The Bitter War of Always: Immortality Shattered: Book 2

by Christian Warren Freed

  He’d been out since sun up but didn’t begin to feel disappointed until well into the afternoon. He hadn’t come across a single track or living soul. Perhaps the next day would turn out better, or later this day. His stomach growled to emphasize a point. He had food, some, in his cottage, but not enough to last through the latest storm. Discouraged by the lack of progress, he was about to return home when his dog growled and padded toward the river. The hope of fresh food grew and he followed.

  What he saw was anything but. He watched his dog paw at something lying in the snow. A man half his age lay twisted along the bank. More bodies lay up and downstream. The man wasn’t a problem. He’d seen other less fortunate ones before. The river had a way of claiming the unsuspecting. It was the other bodies that bothered him. Squat, covered with hair and teeth. Clearly predators. But what kind?

  Sounds of battle echoed down over the last few days, leading him to believe that the northern kingdoms were at war. Not that it bothered him. Kingdoms were always quick to settle grievances with violence. He remained away from civilization, sticking to places where life was still pure. He’d long ago given up on mankind, seeking comfort among his dogs. At least they never disappointed. Seventy-one years of life had taken a great toll on him and he was content to live out the few remaining in solitude.

  Even the best plans go awry.

  Setting down his bow, he reached down to turn the man over. Ice covered half of the face and hands, with clear burns from prolonged exposure evident. He figured the young man was dead for there seemed little possible way anyone could survive such. Yet, went he bent down to listen, he was rewarded with very thin breath! The young man was alive.

  Ignoring the nagging feeling in his stomach warning him away, he helped the young man away from the river. The old man had no choice. He’d never killed a man nor did he wish any ill. It took an hour to construct a makeshift litter. The dog sat beside the body, as if guarding it, the entire time.

  He returned to the dog when finished. “Well old friend, it seems that no matter how hard we try, we just can’t avoid our own kind. This one’s in bad shape. He should be dead already. I don’t have a clue how he’s survived this long.”

  The dog glanced at the pallid body with sympathy.

  “Come on, let’s get home before the sun sets.”

  The return trip lasted much longer than his foray out. Age and the added weight conspired to wear him down but he eventually returned to the warm comforts of home. For his kindness, he was rewarded with coming across a brace of rabbits too slow to outrun bow or canine. Those rabbits were now cooking nicely over his hearth as he saw to his dogs, for he had several, and brought his new charge inside.

  He marveled at the lad’s inner strength and will power. Never in his years had he heard of anyone surviving the frozen waters. It went against all odds. Setting a pot of fresh coffee to boil, he couldn’t help but admire the feeling of authority wafting off the lad. Almost as if it held magical property. Oh, he knew all about magic, didn’t he? Magic and the host of dangers that came with it. He also instinctively knew that this boy was special.

  Seeing no progress, the old man ate his meal and went off to bed, somehow confident neither of them were in danger.

  They went through the same routine for a week. The old man went out daily to forage for food, while the young man remained in a coma-like state. One day the old man decided he needed to venture up to where he’d heard the battle occur. Perhaps answers would be found. Instead of answers, he felt his heart burst. The living were gone, their tracks buried under fresh snowfall. Most of the dead were more of those grotesque creatures, though a hearty portion were the men of Galdea. Broken pennants and burned siege weapons littered the ground.

  He wiped his tears. There was nothing he could use here. Nothing he wanted to associate with. Walking away, he knew better than to hope there were survivors. No one was meant to survive a horror so bold. He did his best to avoid looking down into the frozen faces, all of those pleading looks reaching out from the next world. The young man in his house was a mistake. He knew that. Why the gods decided to let him escape this nightmare was beyond the old man. Then again, perhaps he wasn’t supposed to know. Life was often easier spent in ignorance.

  He made the long trek back to his cottage, mind filled with more than he wanted or needed. So many dead. Why? He searched his memory, desperate to recall those monsters. Once, he was certain, he knew them. The familiarity was haunting, mocking him with obscurity. Confident he’d eventually remember, he knocked the snow off of his boots before entering the front door.

  His mouth dropped open a moment after. All three of his beloved dogs were sitting properly on either side of his previously unconscious guest. Curiously, they allowed him to pet them. The old man repressed a frown. He was fortunate if they let him do that.

  The young man cracked a weak smile. “May I please have some water?”

  The old man helped him to the table, for he was still very weak and malnourished. They enjoyed a thin soup and homemade bread.

  “Name’s Jod Theron,” the old man said. “I’ve been out here for years. Don’t often see many others. ‘Specially ones I pull out of the frozen river.”

  “How did I get here?”

  Jod swallowed the last bite and drank deep from a mug of ale. “Found you on the banks, half dead and by all means, you should have been. I ain’t never seen the like. How you lived is beyond me. There were several other bodies with you, though none human.”

  He got up and refilled his guest’s bowl. “You are a very fortunate young man. Much more so than all of your friends upriver.”

  Recognition sparked in the young man. “The battle, is it over?”

  “I should say so,” Jod grimaced. “Been over for days now. There’s a lot of dead men up there. A lot more of those monsters.”

  “Darklings.”

  Jod dropped his head. He had hoped they weren’t. That he was wrong. “I thought as much. It’s been a very long time since I last heard that name. Must make you important, eh?”

  “I am Aron Kryte, a commander in the Golden Warriors and caretaker of the Staff of Life.”

  They spoke long into the night, Aron telling Jod the tale of the battle of Crimson Fields and the harrowing flight from Galdarath after the death of King Elian. He also spoke of how he was entrusted with the Staff, though he didn’t know why. Compelled wasn’t the right word, but Aron didn’t feel any malevolence lurking beneath the surface. It felt good getting the secret off his chest, even while knowing he might pay for it later. His tale ended with the breaking of the rope bridge and his plunge into the Simca River.

  That the world was in danger didn’t need saying but he did anyway. Understating the importance of what the Black Imelin’s defection meant served no purpose. Jod initially refused to believe it. He’d lived through the war with Aragoth, seen what men were capable of doing to one another, and couldn’t see why anyone would willing instigate another, far more devastating war. He’d even been at the final battle of Krim Salat, a name that made Aron cringe. The Golden Warrior had been forced to kill former comrades that day and in doing so, invoked the wrath of a dead man’s brother. Everywhere he turned, there seemed to be a man waiting with a knife for his back.

  Jod laughed at the comment and slapped a palm on the table. “You seem to have an abundance of enemies for a man so young.”

  “It does appear that way.”

  “I recall a time, back before you were born, when times were happier. I was on a special envoy mission to the Isle of Illusions, deep in the heart of the Jemman Sea separating us from the rest of the world. We ran into foul weather and many travails but overcame them all at small cost. All it took was a bit of skill, and heart.” His voice trailed off in fractured memory and tender dreams. “Much happier times.”

  Aron fought the urge to fall asleep, wanting to know more of his mysterious rescuer. He lost.

  He awoke shortly after dawn, hungry and still feeling drai
ned. His strength was steadily returning but weakness continued to grip him. Gradually, his thoughts turned toward his friends and that doubt of whether they lived or not. Closest to his heart was his newfound love, Karin. He suddenly longed just to look at her again. To smell her hair after she climbed from the bath. Just being around her enriched his previously dull life.

  “I know that look,” Jod said, handing Aron a cup of coffee.

  “What look?”

  “Love. I knew it once, long ago.”

  Aron asked, “What happened?”

  A dog lifted his head up so the old man could rub his neck. “Now, that is a very old memory. Back before these ill wars when the monsters were locked in their dark kingdom. Even the goblins were pleasant enough for a time. She was a queen. A proud young woman from Guerselleorn. That was before the Hierarchy lost control of the kingdom, of course.”

  He paused to gauge Aron’s reaction.

  The youth did well to hide his feelings. His face remained passive, void of emotion, though his mind remained troubled. The Hierarchy was the source of all problems. Already crumbling before the Black turned traitor, the High Council was steadily losing control of the Free Lands. It was only a matter of time before the end.

  “A glorious time,” Jod continued. “We saw each other for three years before I was called away to another kingdom. The dwarf and goblin nations had erupted into war over petty land disputes. Isn’t it always something petty? By the time I returned, I learned my one true love had died in childbirth. I was devastated. My child and great love, lost in the span of a breath. Everything I held dear was ripped away. I … I never forgave myself for leaving.

  “Nor did I forgive the Hierarchy and the arrogance of the council. They stole half a year and a family from my life. I would never know happiness again. My resignation was unconditional. The Hierarchy abandoned me, so I left them. I left everything. My life, reputation, wealth. All of it, so I could come here.”

  “Doesn’t it get lonely?” Aron asked.

  “Every day.”

  Aron drank his coffee, thinking over Jod’s sad tale. Distressed, he went to one of the three windows in the cottage and stared out into the snow. So pristine. So perfect. He thought of his own lost love. There was no telling where she was now, or if she still lived. Imelin might well be in possession of the Staff and moving south already. But if Karin was still alive, she should be on her way to Hyrast. He needed to go there. To find out for sure.

  “I must leave.”

  Jod had already guessed as much. “I’ve been waiting to hear that since you awoke. Suppose it was only a matter of time. You just remember one thing, never do a thing because you have to. Do it because you want to.”

  “Thank you for your counsel. You are a wise man, Jod. I appreciate what you have done for me. I wish there was some way I could repay you, but you have caught me shorthanded,” Aron was almost apologetic.

  Jod rose. “When do we leave?”

  The response threw him. Aron didn’t expect the recluse to offer his aid. Nor did he wish to accept. So many had paid since his company left Saverin, what felt like years ago. What right did he have to ask another to sacrifice his life for a cause he no longer believed in? Besides, if the Hierarchy was so willing to abandon Jod, wouldn’t they be willing to do the same to him?

  “It is not going to be pleasant, or easy. I cannot vouch for your safety. There is a darkness rising that threatens the Free Lands and I am running straight for it. Nightmares and foul magic await me. Are you sure you really want to return to the ways of men?” Aron asked.

  Jod Theron grabbed his walking stick from behind the front door and said, “I’ve seen the best and worst this world has to offer. What’s one last adventure before my time expires?”

  Aron smiled.

  “Though,” Jod continued, “I suggest leaving on the morning. We can’t cross half the kingdom ill packed and hungry.”

  “We just ate.”

  Jod pat his stomach. “There’s always room for more, my young friend.”

  THIRTY

  It All Comes Together

  “He’s here!”

  Denes Dron looked up from the remnants of his morning meal. Partially chewed bones and a chunk of moldy bread decorated his plate. Lips pursed, he pushed back from the bench and failed to keep his apprehension from showing. The victory his Rovers had won at Unchar Pass was confidence building but not enough for the dark wizard. Denes harbored no false illusion that his position was secure, despite reassurances given to Ute Hai over the course of many arguments.

  “That didn’t take long,” Ute said from across the table. Fear of Imelin kept the smugness from his face.

  Denes shot him a snarl. “You’d do well to mind your tongue. He’s not the sort to cross with short words.”

  Truthfully, Ute had no intentions of speaking with the wizard at all.

  “Perhaps I should remain inside,” he ventured.

  “I doubt the choice is yours to make,” Denes replied and slipped into his wool cloak.

  The Rover leader marched out into the winter day, gloom twisting his features. He found the Black riding into camp on a coal black stallion. Snow kicked up with each footstep. Plumes of cold breath marked their passing. He reined up and climbed down from the saddle a meter away and raised his cowl.

  “Lord Imelin, it is an unexpected visit,” Denes said.

  “Why is the army laagering here?” he demanded.

  Dread filled the Rover. There would be no pleasantries this day. He’d be fortunate to escape with his head still attached to his shoulders.

  “We are consolidating our position in the event of a Hierarchy counterattack. This is the enemy’s home territory. Columns of Golden Warriors could be anywhere.”

  Imelin snorted. “The Golden Warriors are few. Their ranks thinned, thanks in part to my efforts on the High Council. With the threat we represent to Meisthelm, there will be no incursions this far north.”

  “But my lord, we will leave an unsecured border. It wouldn’t be pru…”

  Imelin straightened. Waves of dark power surrounded him. “Prudent for what? This campaign must be conducted with speed and ruthlessness. Taking Unchar was but a stepping stone to opening the road south. My army does no good sitting here as winter deepens.”

  Denes Dron didn’t know what to say. He’d hoped for at least a week to recover and refit for the push south. That idea died immediately.

  Imelin continued. “How many casualties taking the fort?”

  “Too many,” Denes admitted, knowing the truth would cause less pain than watery deceit. “Several thousand darklings and a few hundred of my men.”

  “The garrison was less than three hundred,” Imelin snapped.

  “They fought like demons. It took multiple attempts to take the walls.”

  Imelin began to pace. The losses, while acceptable given his true numbers still funneling down from the north, bode ill for the coming campaign. There was no way one hundred and fifty men, even heavily defended, should have been able to kill thousands in a matter of days. He needed to rethink his strategy for taking Meisthelm. Even with Conn and the main army mired in the deep south of Guerselleorn, the city would be filled with soldiers and a handful of wizards.

  Fortunately, those wizards were like poor wine, thin and half of what they should be. He knew from Arlyn Gert that several battalions of Golden Warriors had been recalled from various outposts across the Free Lands. That alone might be enough to stall this half of the army. Stalled for too long, they’d be cut off from aid and slaughtered. No. He needed to find a way to get the entirety of his army to the city before they learned of what happened in Unchar.

  He stopped and looked back over his shoulder to Denes. “You had command of the demons, Dron. They should have been able to take the fortress with far less casualties. Perhaps your leadership lacks authority?”

  “N… no of course not. My command is unquestioned.”

  Imelin turned to Ute Hai. “Is thi
s true? Does Denes Dron inspire confidence among the Rovers or should I replace him with one more… capable?”

  Ute knew he should have stayed in the building. Not followed Denes to this meeting. His best efforts at going unnoticed failed miserably. “Denes has been our leader since the fall of Aragoth. He’s led us right thus far, wizard.”

  “Indeed. That war was long ago. Mostly faded from memory by the majority of the world. I fear the Rovers are a thing of antiquity and your methods outdated. Change is necessary. Change from the highest levels down.”

  “Master Imelin, I must protest this treatment! My men are experts at what they do.”

  “Your men are now mine and I will do with them what I see fit. Do not seek to question my authority, Rover. Am I understood?”

  Denes balled his fists and took a defiant step forward. “If I disagree?”

  Ute watched the scene with rapt fascination. While he had no desire to lead the remnants of the Rovers, he also didn’t wish harm to his onetime friend and leader. He slid back and to the side as Imelin lashed out. Black bolts of raw energy sped from his fingertips. Snow and ice melted around the trio. The blast caught Denes in the chest, throwing him in the side of the building. Bone and flesh crashed upon the stone. Blood spit flew from Denes’ mouth and nose. He dropped to the burned ground. Unconscious.

  Satisfied his example had been made, Imelin turned back to Ute. “I want this army ready to deploy by dawn. Occupying the fortress here makes no sense. Move on Meisthelm with all speed.”

  “Are we to attack immediately?”

  “No, encircle the city but do not attack. The rest of the army will join you within the month. We attack when I arrive.”

  Imelin returned to his horse without waiting for confirmation. His work in Unchar was done but there was yet much left to be done to prepare Meisthelm for his open return.

  Horse saddled and bags packed with enough supplies to see him through at least a week, two if he was conservative, Ute Hai slipped through the loose picket line and back into the Unchar Pass. The confrontation with Imelin shredded any doubts he had left. His time among the Rovers was finished. They had strayed too far off course while under the maniacal influences of the wizard. Whatever road they now traveled down wasn’t one he was willing to compromise all he stood for over.