The Bitter War of Always: Immortality Shattered: Book 2

by Christian Warren Freed

  The visions faded, replaced by thick fog blanketing the ground up to his knees. His room dissolved into nothing. Then came the voices.

  He shames us.

  Yes, very shameful.

  He disgraces the elder ones.

  Imelin wanted to lash out and vent his wrath upon them, but knew he was powerless until He appeared. The voices continued their goading. He tried ignoring them. He always tried ignoring them, but they burrowed into his mind and roosted. Magic flared through his veins. He struggled with the desire to attack. Too bad they were already dead.

  At last his summoner arrived, materializing from the mists and fluxing shadows. Tall and surprisingly diminutive at the same time. Traic stared down on Imelin with clear disdain. His was an old tale. One of obscure misery. Tasked with taking the Staff of Life to be destroyed, Traic was largely ignored by history sagas. It was his master, Ils Kincannon who claimed all recognition.

  Forgotten and abandoned after the last of the Knights of the Seven Manacles fell in battle, Traic spent the remainder of his sad life in exile. He died penniless, a broken wreck of a man he might have otherwise become. That longing to be more than what he was drove him. The way he was so callously discarded after years of faithful service, twisted his heart into a wicked thing. Now, in death, he was finally about to claim vengeance on the man he once idolized and the world he allowed to continue.

  If only Imelin was stronger.

  “We are not pleased, Imelin,” Traic scolded.

  Imelin feigned nonchalance. “You, who are not in the realm of men? You, who are banished to eternal suffering for your lack of vision? You are not pleased. I am not overly interested in the quality of your feelings, ghost.”

  The chorus of voices wailed in anger.

  “You mock us as would a child. Has your ignorance risen so high? Perhaps we chose wrongly. Perhaps the young lordling Aron Kryte is more powerful than anticipated. We have looked down the wrong paths.”

  “Perhaps I could destroy you for good right now. I don’t have time for games, banished one,” Imelin said, even as he reeled in shock. The very thought of being discarded threatened to shatter his carefully built world.

  “Find us the Staff of Life or you shall suffer a fate worse than that of Gulnick Baach.”

  “Where is it? Your Kryte has stolen it!”

  Yes, from under your nose.

  Shameful.

  Embarrassing.

  “My armies scour the kingdoms but without results. I should lead them directly to Meisthelm without the Staff and end this war in one fell swoop,” Imelin snarled.

  The indignity of being addressed so chafed him deeply.

  Traic scoffed. “Suicide! You’ll fare no better than that fool Kincannon at Sadith Oom. The Staff is the key to total domination. Without it, you cannot win. The Staff is on the way to Hyrast. You continue to fail.”

  “Fail!” spat Imelin. “I expect one of your nature to know intimate aspects of that word, for did you not fail your lord and master? The Red Brotherhood is destroyed, wiped from the world by my hands. No longer do the guardians of the word keep the children safe during the cold winter nights. This is the time of my ascension to godhood and a handful of vanquished souls dare proclaim me a failure?”

  “Arrogance is a weakness you can ill afford. A single cell of the Brotherhood has been destroyed, nothing more. One happened to escape the wizard fire and is on the path against you. Your enemies grow stronger despite your limited success. The entire world seeks to unite against you.” The ghost fell silent and began to fade.

  Imelin was disturbed by the news, though he refused to show it to the ghosts. The most crucial part of his campaign was about to begin and there was no time for doubt or self-recrimination. The surreal world faded with Traic, leaving him alone to ponder the future.

  ***

  They rode as hard as possible, always using the cover of darkness to keep prying eyes away. It had been days since the murder of King Elian and the battle of the Red Brotherhood beneath Galdarath’s streets. Days since the three survived hardships and trials previously unexperienced. They now formed a band, a sort of fellowship, determined to keep the evil of the Black from spreading.

  One was a broken, battered member of the Red Brotherhood. The sole survivor of the devastating assault that saw the Staff of Life leave Galdea. Another was a proud Galdean soldier who decided that the quest was more important than his own life. Kings came and went, but it was the duty of all when life was threatened. The third was an ancient mage from a forgotten village deep in the ruined land of Sadith Oom. Her powers kept them alive, where they might have otherwise died. For her, the quest was one of redemption.

  Galdea was already far behind them. A land none thought to see again. The sorrow of leaving waned quickly, for there was a more important task to be carried out. The guardsman took leaving the hardest, for so many of his brothers had fallen under the blades of the darkling incursion. The priest of the Red Brotherhood knew that while he was the last of his cell, the order remained strong. They now rode to Meisthelm and the head of his order. So secretive was the Brotherhood, that the High Council didn’t realize it thrived under their noses.

  The mage saw things no other soul could and it was at her heeding they departed Galdea so quickly. The Hierarchy was the Free Lands’ best chance for surviving the growing darkness. The armies of darkness had finished with the Galdeans and were now concentrating their might on Valadon and Trimlon. The High Council was blind to events transpiring around them. That was her only theory for their inactivity in the north. She prayed that ignorance was not as great as she surmised.

  They rode on until the cityscape of Camerene came into view. Deep in southwestern Trimlon, they were still many days from the ultimate goal of Meisthelm. Harrin Slinmyer was the first to notice the signs of danger all around them. Signs of massive bodies of soldiers moving through Trimlon were everywhere. Either a great battle was about to occur or one had already happened. The Lilsen Mountains were a day south and the Unchar Pass was more than wide enough for an army to pass smoothly. The invasion of Valadon was close at hand.

  He insisted they consider Camerene a hostile town until they were able to discern who the soldiers belonged to. The others agreed and using discretionary magic, worked their way down to find a room for the night. They spent hours trying to think of ways to get around the massive army somewhere ahead of them. The dangers faced in Galdea were but a prelude to what the war promised to erupt into.

  ***

  The ornate meeting chamber of the High Council, usually bright and full of life, the symbol of the Free Lands, stood half empty and void of cheer. Messages from across the kingdoms had been overwhelming them. High Councilor Zye Terrio, at last, knew the meaning of despair. His army was far to the south, battling brigands in the Port of Grespon. No word had come from the Golden Warrior contingent to the north and the rogue Black Imelin seemed to be having his way with multiple kingdoms, while the Hierarchy sat impotent.

  “We cannot escape the reality of the situation,” Cagic Hlorn growled in his rough, sailor’s accent. His flame red beard and hair made him stand out in any crowd. “The Black is moving against us and we are near powerless to stop him.”

  Zye arched an eyebrow. “What do you propose we do? Surrender?”

  “Out of the question!” spat Farill Halse, the representative from the Wilderlands. “We must fight, if we expect our way of life to continue. I’ll not stand by and watch as you hand over the keys of godhood to this traitor.”

  Arlyn Gert and Jesni Bercobin, the two surviving women on the council, conferred quietly in the far corner, much to the notice and consternation of the others.

  Cagic snapped, “Anything you wish to share with the rest of us, ladies?”

  Jesni shot him a false smile, while folding her arms across her stomach.

  Arlyn answered for them both. “Our armies have already been recalled from Guerselleorn, correct?” Zye waved her on. “We make our stand her
e. The greatest city in the world with the might of Conn’s full host, will be able to stand against the armies of darkness. A fitting way to end this story, if you ask me.”

  “How many troops have already arrived from the outer provinces?” Zye asked, seeing certain wisdom in her plan, yet also the opportunity for great failure.

  “No more than five thousand currently.”

  His eyes bulged. “That is all?”

  “Our allies are already taxed beyond measure. The dwarves are locked in a bitter struggle with the goblins. That conflict threatens to spread north into the Wilderlands and south into Sadith Oom,” Arlyn replied calmly. “Our war, though it may have priority above all else, is not the only one needing to be dealt with.”

  “The Hierarchy was established to maintain order throughout the Free Lands after the fall of the Seven Manacles. We are the ones who run this world and decide precedence of matters,” Zye slammed a palm on the table.

  Arlyn laughed at his inability to fathom what transpired against him. “Are we? Look around, Zye Terrio. Your precious world is crumbling and nothing we have done has so much as stalled that end. The elves, those who remain, have all but abandoned us after Dol’ir fell. Few believe in our power. We have failed the world through the negligence of our actions. How have you become so blind to this?”

  “She’s right,” Cagic said unexpectedly. “The current problems are the result of our ignorance. We should have been able to see the Black’s rising treachery and ended it before all of this but we somehow became lost in the importance of our own myth. We have but one course of action left to us.”

  “That being?”

  Farill narrowed his gaze and quietly said, “Prepare for invasion.”

  Just beyond the range of archers stationed in the guard towers, stopped the column of Golden Warriors. There they donned their resplendent armor and full weaponry for the defenders of Hyrast to see. Curiously, they rode with open hands. Amean Repage decided that in doing so, they would present a professional appearance as well as leading the soldiery of the mountain fortress to believe them on official Hierarchy affairs.

  Not as warm as the thick riding furs comforting them during their harried flight northeast, the armor served as a reminder to all who bore witness, that the Golden Warriors continued to maintain a sense of order through the rising darkness. They were both feared and respected in all the Free Lands.

  “Commander!” called the first lookout to spy the intruders. “A column of riders approaching!”

  The bearded commander of the watch made his way, grumbling about the cold, to the young scout and raised his looking glass. Surprise twisted his face, for he had never seen so many golden armored warriors in one place. It had been decades since the last delegation had arrived and then it had been as heralds for the war with Aragoth. His stomach turned.

  “Open the gates. Tell the city leaders that the Golden Warriors have returned.”

  The steel gears groaned as they shook off layers of snow and ice. The Hierarchy’s finest soldiers once again entered the mountain city of Hyrast.

  Princess Elsyn stared at the multistoried buildings of the city proper with the eyes of a newborn. Built into the mountainside, each building was drab grey and massive in scale. She wasn’t used to the disordered structure of being dug out of the mountainsides. Even the cobblestone roads were mottled grey and black. Everything blended with the snowcapped mountains surrounding Hyrast. The city was so unlike her beloved home of Galdarath.

  The column rode up the winding main avenue akin to memories of old parades held in Meisthelm. Windows opened so all could bear witness once word of their arrival spread. Many citizens were eager for news of both the war and from the south.

  Amean slowed to a halt and let the column ride on, searching out the highest-ranking man, for city soldiers now lined the roads. “You, soldier, what’s your name?”

  “Dreyfus Hlee, sir.”

  “My men need room and board. Also quality stables. Our horses are tired and in need of care,” Amean instructed. Without waiting to see his orders carried out, he turned to one of his sergeants. “Have the men divide into three groups. Do standard routines before bedding down. I’ll take the command group and schedule a meeting with the city council. I want all group leaders to meet at the Pincer tonight for debriefing. Take charge, sergeant.”

  The Golden Warrior clasped his fist to his chest and wheeled to the head of the column, barking orders along the way. Impressed with the youthful vigor, Amean felt the weight of their journey slowly bleed away.

  “It appears that we were expected,” Andolus said, once the veteran approached.

  They looked up to see a squad of soldiers in cloaks and plumed helmets halt not far away. Each wore dark black armor with the white bird of peace emblazoned upon the breast plates. Their leader stepped forward, with hand held up in greeting.

  “Warden Ferest welcomes you to our humble city. He awaits you in the zocolo. My name is Jamez Storm, commander of the city defenses. I am your guide, so to speak, during your time in Hyrast. If you would, follow me.”

  “He seems pleasant enough,” Karin whispered to the elf.

  Andolus replied, “Almost too much. This city does not feel right. We must be cautious.”

  Amean grimaced. The words were not what he was looking to hear.

  Warden Orlninc Ferest was seated in a flowered area at the rear of one of the common areas, quietly conferring with a scarred and hardened dwarf. He was a middle-aged man of relative good health and came from a well to do family who’d had their hands in Hyrast’s political arenas for generations. He gave off the appearance of being well groomed and pompous in his mannerisms. Amean judged him the sort to hold his secrets close around. Walls went up and the Golden Warrior went on guard.

  Jamez presented them and took up position by the entrance as Orlninc bade them all to sit. The half-smile on his face suggested duplicity. He introduced his companion. “This is Jalos Carb, our resident war master from the Drear Hills. He seems to have taken a liking to our little city. Not that I can blame him. This is the place where I’d wish to retire, once the kingdom is done with me.”

  “This city has good bones,” the dwarf said.

  “What brings the Hierarchy here, after so many years?” Orlninc asked.

  Amean accepted the mug of water and took a deep pull. “We are at war. The last of the Order of Black Wizards has turned traitor and threatens to end the world. My soldiers and I are… spreading the message across the Free Lands. The Black has already gone through Galdea and is operating in southern Trimlon and eastern Coronan. No doubt these troubles will make their way here to Hyrast.”

  The warden feigned shock. “Here? We have committed no offense to the Black. This kingdom hasn’t been part of a conflict since the wars with Aragoth. I can see no reason for his wrath to come down on us, commander.”

  “You don’t understand the nature of the Black,” Karin said with venom in her voice. “He has already stormed through the most powerful kingdom in the Free Lands. What makes you think you can withstand him here?”

  “I do love a strong woman. To the point, what makes you think he’ll come here? I should think Meisthelm would be his prime target, if what you say is true.”

  “Do not worry too much about us,” Jalos said. “We have strong defenses here and are virtually invulnerable. These soldiers can hold their own.”

  “Dwarf-friend, we do not doubt the strength or conviction of your forces, but you will be whelmed in short order. My people warded the pass at Dol’ir for hundreds of years but even we could not stand against the might of the dark wizard and his darkling army. This city will fall,” Andolus fell silent and remained so, confident he had said enough to convince the defenders of their folly. Elves and dwarves weren’t always the best of friends, making any conversation potentially volatile.

  “We have heard enough for one night,” Orlninc intervened, upon spying the dwarf clenching his fists. “I can arrange accommodat
ions for you within the inner city, if you wish.”

  “No, thank you, Warden. We have already secured billeting,” Amean declined.

  Orlninc stood, smoothing his cream-colored robes in the process. “Then I shall at least see you for breakfast?”

  “That is acceptable. Until tomorrow.”

  The Warden’s eyes flit left. “Jamez, please show our guests the way out.”

  The door closed behind them, leaving Orlninc Ferest and his guest alone. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead. He wasn’t accustomed to being debated in front of subordinates.

  “What do you think?” Jalos asked. “They could be telling the truth.”

  Orlninc disregarded him. “I don’t think so. The Hierarchy plays at something we do not know. I think they hide something important from us.”

  “What of the wizard?”

  He laughed. “A ploy to lead us away from the truth. If you are that worried, I’ll order a patrol down to Kitenurem for confirmation. Good night, Jalos.”

  The war master left him alone, eager to be rid of the company. Dwarves had no tolerance for the games of men. Orlninc was glad for the solitude. So much had occurred lately, he wasn’t sure which way to lean. The door suddenly opened and all but one of the lights blew out. He blinked to get acquainted to the reduced light. The dark figure of a man stood before him. The smell of fear washed the area. Orlninc had never felt such.

  “Do they have the Staff?”

  “Th… they didn’t say,” Orlninc stammered.

  He hadn’t counted on the dark wizard returning to Hyrast so quickly.

  The Black Imelin stood in silent disappointment. His spies mentioned nothing of Aron Kryte being among the Golden Warriors, though Traic was convinced he still lived. “I want them watched. Ensure they do not leave the city for at least a week. They carry an item I want. Do not let them leave.”