Corpse Cold (Immortal Treachery Book 3)

by Allan Batchelder

  “Wine?” he echoed feebly.

  “Yes, wine!” Igraine shouted. “Wine. For drinking.”

  “Through the door on the left,” the Warden answered, gesturing with his head. “Next to the bath.” He had no idea where his young captor was going with this, but it didn’t sound much like torture.

  To Turley, Igraine said “Go get it. As much as you can find.”

  The goblin trundled off and came back with three bottles. “There’s a good deal more…” he said, hoping his new mistress would be satisfied.

  “Bring it,” she replied, curtly.

  No sooner had Turley set his three bottles down, than Igraine opened the first and held it near the Warden’s quivering mouth “You’re gonna drink this down, mate, or I shove the whole lot up yer ass.”

  “I’ll drink!” the Warden said hastily. “I’ll drink!”

  But an entire bottle in one attempt is challenging for anyone, and the Warden sputtered, coughed and gagged like a drowning man. Once he got the last of it down, Igraine stepped back and said, “Let’s take a little break. Perhaps I’ll have some, too.” Without waiting for the Warden’s response, Igraine, took the top off a second bottle and took a healthy swig. “Not bad,” she said. “Little fruity for my taste, but I’ve had worse.” With that, she began a slow circuit of the man’s chambers – a series of rooms, as it turned out – poking into everything she saw. Turley continued piling bottles near the Warden’s chair, until Igraine caught sight of him and said, “I think that’ll be enough.”

  She returned to the Warden’s side and noted the color had returned to the man’s cheeks, and he was visibly inebriated.

  “So,” she said, “where’s the key?”

  “But I don’t understand,” the man slurred. “Salt? I s’pose you could sell it, but…”

  Igraine jammed the bottle in the Warden’s mouth and forced him to swallow more. When she was satisfied, she took the bottle away. “You know what happens if you drink too much o’ this?”

  The man nodded, or tried to. “You broke one of my teeth n’ I swallowed it!”

  “Friend,” said Igraine, “that’s the least of your worries.”

  Igraine came out of the bath holding the Warden’s keys. “It’s done,” she told Turley. “Whoever finds him will think he drank too much, slipped on the wet floor, and broke his head. And why not? Man looks like he spent half his time drinkin’ and assaultin’ the ladies.”

  “Still,” Turley interjected, “it’s a shame he had to die.”

  “Of course he had to die. We all have to die sooner or later.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know what you meant,” Igraine countered. “Now, let’s get the key we need off this ring and put the rest back. Then I need something from you.”

  This caught Turley off-guard. “Oh? And that is?”

  “A way outta this castle.”

  Turley was disappointed, and it shone like a beacon on his homely face.

  “What? You didn’t think I was stayin’ here, did you?”

  “No,” the goblin said softly.

  “And you’ll have to come with me.”

  “But it’s too bright outside! I’ll be blind.”

  Igraine scowled. “We’ll…figure something out. Point is, you can’t stay here, can you?” With a smile, Igraine held the key aloft and examined it in the light. “Got it!” She tossed the ring to Turley who just managed to catch it before it hit the floor. “Now, put the rest of those back.”

  While Turley was occupied with the dead warden’s keys, Igraine ransacked the man’s wardrobe, eventually settling on a large, billowy shirt and a wide-brimmed hat.

  “I daresay those won’t fit you,” the goblin said as he emerged from the next room.

  “They ain’t for me,” Igraine replied, holding them out in Turley’s direction. “Put ‘em on, and show me a way out o’ this castle.”

  The sour expression on Turley’s face was quickly obscured by his new hat.

  *****

  Long & Company, Underground

  Spirk was awakened by a loud crackling noise, followed by a burst of miniature stars and smoke and a high, shrill shriek that faded into nothingness. The flash of light blinded him, made the darkness so much worse than before.

  “Yendor!” he called. “Yendor!”

  But Yendor did not respond.

  Spirk rubbed at his eyes with the fingers and thumb of his right hand, while holding his left in front of his chest, as if to ward off an attack. In truth, he had already done so, and when his vision returned, he was shocked at what he saw. Spread across the ground in front of him were the charred bodies of…something. One of the creatures survived, floating in the air over Yendor without any apparent effort to do so. Spirk struggled to understand what he was seeing. The thing looked like a giant mosquito – about the size of a large dog – made entirely of cobwebs, bracken and mucus. He thrust his hand violently in the creature’s direction and, before it could escape, it, too, exploded in a hail of sparks. Spirk spun left and right, cast a panicked glance in the air above: nothing. Having dispatched the immediate threat, the young mage ran to his comrade’s side and found him still unconscious, though now also bleeding profusely from a hole in his chest. He was no A’Shea, not even a proper Shaper, but he knew that in the absence of a needle and thread such wounds could be cauterized. He tore open Yendor’s shirt, put a hand to the still-gushing wound, and thought burn! There was a sudden stench of burnt flesh, and Yendor groaned in his sleep, but the wound stopped bleeding. Again, Spirk looked around, this time hoping to see the approach of his friends, Long Pete and Ron. The dark, cavernous space was all that stared back at him.

  After checking to make sure Yendor still breathed, Spirk stoked the fire and then turned his attention to the carcasses of the creatures he’d killed. Closer examination brought him no better understanding, though he did notice they had long, ropey snouts, the ends of which all oozed blood. Was that Yendor’s blood? Spirk saw, too, that the horse’s body had collapsed in upon itself, ‘til the poor beast was little more than a husk. Holes like the one in Yendor’s chest dotted the horse’s remains, and, as much as he wished in that moment to be the clueless dunce so many thought him to be, Spirk finally understood what had transpired while he slept. It even seemed possible that one or more of the creatures had attempted to attack him as well, and he’d somehow defeated them in his sleep. That would explain the explosive lights and noise that awoke him.

  Not bad, for a dunce.

  But now he was worried: how long had he been asleep? How long had the Captain and Ron been gone, and had they fallen prey to more of the creatures? His fire was almost lost in the sepulchral space, the broken ceiling so high above that it was all but invisible. Despite his ever growing – and ever amazing – abilities, Spirk had rarely felt so small. What if Yendor and he were all alone now? And what if Yendor got worse?

  Tortured by these thoughts, Spirk sat next to Yendor, where he could watch the man breathing, and hugged his own knees to his chest, resting his chin on their knobby tops.

  Improbably, he must have fallen asleep again, for a hand on his shoulder startled him. He cried out in alarm and was further frightened by the sound of his voice echoing off the unseen walls.

  “Easy, easy,” Long Pete cut in. “Don’t wanna go disturbin’ anything doesn’t need disturbin’.” Before Spirk could sort that out, Long continued. “Speakin’ of which, what happened here?”

  Spirk followed his gaze to the burned cadavers of the bloodsuckers. “Uh,” he began, “well…these things attacked us, I guess, and…”

  “You guess?”

  “I was sorta sleepin’ at the time, and…”

  Ron walked up to Long’s side. “Well, at least you weren’t hurt. Were you?”

  Spirk shook his head. “No. But look what they did to the horse. And they bit Yendor, too.”

  Long knelt down and bent over Yendor’s chest, probing. “You did this?” he as
ked Spirk when he found the cauterized wound. The young man’s nod did nothing to improve the captain’s mood. “Poor son of a bitch,” he muttered. “He’s short one eye, to begin with, and now he’s broken some bones and lost a lot of blood from the look of things. I…don’t know what to do for him.”

  Sometimes, dwelling on a problem makes it feel worse. Spirk decided to change the subject. “What’d you find out about this place?”

  “We didn’t go too far,” said Ron. “We just wanted to find the other horses, gather any supplies that survived the fall.”

  “Yeah?”

  “We did okay. Found my bow and some arrows.”

  “And one sword and a wood axe,” Long pitched in. “One tent, a couple of packs. A little food and a canteen. Not enough. I left the other horses where they lay ‘cause I didn’t want to butcher ‘em so far from the fire and have to carry the meat all the way back here. But seein’ what’s happened to this one…” He looked at the shriveled pony. “Guess I figured wrong.”

  A funereal silence descended upon the little group, and no one seemed willing or able to break it. From time to time, Long checked on Yendor’s breathing, made his old friend as comfortable as possible, whilst Spirk or Ron fiddled with the fire. At some point, Spirk discovered his friends had joined Yendor in sleep, leaving him alone in the oppressive silence and blackness.

  The bloodsuckers did not come back, but the young Shaper had no doubt they were out there, somewhere, massing for another attack. He wondered what Pellas would do in such a situation, and he wished – not for the first time – that he still had his magic stone. He thought briefly of his family and realized he was having difficulty recalling their faces. But he’d had an old cat, an old, beat up tom…

  “Feel like a prize-winning cow sat on my chest and broke wind,” Yendor said.

  “You’re awake!” said Spirk.

  “Awake, is it? Then why’s it so damned dark? And where’s all the naked, dancin’ girls?”

  “They took one look at you and humped it on back to Ternsmallow,” Long croaked, roused by his friends’ conversation.

  Yendor coughed – a wet, crackly sound. “Did you show ‘em the right end o’ me? Hate to think they went away with the wrong impression.”

  Long pulled himself into a sitting position next to Yendor. “We’ve been through some shit together,” he said seriously.

  “Ain’t we just?” Yendor’s one eye travelled desperately from the captain to Spirk and back again, looking for any evidence of hope.

  “The thing is,” Long sighed heavily, “I don’t know how to help you, old friend. You’re broken.”

  “I prefer ‘smashed,” Yendor quipped through gritted teeth. “Anyway, if you’re goin’ where I think you’re goin’, forget it. I told you I’m not doin’ the noble thing here, so you can stop hintin’ at it. You’re takin’ me wherever you go.”

  “Yes, but how?” Long asked, exasperated.

  “Make a litter?”

  “Out of what?”

  “Well,” said Yendor, “I s’pose you could make it out of this pony, here. Out of her skin and bones.”

  “Forget it!” Long snapped. “Too messy and it’d take too long.”

  “Why don’t we unroll the tent, put him on it, and just drag him?” Ron asked.

  Long considered the suggestion a moment and saw that the other three men were willing, however much he hated the idea. “Fine,” he said. “But you two boys can drag him.”

  Long was angry; that was the truth of it. Oh, it wasn’t Yendor’s fault they’d all fallen into this Mahnus-cursed place and lost their horses and most of their supplies. It wasn’t his fault that he’d broken an arm and a leg on the way down, either. But the man couldn’t even walk now, probably couldn’t hold his own pecker when pissing! That was another task Long would pass on to the younger men. And all the while, Long imagined his daughter getting farther and farther away, slowly but inexorably inching beyond his grasp forever. Part of him wanted to abandon his mates and pull himself out of this hole by his fingernails; the other part, the bigger part perhaps, suspected they’d die without him. Of course, it was possible they’d die with him, too.

  He wanted to find and rescue his daughter; he had to rescue his friends.

  “Should we wait ‘til the sun comes up?” Ron wanted to know.

  “What’s the point?” Long replied. “Don’t think we’ll see much of it down here, anyway.”

  He stood and watched as Spirk and Ron fashioned the litter and then rolled the loudly complaining Yendor atop it. “Startin’ to think the gods have it in for me,” Long muttered under his breath.

  *****

  The False Reaper & Omeyo, In Camp

  Omeyo watched the last of the light fade from the sky with something approaching dread. For all their inanity during the day, the Svarren were downright vicious at night. It was almost as if they blossomed in the absence of sunlight, or metamorphosed into something infinitely more malignant. The fact that Omeyo could not see well in the dark made him even more distrustful of the creatures, if such a thing was possible.

  “I require your council,” the False Reaper said at Omeyo’s back, almost causing him to jump out of his boots. It seemed so petty, really, this constant frightening of his servant, but the general knew better than to complain. He turned and bowed in one motion. His master liked to feel superior at all times.

  “How may I help?”

  The boy, changeling, Pretender, False Reaper, Master looked at him for a time before answering. There was none of the insanity in those eyes that Omeyo had seen in the End’s, but he knew the boy was just as crazy for all that. And potentially even more dangerous.

  “I would like your thoughts on Her Majesty’s failure to respond to our…gift.”

  Omeyo chose his words carefully. It was how he’d managed to last as long as he had. “It seems to me, Master, that there are many kinds of responses, many ways in which a person might respond to such an invitation.”

  “Meaning?”

  “She’s a sneaky one, Master. Deceitful and cunning.”

  “Thus, her response – or responses – will be neither direct nor obvious.”

  “That would be my guess, Master. But only a guess.”

  The Pretender nodded, apparently satisfied. Then, “The Svarren are particularly aroused tonight, are they not?”

  Omeyo felt a chill at the back of his neck and shivered. “Indeed they are, Master.”

  The boy clasped his hands behind his back, smiled. “They’ve sniffed something out, I shouldn’t wonder. I find when they’re like this, it’s best to let the dogs hunt.”

  Woe to whomever or whatever it was they were hunting, Omeyo thought.

  “So,” said the boy, “it is your opinion I should look for a response from the Queen in directions I might not otherwise suspect?”

  This sudden shift back to the initial topic of conversation caught the general off guard and rattled his nerves, as the False Reaper intended, no doubt. Was Omeyo under suspicion himself?

  “I seem to recall some difficulty with one of my other generals, Deda-something or something-Deda.”

  Omeyo remembered the incident. Hard to forget, really, when a man explodes for no reason. But was the Pretender implying that Omeyo was somehow an agent of the Queen?

  “Why don’t you accompany the Svarren on their patrols tonight?” the boy suggested. Only Omeyo knew it was no mere suggestion. “Do you good to get out into the air and get some exercise.” When the boy – and the End before him – behaved in a solicitous manner, trouble was coming. And anyway, the boy knew of Omeyo’s discomfort around the savages. The coming patrol was not about fresh air and exercise; it was instead a test of how deeply into the shit the general was willing to go to prove his loyalty.

  “Thank you, Master,” Omeyo said, bowing. “Excellent advice, as always. I shall find a patrol and leave at the first opportunity.”

  The boy nodded, his expression a model of smugness and sel
f-satisfaction. “Very good, then. You may go.”

  The only thing worse than the False Reaper’s company, however, was being outside of it for very long. Around the boy, Omeyo had only to worry about being set afire or frozen solid. The Svarren, however, practiced baser and more vicious methods of punishment. The general harbored visions of being urinated upon, having an arm ripped off and being forced to eat it, or being made into the creatures’ sexual play thing. Mahnus knew, they’d screw anything that moved. Well, if he dwelt upon the possibilities for much longer, he’d become too terrified to leave the boy’s presence. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

  Omeyo tightened his cloak around his shoulders, adjusted his boots, and went off to retrieve his horse.

  She was the one good thing to enter his life in ages, and he supposed she must have meant just as much to the now-dead farmer to whom she’d once belonged. The increase in raids had resulted in better food and equipment for the boy’s inner circle, and Omeyo had almost wept when he’d been given the horse, wept for his own unworthiness, wept for the comfort and companionship she’d offer, wept for the knowledge he had nothing to give her in return, wept for the certainty that her end, whenever it came, would not be pleasant. But Omeyo had learned long ago not to dwell on the future, which was, after all, nothing more than a vapor of dreams and misgivings that had little relevance in the present.

  A human slave had been put in charge of the False Reaper’s horses – a fact for which Omeyo was especially grateful – and so the general found his horse in good shape and ready to ride. She was a strong and graceful filly, with a brown coat and a mane and tail of deeper brown. If she’d remained on the farm, she might have had another twenty years in her. As a soldier’s mount, however…

  Omeyo forced his thoughts back to the present. He checked his saddle and climbed onto the filly’s back. One of the many things he loved about her was that she gave him a stature and mass that even Svarren had to respect. On foot, they could jostle, bully and trample him into the snow. Not so, on horseback.

  With a gentle tug on the reins, the general turned her around and went looking for a smallish pack of Svarren to accompany on their nightly patrol. The boy hadn’t specified the size of the group Omeyo was to join, and he was not fool enough to think he would earn anyone’s esteem by attaching himself to a larger group. No, the fewer Svarren, the more safe he was like to be.