The Bitter War of Always: Immortality Shattered: Book 2

by Christian Warren Freed

  His words curdled the Warden’s blood. He knew fright and exhilaration, as waves of power pulsated off the Black. A man like that could do much to elevate his position in the kingdom and Orlninc grinned, the vacuum the new power order would leave.

  He gave the wizard a political smile. “Do not worry, my lord. They will remain here or die trying to escape.”

  The Black slid closer, his form blurred. “I do not want them dead. You die, if they do.”

  In the blink of an eye, the wizard disappeared, leaving Orlninc confused. The promise of persecution left once his mind began playing scenarios revolving around his rise to power. Soon, if all went right, he would hold the crown of Trimlon and perhaps the keys to the very heart of Meisthelm. He left to begin his work.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Unchar Pass

  Choking columns of black smoke billowed up into the sky, fueled by dozens of raging fires as they devoured the ground below. The wreckage of homes and a multitude of barricades were reduced to charred remains and abandoned dreams. A once proud fortress lay broken to the verge of ruination. The garrison stationed here destroyed.

  The attack came shortly before dawn, during those grey hours forever trapped between light and dark. It came without warning. Enemy forces swarmed the northern end of the Unchar Pass and poured through right up to garrison walls. They were in the village before the defenders had time to react. The defense, ragged as it was considering the situation, held out for nearly a day before the darkling attack from the sky broke their will to fight. Never had soldiers of the southern kingdoms battled such foe.

  Three hundred Hierarchy soldiers had been garrisoned at Unchar. All lay dead. They fought bravely and died as warriors, with sword in hand, but they were overpowered by a massive army of Rovers and darklings. The Rovers burned the village, killing a fair amount of the populace before some commanders decided the violence was too much and they offered safe conduct away from the battlefield.

  Their offensive stalled once they tried to storm the castle walls. There they discovered that every cook and squire had been summoned to defend. Rover forces took heavy losses before retreating into the village ruins. The invaders redoubled their efforts, this time with a column of darklings at their front. This, too, stalled. Unchar held until the scrathes arrived and dropped scores of darklings inside the castle. Hierarchy soldiers took heavy toll of their enemies but the end was never in doubt. Unchar fell, opening the road south to Meisthelm for the Black’s armies.

  Bodies of men, women, and children littered the snow. It was a sad testament to the atrocity of war. None were safe from the dark wizard’s wrath. The ragtag army of Rovers picked through the remains, looting the peasants and burying their own. Many good men, good and evil alike, lay dead beneath the blade for reasons few, if any, understood.

  Denes Dron, the half-crazed leader of rogues, strode like a king through his newly conquered territory. His past as a general of Aragoth resumed from where he had been forced to flee. The defeat suffered at Krim Salat was finally being avenged. Yet, he was only slightly impressed with the victory. Trust of the darklings was limited. They churned his stomach each time one got too close, filling his mouth with bile. Puppets of Imelin’s, they were a constant reminder that his Rovers were replaceable.

  “Not as organized as the Aragoth army, is it?” asked Ute Hai, as he limped up.

  Denes sneered. “Too gory for you, Ute?”

  He knew his senior lieutenant advocated letting the civilians go and was poised to abandon the war altogether over philosophical disagreements with Denes.

  “I’ve been through worse.”

  “These darklings have spoiled what should have been a grand victory for us,” Denes continued, while thinking of ways to dispose of his chief rival without rousing suspicion among the men. Given the opportunity, Ute Hai might easily rise to be equal in power. Denes couldn’t have that.

  Ute placed his hands upon his hips. “We should have never sided with the dark wizard. He has done nothing but thin our ranks.”

  “Blasphemy will get you killed, my friend.”

  As much as he was displeased by the comment, Denes knew Ute was right. The Rovers had operated on their own since being branded rogues from their kingdom. That destiny was no longer theirs to control. Ute was thoroughly convinced they’d been sold into slavery, a growing sentiment among the ranks. It took little imagination to see them being slaughtered by darklings once their usefulness was outlived.

  “Is it blasphemy to consider the safety of my men ahead of naïve dreams of glory?” Ute asked sharply.

  Denes’ frustrations were compounded by the aggressive enthusiasm the Rovers displayed upon seizing the village. Most, if not all, of his chances for success had been effectively erased. He maintained allies in the upper levels of leadership, but the balance of power was decidedly swinging against him. His one chance of removing his opponent was to wait and hope to find a crack in the armor.

  “I could have you struck down for less. Have you forgotten the years of exile and suffering we’ve endured? This is our one chance to strike back at those Hierarchy usurpers. Don’t you want to be able to go home again? To live a normal life once more?”

  “I have no home. None of us do, Denes.”

  Denes was confused. “The Hierarchy robbed us of everything and you dare show sympathy for their citizens?”

  Ute Hai spread his arms mockingly. “Look around. Is this how you want our legacy to be remembered? Puppets to a great evil and his army of demons? I find no honor in any of this.”

  “Honor is irrelevant, Ute,” Denes stepped over a darkling corpse. “This is our last chance to erase the pain we know, to win back our lands and take control. You look around. Our fighters are long in the tooth. They grow weary of living on the run. It is time to go home.”

  He’d lost the edge in his voice.

  “Aragoth will never be restored to past glory. The queen is dead and a ruling body friendly to the Hierarchy has taken the kingdom in different directions. We don’t belong there any longer.”

  Denes’ eyes sparkled with vehemence. “Then we go elsewhere. It doesn’t matter. I grow weary of running about forests and living like an animal. Pick a kingdom. I’ll speak to the Black and it will be done.”

  The mention of the wizard sent chills down Ute’s spine, violent memories of the night they met, coming back to torment him. He could see the darklings dropping from the trees to shred one of his friends to ragged strips of flesh. This was the sort of man Denes Dron now idolized.

  Laying a hand on Ute’s shoulder, Denes said, “Go and have the men pitch camp. We are supposed to wait here until the other half of darkling armies arrives. Open the castle’s food stores and prepare for a celebration. A great victory calls for a great feast. Tonight we live like kings!”

  Both riders gingerly guided their horses to the lip of the highest point of the Unchar Pass. They were surprised to find it unguarded, but a confident army would not believe the road just traveled would hold danger. The scouts saw the smoke before they smelled it. Wafts of fresh wind brought them acrid smells of charred flesh and raw terror. They kept riding until they were awarded the sickening view of what remained of Unchar. Deplorable as it was, the scene was minor compared to the disaster of the Crimson Fields.

  Using a looking glass, the scouts witnessed the full extent of the damage. The darkling-Rover army must have made short work of the diminished garrison and villagers. It was the size of the darkling army that gave the scouts pause, for they’d been expecting the majority of the army to be in the empty lands between Galdea and Trimlon.

  “We should get back,” the first said. “I don’t like the look of this.”

  The second bowed his head. “They never had a chance.”

  With the garrison at Unchar destroyed, there was nothing to prevent the enemy from marching right into Meisthelm.

  “It’s nothing we didn’t face a mere week ago,” the first answered. “We must be away before we ar
e discovered.”

  “And the army?”

  He reined his horse and wheeled about. “So long as it waits here, we have a chance to get back to the Field Marshal and hope he can bring our army in time. Now, let’s go.”

  The scouts stealthily retreated back through the pass, eager to avoid darkling or Rover traps and be back on the southern plains of Trimlon and then the army beyond.

  Hundreds of grey-blue tents blended with the snow-covered rock and naked trees. Tens of thousands of exhausted men, wounded and healthy alike, tried their best to find a measure of peace before the next phase of the campaign began. Each tent was allowed a small fire, for the leadership wasn’t worried about being discovered. The tents were made of dense fabric capable of concealing all but the smell of smoke.

  The command tent was bustling with activity, even at the late midnight hour. Fabric walls segmented the tent into three areas: the officer’s mess, an operations center, and a sleeping area for the commanders when not on missions. More than a score of men, all haggard and near their breaking points, filled the operations center.

  Field Marshal Dlorn, an aged man by every standard, ran a thickly veined hand through his thinning grey hair and took the opportunity to step away from the intricacies and arguments accompanying so many men with varying opinions on how to conduct the war. He’d served the throne of Galdea for four decades and never dreamed of enduring such a desperate struggle.

  “How can you suggest we return to Galdarath? What are we supposed to do then, wait for the eventual end, when the Black remembers he hasn’t finished us off?” fumed Calri Alsimmons. He was by far the youngest, yet highly experience, infantry commander. One of the many heroes of the battle of the Crimson Fields.

  The man he addressed, the former master gunner promoted to commander of the artillery after the death of Reeler Monchere, fired a contemptuous sneer. “Why should we drive south to save the Hierarchy, when our own kingdom is in jeopardy? They never came to our aid and the lone company of Golden Warriors left before battle began!”

  “We must look beyond selfishness for the greater good of the Free Lands.”

  Bernt shook his head. “And leave an entire army free to pillage the kingdom? I understand you are you and full of youthful ignorance, but war is an ugly matter.”

  “Yes, it is ugly,” Dlorn intervened with a long sigh. “And I seriously doubt either of you are as familiar with it as I.”

  Calri’s cheeks flushed.

  Dlorn continued. “Sit, both of you. Now is not the time for division.”

  He went to the map table, making quick study of previously unfamiliar territory.

  “It has been a week since we managed to escape and recollected the majority of our forces. Scouts report the Black’s army is stalled in a laager here, just across the river. We have a good three days on them. If we can convince Felbar to join us, we might be able to pinch them between our two forces.”

  “At least to the point of rendering them combat ineffective,” Daril Perryman added.

  Dlorn nodded. “Provided we aren’t too exhausted ourselves, we should be able to pursue them all the way back to Suroc Tol and reoccupy the fortress at Dol’ir.”

  The elven representative stiffened at the mention of his fallen home. Elves had held the fortress for centuries before finally being overrun by darklings at the onset of winter. Now that it had fallen, Jerns Palic had no desire to return to the ghost plagued ruins.

  “I would just as soon stay from there. My people will remain with you until the end of the war, but no further. We have kin in Lilhaven and are weary of mortal ways. A new age is dawning and there is no place for elves in it. We will fade quietly and let men do as they must, but we will not return to the remains of Dol’ir.”

  His words hung heavily on the air, no one quite believing what they had just heard. Elves had been vital to the world since the formation of the Free Lands. It was sobering to hear that they would soon be lost forever.

  Dlorn stewed over the elf’s words, deciding to address them later, and continued with the more pressing issues. “First, we must figure out who is going to head back to Felbar’s keep and convince him to aid us. As you all recall, he failed to assist in either of the previous two campaigns. This brings up questions of loyalty. When the darklings attacked Galdarath, he did little to aid, though he knew we were going to need his five thousand swords.” Dlorn kept to himself the fact that he was supposed to help protect the king, but was rumored to have disappeared in the middle of the raid. Felbar was a traditional ally of the throne but these were bitter times and the defection of the king’s own minister of state set suspicions on end.

  A guard burst through the main tent flap with an excited look. “Sir, the scouts have returned from Unchar.”

  “Have them get something to eat and see to their horses, then have them report.”

  “Yes, sir.” The guard saluted and disappeared into the night.

  Discussions of the different scenarios the scouts returned with immediately broke out. There is no certainty in war, but the only way to win a war, was to plan for every eventuality. Dlorn left them to it. Even the greatest battlefield generals needed sleep.

  Dlorn returned the salute and gestured toward an empty chair. They were alone now, most of his commanders following his example and going to find their own cots. Dlorn studied the scout for signs of duplicity or worse.

  “Relax, son,” he said, noticing the nervousness the scout exhibited. “Start from the beginning. Tell me what you witnessed.”

  “The enemy has taken Unchar.”

  “How is that possible?” Dlorn was confused. The garrison should have been able to hold out for weeks and there was no mention of enemy forces that far south.

  “As near as we can figure, their main army split in half. The ones we saw weren’t the same ones we fought between the Twins, sir. There was a force of Rovers with them.”

  “Rovers?”

  The scout nodded. “Looked like just about all of ‘em, too.”

  Dlorn blanched. This was ill news. No one had suspected the Rovers were in league with the Black, though in hindsight, it made sense. Their inclusion in the war changed a great deal. He now had a human element to plan against. A very capable one at that.

  “How bad is the damage?” he pressed.

  “They’ve taken the pass and razed the town. Looks like they are setting up camp inside the fortress as well. We left two days past. Didn’t see no survivors.”

  Two days. If the darkling now held the pass, they had an open road all the way to Meisthelm. If that city fell, the war was as good as lost. It also meant that the other half of the darkling army would soon come barreling toward them.

  “Thank you, son. That will be all.” He shook the scout’s hand in thanks. “Go and get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

  Sleep still clinging to their tired eyes, Dlorn’s commanders assembled in the dark hours before dawn. Tension was higher than earlier, though none knew the meaning of this summons. They didn’t have to wait in speculation long. Dlorn arrived and immediately called for quiet.

  “I am sorry to have rouse you this soon, but our situation has changed drastically. Our scouts have returned with grave news. The Black has fooled us all. While we were busy fighting in the north, he secretly split his army in half and force marched the second half south to the Unchar Pass. We know the first is still somewhere in Almarin, presumably looking for us.”

  “If they decide that the Staff of Life is more important than finding us, they will shift the majority of their strength north to Hyrast,” Lestrin, commander of cavalry said. His men and animals needed rest more than anyone, save perhaps Calri’s reduced ranks.

  “Perhaps, though I doubt they would waste their time devoting an entire army to stop fifty people,” Dlorn answered. He paused to check the reaction of Jou Amn, the single Golden Warrior who’d volunteered to remain with the army. Nothing. “Not when the open road to the heart of the Hierarchy lies open before
them. The key to this war is Meisthelm. If it falls, the world dies. We must move quickly.”

  Calri looked up with red streaked eyes. “What of the Hierarchy army? Where is it during these foul days?”

  Dlorn had no idea. “General Conn is a capable and confident man in command of the finest… second finest army in the Free Lands.”

  Chuckles rippled through the crowd.

  “Whose strings are pulled by the High Council,” Lestrin growled.

  Dlorn frowned. “Gentlemen, you speak as if we have a choice when the path is already decided. One army lies before us while the other hurries down from behind. We have no choice but to march south and retake the pass.”

  “What happens if we are caught in that bottleneck?” Jerns asked.

  “We die.”

  In the span of two short months, the world had devolved into a nightmare. Anarchy boiled over. The embattled survivors of the Galdean army were caught in the jaws of the pincer. A move too late and their war would be over. Dlorn knew, as did they all, that their backs were against the wall and they had nothing left to lose.

  “Order the full mobilization as soon as dawn breaks. I have no intention of getting this army trapped like a bear in his cave. It is up to us to try and save the world until we get word of Conn’s force. Tonight, gentlemen, we attempt to save the world.”

  They returned his salute and set about planning what would amount to Galdea’s finest campaign.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Dagger Trolls

  The last thing Valk remembered was being cracked on the back of his head and the world spinning into darkness. When he awoke, he found he was bound with heavy chains, unbreakable. A quick looked showed him that he was in a dark room with no natural light or ornamentation. There was a festering stench assaulting his senses, making him gag. Once his eyes adjusted to the gloom he discerned broken skeletons and rusted chains littering the chamber.