The Bitter War of Always: Immortality Shattered: Book 2

by Christian Warren Freed

  Hume Fermalin growled from atop the left wing tower. Oh, how he despised the free peoples of the world. Hume dreamed of leading an army of his kind against them, crushing each race until only his remained. But the sad reality of the situation ached him in opposite directions. Grohls were fast becoming the most endangered species in the world. His people were failing to repopulate and the majority of wizards were long since turned to dust.

  “Commander,” a goblin snarled from behind. “We have not received this week’s supplies. No word or message has come through yet.’

  Hume glared. “Delays are unfortunate. How late are they?”

  “Four days. This is irregular. I request permission to lead a patrol to find them.”

  “For what? War has not come south but the rest of the world has. Things of this nature are expected. I have had enough of this conversation,” the grohl said.

  “But …” the goblin protested.

  Angered, Hume snatched the smaller creature by the throat. “What? Are you questioning me? What do you think will happen if I send you after the wagon train? More dead for no reason.”

  Hooved feet clicked impatiently on the cold stone parapet. Hume Fermalin released the goblin, while thinking deeper on the proposal. If he denied the goblin’s request, he would have a permanent thorn in his side. However, his malevolent eyes sparked with cunning, if he let the beast go and they discovered something of value, there was a very real chance the same might happen, thus solving a potential leadership challenge.

  “Perhaps you are correct,” he lied smoothly. “Take one platoon. Find out what you need and report back to me.”

  He walked off with a carefully concealed smile. The matter handled, it was time to feast. He clipped away, leaving the goblin wondering what his motivations were.

  He watched the tens of thousands of slaves toiling. The looking glass trembled in his hands. Before the war, he was anything but a revolutionary. He was a quiet farmer doing his best to make something out of nothing in the arid heart of Eiterland. Barren Town wasn’t much of a home, but it was all he knew. A raiding part of goblins ended all that. Horrific visions of the night he came home shattered any semblance of sanity he once clung to. The dreams always came at the worst time, now being one of them.

  “So much blood,” he whispered. He could see it flowing in small streams out of his front door and into the dirt. What awaited when he opened his front door nearly killed him. There, on the floor, lay what remained of his family.

  “Sir?” asked a young student turned soldier.

  He shook his head, clearing the images away. “What?”

  “You said something about blood?”

  Sorrow lined his eyes. “Nothing, nothing at all. By now they will have figured out something bad happened to their supply column. We need to get back to the others and prepare to attack follow on forces. After nightfall of course.”

  The youth eyed him in that ageless wonderment a student shows his professor upon continually being given new information. He admired this man. This haggard example of freedom who dared lead against the rising tide of oppression. It felt as if the man had been born on a battlefield.

  “Over there, look.”

  He shifted the spy glass to where the soldier pointed and felt his stomach sour. “Close to fifty. Regular infantry by the looks. This might be a problem. Well, not exactly my idea of a good time, for it will be a task trying to sneak past so many.”

  Gulping his fears, the soldier admitted, “I wish I was home right now.”

  “Barren Town is exactly what the name suggests, barren. The goblins left nothing for us. This is all we have now. If killing these monsters is the only way home, back to a normal life, then may the gods grant strength to my steel.”

  “The few of us against an entire kingdom?” the soldier whispered. “We don’t have a hope.”

  A snarl crossed the man’s face. “Then we carry on without it. Think what you will but I’ll not sit idly by and watch the memories of my family go to waste at the hands of despair. Now, saddle up. We’ve got an ambush to plan.”

  Stale winds blew dust aimlessly against the drab grey of the goblin infantry uniform as scores of booted feet trampled on. The sun beat down mercilessly, unimpressed with their prowess on the battlefield. The goblin force marched on, heedless of nature’s disdain. Hardened professionals from a constant series of wars with their most hated enemies, dwarves, these were the survivors of decimated legions no longer active.

  They growled and complained as only soldiers could while doing their jobs. All had been removed from the front lines to support the reconstruction of Morthus. The complaining stopped when given new tasks. The promise of fresh human blood drove them deeper into the Plains of Darkpool. Yet the only one interested in this mission was the goblin leader. He was convinced that no good had come to the supply column and was determined to prove Hume wrong. That determination took them far from the security of Morthus and into the wilds of Sadith Oom. Far from support or reinforcement.

  The company reached the western canyons in time with the setting sun, much to the relief of the goblins. Massive iron pillars could be seen in the background. The Towers of Perdition were part of the defense against Meisthelm. Constructed to seal the evil in during the great wars between light and darkness, the Towers had long since lost their power and were reduced to silent reminders of a time long past.

  Shadows played tricks on their eyes, placing enemies in the rocks above and around them. Goblins saw phantom shapes creeping around them, spying for foul masters in other parts of the world. There were greater evils loosed upon the world, greater than any threat the free peoples knew. Threats even goblins knew to fear.

  “How much farther?” growled a soldier.

  His brethren cheered in approval.

  The cowhide whip cracked inches from his face. “Quiet, troop. We go home when the mission is done. Any more complaints and I wring your sorry neck, understand?”

  His foul speech hissed around the canyon, the echoes drawing unwarranted attention.

  “Your day is coming, Galk,” hissed the soldier in reply.

  The goblin leader stepped between them, blade drawn. “Enough of this. I’ll hear no more today. Cry when you’re back in the barracks. You are both expendable. Keep moving!”

  The goblin column trudged on. Galk angrily coiled his whip, contemplating his next act. The burly warrior he’d threatened leaned close in passing and snarled, “Watch your back, old one.”

  Galk watched him walk away, knowing there was but one solution to the problem. All he needed now was opportunity.

  Morning saw them through the canyons and at last within distance of the Towers of Perdition. Galk pushed them hard, more so than he would had they been on the dwarven front. Months of being off the line had reduced their effectiveness, making them soft. It was a dangerous time to be heading into action.

  “How far are we authorized to go?” he asked, as they resumed the march to the Towers.

  Their leader kept up his pace. “As far as we need to. All the way to Grun, if we must. Set out pickets. We camp here.”

  Galk grunted and obeyed.

  They stumbled upon the wreckage of the wagon train shortly after midday. Mostly ash remained, ash and the broken bodies of slain goblins. The charred timber of wagons jutted up from the sand like skeletons in the middle of nowhere. None of the human slaves were among the dead.

  Buzzards and flies angrily drifted off at the intrusion of the goblin infantry. Disgusted looks twisted their faces as they sifted through the ruins in the hopes of learning what happened, all the while searching slain faces for friends or old comrades. The battle had been remarkably short. Evidence suggested ambush. Arrows and broken spears littered the bodies and surrounding ground.

  There was no sign of the attackers, nor did the goblins expect any. No bodies. No blood trails. Galk had his forces spread out to secure a perimeter. Whip uncoiled, he stalked through the bodies until stumbling upon an ol
d friend. They’d been broodmates. Angered, Galk kicked the corpse and kept moving.

  “Over there!”

  The grizzled veteran spun to where his soldier pointed. Galk growled, eager for vengeance. A glimmer of metal shined briefly in the sunlight. The goblins reacted. Bare steel kissed the sun, ready for the opportunity for revenge. The glimmer disappeared back into the sand and dirt.

  “Where did it go?”

  “Move to the target. I want blood,” the leader spat, his over eagerness getting the better of him.

  The goblins stalked closer, ignoring all warning signs. When next they caught the glimmer of steel, it was accompanied by the quiet whistle of an arrow. The fletched missile screamed through the air with terminal velocity until it struck the goblin leader in the heart. The advance stopped as his body struck the ground. Dust clouds kicked up as the attacker ran off.

  Sensing a trap, Galk roared for the goblins to stand fast but his warning fell on deaf ears. Every goblin remaining charged after the attacker and barreled headfirst into what must be a trap. The screams began shortly after. Galk dropped down behind the wreckage of a wagon and waited.

  Nightfall dropped before Galk finally mounted the courage to venture out and discover what had become of his comrades. He wasn’t surprised to find them dead to the last. Their bodies were stripped of weapons and armor. The lone survivor stalked through the dead. Their deaths didn’t bother him so much as the manner in which they died. There was no honor or courage involved. It was pure slaughter. He appreciated that, despite it not coming from goblin aggression. A stream of pebbles trickled down the time worn face of a small rock outcropping. Galk snapped up, searching for invisible foes.

  The canyons were many leagues away but his best hope for escape and cover. Massive groupings of blanched red rocks dotted the landscape between his position and the canyons. Worried for his life, Galk clutched his sword tighter and began the long trek back to the canyons.

  “What about that one?” asked a battered old dwarf as he pointed down to a spot on the valley floor.

  The leader picked up the moving target and grinned. “No. it’s too easy. Let him return to Morthus and warn the others. If nothing else, it should make things a little more interesting.”

  “This isn’t a game,” a gnome snapped. “If he lets the others know, there’s a chance they will come in force.”

  Poros Pendyier, leader of the Free Rebellion in Sadith Oom, laughed. “Nonsense. They don’t have the manpower or time to waste hunting us down. An operation that large would leave the keep open to assault. No, our little goblin friend will deliver word and set this kingdom on end. Regardless, they will find out about us sooner or later.”

  “He goes the wrong way,” a smaller than average goblin said. He’d deserted, trading in his black and grey armor for sand colored garb. He was the only survivor of the wagon train massacre. A former guard, turned traitor, who realized his life was only going to end one way. Perhaps Poros and the Rebellion would be able to change that.

  Poros placed his eyepiece back to his face and watched. The goblin might just reach his intended destination, if he didn’t die first. The question was where was he going?

  “He might be trying to throw us off the trail,” the gnome offered.

  The dwarf pulled on his beard. “He’s either doing that or trying to avoid being killed in those canyons.”

  Poros shook his head. “Too easy. He looks old enough to know better. Put a few men on him and find out where he goes.”

  He packed the looking glass away and took in the remainder of his band. Seventeen men, three dwarves, two gnomes, and a rogue goblin. Others were on their way to the Rebellion camp, along with the weapons and supplies from both raids. Those remaining were his most trusted.

  “My friends,” he said in his most statesman-like voice, “I believe it is time to return home and celebrate the victories of the week.”

  They eagerly agreed and followed him back to the horses and the long road home. The first blows of freedom had been struck.

  TWENTY

  Into the Grimstones

  The Grimstone Mountains were precisely what the name suggested; grim. Save for the few scrub brushes and handful of near-dead trees, no vegetation grew throughout the immenseness of the range. Cruel winds sliced through the scarred cliff faces, echoing the wild insanity of a world gone mad. Sunlight failed to penetrate all but the tallest peaks, leaving the range cast in perpetual shadow and cold. It was an unforgiving place. Inhospitable at best.

  Sylin Marth tightened his cloak and forced his horse on. He was not alone, but definitely unsuited for these conditions. Sylin almost missed the comforts of his appointment as councilor, in Meisthelm. Almost. The fools in the Hierarchy failed to see the latent dangers the Black posed to all the Free Lands. So he took it upon himself to go forth and find the one man capable of saving all. The grand, self-exiled wizard, Elxander.

  Camden Hern rode at his side, his light brown skin a perfect match for the gaunt rock walls overshadowing them. The journeyman had grown to view Sylin as a comrade after their many adventures. He suddenly found himself caught up in the wily dreams of the westerner. He only hoped they didn’t end in his untimely demise.

  The remaining company of dwarves were in front and behind the two men. They were far from the walled city of Jerincon and all the city could spare. Thus far, they’d proven formidable companions in the face of adversity. Well-traveled, very few had ever been this deep in the mountains. Thoughts of the sleeping dragon ahead and host of goblins behind, occupied their minds as horse and pony put one foot in front of the next.

  The alcove they hid in was marginally big, just large enough for all the horses and ponies, as well as a small fire. Gul Killingstone slid from his saddle and set about preparing a meal of roast fowl and stale bread. He hadn’t spoken since his body had been invaded by the ghostlike Eldrath two days prior. The experience was too much, even for a dwarf of wizened years.

  Garin Stonebreaker and his brother Talrn, huddled in a corner, quietly discussing events to come. The weather dominated conversation, for it had taken a decided turn for the worse. Heavy storm clouds were forming to the north and threatening to push their way. If that happened, the tiny band would be forced to find a better place to ride the storm out.

  “I don’t care for this,” Garin murmured as Sylin walked up to them. “The storm is coming on much faster than we anticipated.”

  “How much longer?” Sylin asked.

  The dwarf shrugged and spat in the corner of the cave. “A few hours. Nightfall by the latest.”

  Sylin ran a hand through his filthy hair and sighed. There was no trying to make the best of their situation. Their journey had taken a toll, leaving his preparedness to carry on uncertain at best. He was a fledgling warrior, taught by the very best swordsmen in the Free Lands. Men in battle he could handle, but this was something far different. “What is your opinion?”

  Garin breathed in the aromas of fresh tobacco and roasting meat. His stomach rumbled. “There is nothing behind us. Unless we wish to deal with the Eldrath again. Which is but one of many dangers in the mountains. These peaks are old and wicked. They dislike us being here.”

  “We could try to wait it out,” Sylin suggested.

  The dwarf nodded, unconvinced. “Aye, but we’ll take more than a few lumps. This cave isn’t deep enough to protect us from the storm.”

  “What choice have we? Either we stay or press on.” Sylin felt his rising hope crash upon the cold granite. “I almost wish I never started this adventure.”

  “Never say that. If more people like you tried to make a difference, the world might not be such a desperate place.” He snorted. “I’m going to scout ahead. If the storm should hit before I return, do not attempt to find me.”

  Camden stopped sharpening his dagger and looked up with interest. “That is not a wise decision.”

  The journeyman was afraid of very few things but even this sounded of pure madness.
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br />   “I don’t see that we have much of a choice,” Garin argued. No matter what any of them said, his mind was decided. “It is still two days to the Hyber Pass and we have no reconnaissance. A goblin horde could be marching our way and we’d never know. I am going.”

  No other words were spoken as the stout tracker geared his pony up and led it out of the cave. The wind was already picking up. An ill sign. He made one last check of his weapons and tightened his thick traveler’s cloak. Once again, the dwarf set out to do what he did best. After all, no one was as important as the eyes and ears of the expedition.

  “Fare well,” Sylin wished, just loud enough for Garin to hear. “I still need you to get us through the grasslands and then on to the wizard.”

  Garin barked a laugh. “I’ll return sooner than you imagine. The wizard is not far off.”

  And then he was gone. Lost to the deepening gloom.

  Sylin watched rider and pony disappear. He found the emotions he was feeling odd, especially considering he hadn’t known any of the dwarves for more than a few weeks.

  “Hard, isn’t it?”

  He looked down into Camden’s cold eyes. “I suppose it isn’t for you?”

  Camden said, “You learn to live with the emptiness after a while. The more you see go and not return, the easier it gets. Pretty soon, you won’t even remember their names. The faces all blend together and nothing stands out about any particular person. Is that what you wish to hear?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You should be. Everything I just said is the exact opposite of the truth. I remember every face, every name. There are nights when the nightmares get so bad, I can’t sleep. Don’t criticize me because of my chosen lifestyle, Councilor.”