The Bitter War of Always: Immortality Shattered: Book 2

by Christian Warren Freed

  The bugle call reverberated across the hollows and ice hardened ground, inspiring a wide range of mixed emotions. Brave men balked at the sound, still clinging to some distant ray of hope that would never materialize. Lesser men in terms of courage, grew disheartened at the thought of running. Men broke and fled back to the east. It was all Perryman could do to prevent an all-out rout.

  Thinking ahead of time saved five battalions of war-hardened infantry. A company of men were left behind Perryman’s freshly formed lines. Their sole purpose was to stop the retreat and reorganize fluid defenses. The waning catapult barrage weakened considerably. Sporadic bursts of three and four rocked the ground followed by nothing. The last of the retreating soldiers darted through the spread-out line and on to potential freedom. They were meters ahead of the darklings. Perryman’s troops barely had time to close the gaps and ready before the first darklings struck. The advantage was his, for the darklings were counting on a complete rout. They ground to a halt on the tip of the armor machine.

  Perryman lunged at the nearest darkling, cleaving it in two. Blood and brain matter splashed across his chest armor as he dislodged his weapon and battled on. Sharpened claws raked harmlessly off his armor, at once making him grateful he remembered to don it before rushing to the front. His men fought on pure rage, making him proud to stand beside them. Many darklings lost their lives but there seemed no end to their ungodly numbers.

  “Fall back!” Perryman cried, the words almost catching in his throat.

  A dying darkling was thrown into him. Another leapt in synchronicity, threatening to decapitate him. Perryman stabbed up, spearing the darkling in the low belly and driving up into the throat. The weight of the dead body drove him to a knee. Hands reached for him, yanking him back to his feet.

  Scrathes continued to fill the sky, illuminated now by the first timid fingers of dawn’s cold light. Dlorn feared his army was lost as the new day finally afforded him the opportunity to view the carnage. The depths went far beyond anything he had ever witnessed. So many lives lost. Darklings failed to understand the meaning of the word mercy. Nor did they take prisoners.

  Bodies and pieces of others lay strewn across the valley, effectively dispelling any myths of Galdean invincibility. Dlorn grew sick at the degradation being carried out on his men. Darklings continued to drop in, allowing him no time to dwell on the matter. A dragon would do nicely, at least we might stand half a chance. He prayed the Staff was well on the way to safety.

  “General,” an unfamiliar Colonel said, blood soaked and near death. “We must get you across the river. To stay any longer is mere foolishness.”

  “I will not leave my men!”

  The Colonel shook his head. “You’re not leaving them, sir. The front lines have already been pushed back substantially. The catapults have stopped firing and the darkling force on this side of the river grows. You are the heart of this army. We have already lost a king. Do not rob us of our commanding officer as well.”

  Dlorn thought hard on the words before breaking down and agreeing. “Fine. Full retreat. Everyone not directly engaged is to evacuate to eastern rally points and wait for us. See to it that you are with us on the other side, Colonel. I have need of strong advice in the future.”

  This is the most desperate hour of my life. Bernt and his men continued to battle an overpowering foe. Lestrin and his cavalry had been enough to break the initial assault, but there was no way they could have been prepared for the hundreds, if not thousands, of darklings dropping from the sky. The catapults, at least the few remaining, had stopped firing. Their crews either out of ammunition or struggling to stay alive. He could see only one way out.

  It was by pure coincidence he managed to stumble into Lestrin’s bleeding horse. The two haggard warriors regarded each other carefully, their blank expressions saying everything. Neither believed they were going to make it out alive.

  “This is madness,” Lestrin said, after drinking from his canteen and passing it to the master gunner.

  Bernt agreed. “We have only one way out of here and I like the idea less than you.”

  The cavalry commander snarled his dislike. “Get your people moving. I’ll use mine for cover. Keep going until we reach the river. The gods willing, we may yet survive this.”

  Both hurried off into the predawn, each clinging to the thin hopes of salvation mercilessly toying with them.

  EIGHTEEN

  Retreat

  The night was much colder than any Amean Repage recalled since his childhood. Despite riding through the night, frost managed to cling to his face and refused to let go. The Staff of Life rode heavily at his side, plagued by the memories of losing a very close friend. Amean rode on, lost in the doldrums of self-imposed sorrow.

  His thoughts took him back to a time when the fresh, young Aron Kryte first joined the Hierarchy and the Golden Warriors. Aron developed at a rate unseen in the vast history of the Order, consistently exceeding the scope of his responsibility and potential. Few men were his equal when it came to tactics, or pure intensity on the field of battle. He was definitely his father’s boy.

  His father had died long ago, long before the wars with rogue Aragoth and the great schism that followed. His mother took ill not long after and knowing she wouldn’t be able to care for him, summoned Amean. Together with his wife, they raised Aron to manhood and watched him grow with heartfelt pride. Life had been good up until the day the bastard Imelin defected from all he held dear and turned the world on end. Then Aron died.

  Three days now they had ridden on after losing Aron. Three days of whispered vengeance for the boy he had raised as a son.

  “You’re talking even less than I these days,” Karin said, in a mild tone. “Care to tell me what’s on your mind?”

  She bore equal hurt, one in which the best things of her life had been violently stolen from her. Never having known love until now, she couldn’t imagine living without Aron. But no matter how bad things got, she refused to believe it over. A tickle in the back of her mind told her that Aron wasn’t dead. And where hope lingered, also came the will to carry on. Tender memories filled her heart, never once making her question how it was she could so utterly fall for a stranger but knowing everything was right when they were in each other’s arms. The simple thought of him brought the most loving smile to her face.

  “I knew him as a boy. Fought beside his father, even watched him die,” Amean muttered, his voice chocked full of unexplained emotions. “I loved that boy as a son, raising him to do what was right, while growing prouder as the days wore on. It is a hard thing to watch the ones you love die needlessly.”

  “What if he isn’t dead?”

  He shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. “I saw it with my own eyes, lass. No mortal could have survived those waters.”

  Those were not the words she was expecting to hear.

  “I admire your loyalty and applaud you for it, but you allow emotion to cloud reason. Aron is dead, leaving the legacy for us to execute,” he told her.

  Karin refused to let despair win. “What chance of success have we? The Red Brotherhood is gone, at least the ones we knew of. The armies of the Black rampage across the kingdoms and though I don’t doubt the ability of the Galdean army, I do not think them strong enough to stand for long.”

  “If what Gulnick Baach said is true, half of the darkling army marches on Meisthelm. I understand what you are getting at, Karin, and the reasoning behind it. As with anything in life, there are no promises. We will do what we must, though the long road to Meisthelm be laden with dangers.” Had the situation not been so dire, he would have been impressed with his words, but now was not the time to self-aggrandize.

  The trail of horse and riders wound through the cool night fog blindly, for none was exactly sure where they were heading. None of the company was from Almarin and Amean had only been in the far northern kingdom once. Cold and afraid, they struggled on against nature and the threat of pursuit. No one needed to say it, fo
r they all knew the reality that the darklings might well be ahead of them. It was a game of chances.

  The blurry figures of Andolus and Long Shadow emerged from the fog. Both were near frozen and weary beyond measure, though not weak enough to show it. Strong men were needed, if for naught else than inspiration to those threatening to break. The elf lord remained a symbol of strength for others to follow.

  “The road ahead is clear,” Andolus told Amean. “We found a copse of ash trees maybe a half league ahead, big enough to cover the entire company. I’m concerned about pursuit, however. Any fires we light will attract the enemy. Any we don’t light may result in some of us freezing to death.”

  They kept riding, each contemplating harsh decisions. It was a voice from behind that brought reason to them all.

  “Why not light the fires and keep them burning low? One for each group of men and then double the watch. That many people on guard will alert the rest of us in time, as well as keeping the fires burning,” Elsyn said, revealing herself openly for the first time since sneaking along.

  Amean smiled, for he had known she was among them all along and chose to play along with her charade. Her solutions stemmed from an unspoken love of Aron and the desperate need for acceptance. She’d been catatonic since his death and compounded with the loss of her father, the king, was on the brink of total collapse. War was never the place to develop relationships, but she couldn’t help it. There was a magnetism she’d discovered, drawing her to him from the moment they met. As with her father, there were so many things left unsaid. Both men stolen from her before resolutions could be made.

  Eager to get the night over and at least try to get warm, the Golden Warriors followed Andolus and his silent companion to the shelter.

  Toward the middle of the night, after an hour of tossing and restless turning, Karin crawled from her bedroll and made her way to the princess. Elsyn watched her from the corner of her eye and sat up. The same tired look strained her face, bags under her eyes gave her a haunted look. Cold stole her energy in waves, taking its toll just as the siege to her kingdom had. She watched Karin with interest. The potential for establishing bonds of friendship was there.

  “Couldn’t sleep?” she asked.

  Karin forced a smile. “Something like that. I’ve been thinking about a lot of different things lately and decided it was time to have a talk with you.’

  “I already know what you have in mind. It’s about Aron, right?”

  Clever girl. “Yes. Things have happened over the last few weeks that not even I have been able to foresee. Aron and I have been together and never thought things would work out the way they did. No one envisions dying early.”

  Elsyn lowered her eyes to the allure of the dancing flames. She didn’t want Karin to see the tears well. “You’re in love with him.”

  “Yes. Very much so,” Karin answered. Both women stared at each other as the first inkling of friendship formed. Forgotten were the present nightmares. Set aside were the facts that one had the other’s father killed. Here, tonight, in the cold forested plains of Almarin, a bond stronger than all of that was forged. It gave both women the strength and courage to carry on.

  “I loved him as well.”

  Karin ran a gentle hand over the younger princess’s frozen cheek. “I know. Go to sleep now. It’s still a long way to Drim and we’ll have need of all the strength we can muster, especially if we hope to outrun the darklings.”

  “Karin, what is Meisthelm like?” Elsyn asked, the passion in her voice removed.

  Taking a moment to deliberate her answers, Karin said, “Magnificent. There are golden spires reaching to the heavens where it is said the wizards once worked. Palaces and buildings as large as small towns decorate the land for leagues, each sculptured with pillars and marble floors. It is a place of great learning. The symbol of all the Free Lands hold dear.”

  “Are we going to make it there?”

  “Yes,” Karin quietly answered. “We’re going to make it just fine. Go to sleep, Elsyn.”

  They were back on the trail at sunrise, eager to be underway and closer to the sanctuary of Drim. Scattered wind gusts blew the top layers of snow around their ankles. The day might have been bearable, if not for the wind. Shortly after breaking for a quick bite to eat, one of the horses stumbled on a hidden root and broke an ankle. The column was forced to stop as the rider transferred his bags and equipment to another and then watched as the horse was put down. It was a painful process. One each of them dreaded.

  Dusk began settling as they crested a final rise. The Golden Warriors were rewarded with their first glimpse of Drim. Amean exhaled sharply, at once relieved and infuriated at reaching their initial destination. Endless questions streamed through his mind. How was he going to take care of an entire company of Golden Warriors and their mounts? They knew no one in Drim and despite quaint appearances, he was sure there was a seedy under life. Caution marking his every move, Amean Repage spurred his steed on and entered another phase of their never-ending adventure.

  Field Marshal Dlorn of the Royal Galdean Army stood. He was battered and cut from head to toe. Every bone in his body ached beyond measure. He stood alone, of his own choosing, proud of his men and their determination to not only survive but find victory. The nineteen and a half thousand remaining.

  They were scattered across the western region of Almarin and the northern edge of Trimlon. The bulk of the army sprawled before him, green and purple standards of Galdea billowing proudly in the wind. They waited for him. After the battle of the Crimson Fields, the army successfully managed to disengage and elude the darklings. The enemy, on the other hand, appeared almost content with their half-victory. Pursuit had been minimal and easily avoided.

  The last stand at the river was terrible and bloody. Darklings took advantage of the confusion and hammered the Galdeans on all sides. Losses on both sides were severe but it was the elves and their long bows who provided enough cover fire to beat the darklings back and give Dlorn enough time to retreat across the bridges.

  Dlorn and his men were leagues away from the carnage now, skirting the mountain range separating Almarin and Trimlon. Dlorn’s small group was hidden in a stand of pines. Guards patrolled in two sets in the event the darklings resurfaced. Dlorn paused to reflect on all that had happened, and why.

  The Staff of Life was beyond his control now, as were the Golden Warriors and Princess Elsyn. He failed to understand why she’d snuck away, even while knowing he would have stopped her from trying to leave. He wished Amean and the others luck and turned his thoughts to the reorganization of his tattered army. The war had turned personal. Hoping to catch the darklings off guard, Dlorn intended on swinging south and pinch them between his men and the army of Meisthelm.

  Daril Perryman appeared with an arm wrapped tight in a sling. He’d broken it during the panic and confusion of the retreat. He wore a haggard look but was still full of fire. The men, and Dlorn, garnered great respect for him. Dlorn wished he had a thousand more at his side.

  “Good evening, General.”

  Dlorn nodded. “Commander Perryman. What news have you?”

  “Everyone is accounted for and ready to march. Morale is rather high, despite our losses. Only a handful have deserted. I think we can really give the enemy a run this time.” As always, Perryman’s view was optimistic.

  “So we shall. When dawn breaks, we strike out and recover the rest of the army while driving south to Meisthelm. The Black won’t find it as easy to deal with us in the future. You should get some rest. Tomorrow we go to reclaim the lost glory of fallen Galdea.”

  Dlorn clasped his hands behind his back as visions of victory filled his head. A new day was coming and with it, the first legs in what promised to be a long, grueling war. But tonight, the brave soldiers of Galdea would sleep.

  NINETEEN

  Sadith Oom

  Sadith Oom was a cursed land. All life had fled, essentially murdered during the last days of Ils Kincannon an
d the Knights of the Seven Manacles. Yet despite the barren plains and deep fissures, all was not tranquil. The afternoon sun withered the stamina of the thousands of laborers struggling under the whip. Man, elf, dwarf, and wylin toiled cruelly under the scrutinizing glares of their captors.

  Goblin soldiers lined the masses of prisoners, kicking and slapping individuals at random as a reminder of their cruel power. Wicked creatures forged from magic, a hybrid of troll and human, stood with their massive arms folded across their chests, supervising the construction of the massive structure. Each was a giant, very much like the statues of races no longer known in the Free Lands in History’s Hall in Meisthelm. Heavily muscled, with oily, hairy skin, they had curled fingers ending in claws. They’d gone unwitnessed by mortal eyes for centuries. Grohls. Monsters of the old world.

  To the prisoners, the grohls were the least of their concerns. Goblins clad in leather mail warded against escapes on the back of monstrous lizards, while armed guards watched from atop stone towers. Pennants marking their cause infected the sky. Though prominently marking their territory, reconstruction of the ancient city of Morthus was of the utmost secrecy.

  The architects had strategically placed the site of their fledgling empire where enemy attacks would be voided. A deep chasm ringed the plateau, plunging thousands of feet down into the dark places of the world. Jagged spikes of fossilized rock speared up to form a natural barrier. Paths of granite, carved away centuries ago, allowed access across the abyss. Each bridge was warded by hastily constructed wooden towers high enough to give archers enough range of vision to strike down unwanted advances.

  The crimson coattails of the grohl commander flowed behind him. A single curved tusk jutted up from his lower jaw. Thick veins corded his arms, straining golden torqs. He was old, his entire bitter life spent awaiting this day. The day when he could step from the caverns under the Broken Mountains and stride through the sunlight without fear of being murdered by men.