N’nclogbar, the self-proclaimed ruler of the darklings. He stood in the middle of his once mighty army, watching hundreds of his minions die. This was not what he had in mind when he made his pact with the dark wizard. The still bodies of his warriors formed a sickly carpet of flesh across the valley floor. He was reminded of the tales passed down of the great war between darkling and elf many centuries ago. Duoth refused to repeat the past.

  The darkling prince marched back toward the Black’s tents. He was tired of watching his brothers die. Something must be done before the Galdeans gained the advantage and turned what was supposed to be an easy victory into a rout. The Black must be made to answer for such unforgivable sins.

  “Wizard!” he hissed, throwing aside the tent flap. “Wizard! My people die in great numbers. End this or I take army back to Suroc Tol.”

  The Black materialized in front of Duoth. He leveled his icy gaze on the lesser creature. Duoth flinched, hand reaching for his weapon.

  “Who are you to question my tactics? I have evolved beyond the laws of men and gods and you, a mere imp, would assail me with idle threats in the sanctity of my lair? I think not, worm.”

  “You throw away my people’s lives. These men are better prepared than the white general said. Their throwing machines kill many,” Duoth snarled.

  Imelin swept his arms out in a grand gesture. “Enough! It is for me to decide who lives or dies. The catapults will be dealt with tonight. Keep your warriors on the offensive. Baach will know when to retreat. Now go, do as you are told.”

  Were it not snowing, Calri Alsimmons would have been sure a terrible thunder shook the world. He hadn’t the time to worry over such things, however, for the press of darklings was fast becoming too much. Half of his men were either dead or wounded and there was no way he could hope to hold out much longer. Strength was failing as fast as hope. Weary limbs drove heavy swords, each stab or swing losing just a little of what the previous held. The darklings sensed victory and redoubled their efforts.

  The rumbling grew louder, almost deafening. Out of the late morning haze burst two thousand heavy horse. His soldiers rallied at the sight, for none had ever been more in need. Spears and lances leveled as the cavalry charged through friendly lines to smash into the darkling wall. Lestrin took advantage of the confusion and was rewarded by penetrating deep enough to fold the assault in on itself. Scores of bodies fell, run through or trampled, in every direction. Bones crushed with hideous snaps and organs burst as the horses ran over the darklings without regard. Horse and rider fell as well, though not in enough numbers to stall the advance.

  The darkling attack broke. All at once, they ceased fighting and turned to flee. Three wedges of armored horse charged after, unwilling to allow any to escape. The death toll continued to rise drastically as the last of Calri’s infantry became disentangled. Finally, they were able to catch their breaths.

  Calri watched the horses carry past with gratitude but the damage done to his command was irreversible. They would have no choice but to be removed from the front lines and disbanded. Those fit for duty would be reassigned and the others, less fortunate ones, would be evacuated in the same fashion as the first wagon train. The battered, bleeding Captain sheathed his sword and sought out his wounded.

  The entire flank of the Galdean army had been decimated. Bodies lay sprawled like blades of grass, so plenty they were. The most sickening examples were among the first to die. Darklings in the rear of the strike vented their bloodlust on the corpses. Heads rolled underfoot. Severed limbs were arranged obscenely. Many had been skinned. Yet others appeared as if something hideous and previously un-encountered had burrowed deep within the body cavity and come back out.

  Vapors of escaping heat pocked the battlefield. Calri struggled to retain his tears. A runner came from the center of camp with word he was to attend Dlorn’s council. Though reluctant to leave the remnants of his men, he couldn’t refuse. He dropped the blood-soaked bandage in the melting snow and turned to follow the runner back to a better place.

  The catapults no longer fired. They didn’t need to, Gulnick Baach mused from his relative solitude amidst the swarm of darklings. Thousands of the savage creatures lay sprawled in death for as far as his eye could see. Bodies were stacked like firewood on the opposite side of the river. The defeat was… impressive. The professional buried deep within loathed giving the order to retreat, but Gulnick knew it was the right thing to do.

  To his surprise, and secret delight, the darklings continued to fight. It was an act that accomplished nothing. Elves continued to decimate their ranks with accurate arrow fire. Sickened at the sheer amount of carnage, Gulnick turned from the battle and stalked back to his tent. The next day needed to be planned and he was unexpectedly weary.

  Guilt plagued him, despite the army he commanded being no more than savages. He wondered if the Galdeans had used his information and were in the process of saving their army. It was the least he could have done. He no longer cared if the Black knew of his transgressions. The horrors of the day would forever sear his mind far worse than anything the wizard was capable of. Lost in thought, he failed to catch the murderous glare of Hurst staring at him from behind a tree.

  SEVENTEEN

  Dreams Unfulfilled

  Haggard and weary beyond imagination, the commanding officers in Dlorn’s council slumped down into their chairs or on the ground, while struggling to remain awake. Each hurt from numerous wounds. All felt the bitter effects of exhaustion, both mental and physical. Victory was the furthest thing from their minds, but in this hour of need, the difference between citizen and soldier burned bright.

  Soldiers will always do what they are told. They form the foundation of kingdoms and give power to their nobles and lords. There is associated pride which burns far deeper than the conscience, compelling righteousness. To carry on when only fumes remain. To pick up the fight, though no end is in sight. It is for these men the world should be eternally grateful, for it matters not which side they fight on. All are the children of proud mothers and should be treated with respect.

  Dlorn looked from face to face, scanning to see who was going to break and who yet stood strong. The faces staring back told him what he already suspected. There was life inside the tent, one inexplicable to those who had never been under the duress of hopeless combat. Battered relentlessly for over twelve hours, his men still had heart.

  “What now shall be our strategy?” he asked, with palms held out. “We cannot expect to survive another full day of carnage of this magnitude.”

  “We’d never make it across the river if we try an all-out retreat,” Perryman said. A nasty gash ran diagonally across his forehead.

  “If we scatter, we will be destroyed piecemeal,” Lestrin growled. “Felbar’s paltry few won’t be enough to reinforce the men we lost today.”

  “Lord Felbar doesn’t concern me now,” Dlorn interjected. “Captain Alsimmons, how many units have crossed into Almarin?”

  “Twenty-seven, sir. Most are down to only fifty percent effectiveness.”

  A grim visage stole over the old man’s face. “I want that number doubled before sunrise.”

  “They will whelm us in one swift stroke!” Lestrin argued. “Doing this will reduce our combat strength by half.”

  “Commander, I am well aware of the ramifications, but I must remind you that we are not here to engage in total battle.”

  The cavalry commander fumed, “Food for the wolves, is it, General? I will not throw away the lives of those who ride under my command so carelessly.”

  “But we must! If necessary, I will take the lead of the last charge, but so long as a glimmer of hope remains, we shall retreat and fight again,” D
lorn spat.

  “Where lies the hope now, General?”

  Dlorn thought hard on the blunt words. When he spoke it was a whisper. “In the city of Meisthelm. The world mobilizes around us and it is for them that we die.”

  Lost within the devouring darkness of his tent, the Black Imelin gently rubbed his temples. The insignificant flies of the Galdean army were becoming more of a nuisance than he’d anticipated. It would take weeks to root them out. Why, he failed to understand. Why were they fighting so hard, when they didn’t need to?

  Reports reached him that General Conn’s army, the main Hierarchy force, was still bogged down deep in Guerselleorn and no threat. Cold realization spread through his near skeletal frame. The Staff! The Galdeans must be stalling for the Staff to get as far away as possible. It had to have been taken from the field already, without his knowing.

  “Barathis!”

  The miscreant soldier poked his head through the heavy wool flaps almost at once.

  “Summon me General Baach and that mercenary, Hurst,” he commanded. “There is treachery afoot and I aim to get to the bottom of it.”

  Gulnick Baach stumbled his way across the frozen snow. It was the middle of the night. He was cold, hungry. What could the wizard possibly want now? He discovered the answer as soon as he entered the tent. His stomach clenched. The Black stood strong, menacing in the center, slightly overshadowing the grinning Hurst.

  “Ah, my dear General. Do come in and close the door. It is frightfully cold outside. Wouldn’t want my top man getting sick.”

  Gulnick’s heart fluttered. “Can we skip the charade and cut down to it?”

  An eyebrow raised. “Are you sure you can handle it?”