Corpse Cold (Immortal Treachery Book 3)

by Allan Batchelder

  Didn’t that also include Aoife, then?

  Vykers hadn’t thought of her in a stoat’s age. He wondered where she was, what she might be doing – not that he cared overmuch, mind you. Only…he wouldn’t hate seeing her again, if things worked out that way.

  He redirected his thoughts towards the End-of-All-Things. Surely, the End could not still be alive. Alheria had probably just dropped his name as bait, a means of enticing Vykers, once again, into doing her bidding. Whoever and whatever this northern fucker was, he was no End-of-All-Things. Vykers almost wished he was, though. He’d enjoy killing that monster again.

  He allowed his horse to slow so that one of his men could take the lead for a while and give him a chance to study his crew. In their new armor, they didn’t look half as hopeless as they had just days before. Hjuest, in particular, looked much more dangerous in ring mail and wearing an actual steel sword at his hip.

  As Vykers pulled up alongside his new sergeant, the man asked, “Iss how var, diss nort?”

  “Two weeks, maybe three if the weather stays bad.”

  “Iss soon enuv?”

  “It’ll have to be.” Vykers liked doing things in his own time; to do otherwise was to cede an advantage to the enemy. If this new End wanted to meet the Reaper sooner, he could damn well come looking for him.

  The horses were blown in three days of hard riding, but there’s always a knackery willing to take what’s left and resell it as something better to the credulous and the desperate. This didn’t bring much coin, but enough to replace one of the crew’s mounts, whilst Vykers paid for the rest. As for the poor horses, Vykers felt some remorse. He’d killed countless men with less compunction, and he generally viewed horses as better company. How many more horses would die up north if this madman went unchecked? These horses, then, were making a noble sacrifice for their brethren. At least, Vykers hoped that was the case.

  The new mounts didn’t complain when the Reaper and his crew rode them out of the only stables they’d ever known and into the winter’s fury.

  “You get snow like this where you’re from?” Vykers shouted to Hjuest over the howling wind.

  “Ya. Sometimes.”

  Vykers looked at the Ntambi warrior, whose expression suggested he could give Igraine lessons in misery. “I don’t guess he’s seen a lot o’ this shit,” he said to Hjuest.

  “Nah. I tink not.”

  They rode together in silence a while and then Hjuest asked, “How many horse you buy?”

  “One for each of us, three for gear.”

  “Nah. I mean, from here to north.”

  “Don’t you worry about that. I got nothin’ else to do with my gold.”

  That evening, when they’d made camp and settled in, Hjuest approached the Reaper. “Spar?”

  Vykers bust into a wide grin. “You kiddin’? I’ll kick your ass from here to Threshmettle.”

  “You keek my ass?” Hjuest echoed, perplexed.

  “Figure ‘o speech. Means I’m gonna beat you again,” Vykers laughed. “And I hope you’re not usin’ a wooden sword again.”

  Hjuest returned the Reaper’s smile. “No. Steel sword.”

  While everyone else watched, Hjuest and Vykers sparred for half an hour, until the smaller man threw up his hands in defeat. “You win.”

  “But you’re gettin’ better.”

  “Had to ven I deedn’t spik langvage. Vas a lot of vighting.”

  “And there’ll be a lot more,” Vykers assured the knight. “But I kinda miss all that red you wore.”

  “I vill hev again. Ven money.”

  “You outlive this winter, you’ll have the money.”

  Hjuest nodded, as if this made all the sense in the world.

  “Now, about the others,” Vykers said, looking in the direction of his former slaves. “How’re they holding up?”

  “Holding up?”

  “How are they doing?”

  “Not bad. Ngoro not happy, but he vight.”

  Vykers indicated the Ntambi warrior. “That Ngoro?”

  “Yah.”

  “Make sure he gets extra food and blankets.”

  “Yah.”

  They continued to push, push, push their way north. Only Vykers never seemed to tire, which made his already inflated reputation grow in the men’s eyes. To them, he was a god. He would have denied it, had he known their feelings. As it was, he cared only to make as much distance with each day’s effort as possible. He knew there would be bloodshed at the end of this road, and he yearned to get on with it.

  *****

  Aoife, In the Village

  Although she and the fey folk had repelled the Svarren attack and saved the village, Aoife forced its residents to evacuate, anyway.

  “But why?” they complained.

  “Because the End doesn’t take defeat lightly. He’ll return with his full force to punish each and every one of you for daring to stand against him. Thank the gods you survived his Svarren and get out while you still can.”

  “Where can we go?”

  “South. As far and as fast as possible.”

  For those stubborn few who insisted on remaining behind, Aoife resorted to spellcraft, filling them with sudden and unyielding dread. Soon, they overtook their fellows in abandoning the town.

  Aoife waited until the last of them had disappeared from sight and then set about laying traps against the End’s return.

  Unfortunately, she forgot that her brother could fly.

  Walking across the town square, she was blasted from her feet by a bolt of lightning. She pinwheeled through the air and landed, hard, on somebody’s woodpile. For several heartbeats, she was utterly disoriented and in terrible pain; still, she had the presence of mind to throw up defenses. In seconds, she was wrapped in a living cocoon, the inside of which bathed her in restorative nectars, whilst the outside projected poisonous thorns. Beyond that, a thick wall of vines and brambles formed – a sort of outer shell to her cocoon.

  The End laughed at these efforts and shot great gouts of flame over Aoife’s protections. For a moment, there was quiet, and the sorcerer came closer to inspect the damage. At this point, a great branch sprang from Aoife’s shell and impaled the overconfident tyrant through the belly. He screamed in fury and agony, reducing the branch to ashes while he retreated to a safer distance. How many times would he get away with underestimating the A’Shea before she got the better of him?

  He determined that she would not do so this time. Summoning all of his energies and focus, he ripped Aoife’s cocoon from the ground as if by a giant hand and flung it so far into the sky that it temporarily disappeared from view. He expected to witness his sister’s death on her return trip. Instead, her shell sprouted enormous spider legs, which reached the ground well before her and prevented much more than a violent jostling. This vine-and-leaf spider then proceeded to race away from the village with impressive speed.

  The End soared into the air again and gave chase. If she reached a forest, he knew he’d never catch her. He continued to lambaste the retreating cocoon with fire, lightning and cold. In return, it often sprayed acid and noxious poisons in his direction. He had never known A’Shea were so powerful…unless she was no longer an A’Shea. If she was not, though, what in the endless hells was she?

  So, they battled, mile after mile. When the End spied trees on the horizon, he became almost frantic to halt his sister’s escape. He hit her with a wall of force so powerful that it shattered her shell and drove her into the icy snow beneath. Before her protective roots and branches could sprout again, he drenched the area with a foul ichor that suppressed all growth. With feigned indifference, he drifted down beside Aoife’s unconscious form and studied her intently. She gave off waves of energy, and the End understood that to touch her would mean death, despite his own arcane prowess. Instead, he encased her in a shell of his own design, one that would protect him from her and not the other way ‘round. He then levitated her into the air and compelled her little p
rison to follow him all the way back to his camp.

  Perhaps there was some way he could leach her power away and use it for his own purposes. If not, the A’Shea might still serve as bait. The End hadn’t forgotten her collusion with Tarmun Vykers at their last encounter. Maybe there was something between his sister and the Reaper.

  Wouldn’t their reunion just be delicious?

  *****

  The Giants, In the Forest

  “What we do,” Eoman said, “is fetch Beesmarch, like I suggested. Then the three of us take these two girls to Zillia for safekeeping.”

  Although he was not the king of the giants, Karrakan got along better with most of them than did Eoman. The only exceptions, as fate would have it, were Beesmarch and Zillia. Ironically enough, they liked each other even less than the shaman did. While Karrakan dreaded the prospect of making conversation with either Beesmarch or Zillia, he almost couldn’t wait to hear them berating one another. “Well,” he sighed. “If you truly believe that’s the best course of action.”

  Eoman kicked the ice off his boots and re-cinched his belt. “It’s pretty clear the Svarren are up to something nasty. I’m seeing more and more of their scat every morning. Unless you want our lands overrun by the bastards, we’d best find out what it is they’re after, and that means leaving the girls in Zillia’s care.”

  Karrakan wondered if his king didn’t have feelings for the crazy old witch. What he said was, “You sure you know where to find Beesmarch?”

  “Oh, aye. He’s a creature of habit, is our old friend. He’ll be up on his same hill.”

  “If you say so.” That was as far as Karrakan would go in the way of agreement. Eoman was king, after all, which meant the rest of the giants had to follow his lead. Someday, when things were quieter, Karrakan hoped to discuss why this was so with his liege lord.

  As the giants bundled the girls up for travel, Eoman leaned into his friend and muttered “I still can’t figure why the wee one’s not worse off.”

  “Haven’t you guessed?” Karrakan asked, surprised. “She’s got talent.”

  Eoman choked on his own saliva, subsequently launching into a prolonged coughing fit. “Talent?” he rasped, when the coughing had passed. “You mean magic?”

  “Of course I mean magic.”

  The king shook his head, though whether from disbelief or disapproval, he wouldn’t elaborate. “Let’s get moving,” was all he said.

  It was a two-and-a-half day journey to Beesmarch’s domain. Eoman, Karrakan and the girls arrived around midday, and Karrakan wondered aloud, “D’you suppose we’ll find him home?”

  “Go away!” thundered a voice that would have made Mahnus quail in his boots. It was so loud, so resonant, that snow tumbled from trees and icicles crashed to the forest floor.

  “By the gods!” Eoman breathed. “How does he do that?”

  “I hope we’ll have an opportunity to find out,” Karrakan answered.

  “Go away!” the godlike voice insisted.

  Eoman noticed Nelby and Esmine cowering under the shaman’s robes. “Come out here and make us!” he yelled back into the forest.

  This made Karrakan laugh heartily, and the shaman added, “Come on down here and fight, you surly old bastard!”

  “I said go!” the voice bellowed.

  “Oh, we heard you!” Eoman guffawed. “We’re just not in the mood!” By now, Nelby was looking at the king as if he were stark, raving mad, which only served to make him laugh harder still.

  Suddenly, a loud boom sounded through the trees, the noise of an enormous door slamming, perhaps, and the two giants exchanged a look of mischievous glee. Beesmarch was coming.

  In short order, a huge shadow appeared, stomping through the trees, and heading in the group’s direction. As it moved closer, everyone was able to hear the figure muttering an unending stream of profanity, most of which was horribly outdated. Seconds passed, and the shape resolved into another giant. And this one was larger than either Eoman or Karrakan.

  “Humph!” the new giant grunted. “If it ain’t the caperin’ King an’ his idiot sidekick, Carbuncle.”

  The shaman laughed again. “Karrakan. You know it’s Karrakan, you crabby old crank!”

  “And I’ll thank you to address your king with more respect!” Eoman added.

  “Bah! Where’s your kingdom, Eoman? Where your subjects? Are you the king of snow?”

  Beesmarch was a full third taller than Eoman, with a beard so long that it brushed the tops of his feet when he walked. His brows and nose were equally prodigious, which made his eyes hard to make out even in the best of light. His hands, though, were outlandishly huge, and it seemed possible that he could carry a full grown horse in each if he chose. He was draped in a variety of furs and wore the head of some huge, long dead animal as a hat. As intimidating as he appeared though, he smelled of wood smoke, beeswax and rosewater.

  Little Esmine was clearly intrigued by this.

  “And what is that?” Beesmarch demanded, spying the child for the first time.

  Rather than scurrying behind Karrakan, Esmine stepped into the open, fully revealing herself to Beesmarch.

  “That,” said Eoman, “is a child. Has it been so long?”

  “I bloody well know what a child is, but this one looks like a changeling. What’s wrong with her?”

  Esmine took another step, reached out to Beesmarch’s beard and gave it a good yank.

  “She’s half human.”

  “That’s impossible!”

  “True, nonetheless.”

  “Humph!” said Beesmarch. “That explains it, then. Anyway, what are you two and this…thing…doing on my land?”

  “Your land?” Eoman challenged, one eyebrow cocked in disbelief.

  “Aye, mine.”

  Rather than get into a pissing match with the bigger giant, Karrakan came to the point. “We rescued the girl from slavers, and we mean to leave her with Zillia, if the mad wench is still alive.”

  “Ha!” Beesmarch barked, though he offered nothing else.

  “Truth is, the land’s being overrun by Svarren of late, and we can’t have the wee one along as we seek out the cause.”

  The word ‘Svarren’ seemed to catch the grumpy giant’s interest, as his face became more animated. “Long teeth, is it? The filth have been skirting my forest for weeks now, but even skirtin’s too close for me. You mean to kill them?”

  “As many as we can find,” Eoman grinned.

  “Humph!” Beesmarch pulled on his own beard and stamped in a circle, wrestling with some question he wasn’t willing to share. Finally, he let out a long breath and said, “I’ll show you the king’s hospitality, and you’ll take me along for the killing. Fella’s got to keep in fighting trim.”

  “You’ve got enough food for the five of us?”

  “Five?” Beesmarch echoed, suspiciously.

  Karrakan opened his long coat and robes and revealed Nelby.

  “Humph!” said Beesmarch. “I should’ve known. Follow me.”

  Beesmarch lived inside the burned out stump of what must have once been the largest tree in existence. Now, its shell served as the walls of a surprisingly genteel abode. Beesmarch had built the roof himself out of whole logs, though he scraped the bark off first to retard rotting. The speaking or blowing end of a tremendous horn protruded from one wall, whilst the blaring end presumably emerged outside the home. It was this device, then, that the giant used to frighten off trespassers. High in the other walls, small windows of real glass let natural light into the main room, where it danced and sparkled off countless mobiles of colored glass, gems, and bits of polished silver and gold. Whenever Beesmarch moved past any of these, they tinkled and clinked with the most delicate tones. All in all, it was the sort of home Eoman might have expected of a fairy queen. This was a side of his old companion the king had never guessed at.

  The central table was made of a single slab of center-cut hardwood, sanded and varnished to a high shine that accented
the wood’s many whorls and knots. It was a table, Eoman acknowledged, worthy of royalty. Upon this masterpiece, Beesmarch heaped piles of smoked boar and dried fish, along with a great, hearty dark bread, generous slabs of honey-butter, and several steins of a most delicious ale.

  “Kinda pleasant to have company once in a while,” the host admitted sheepishly. “Gotta have guests in order to show off.”

  “It’s a beautiful home, Bees,” Karrakan admitted. “I’ve never seen a better.”

  “Humph!” Beesmarch replied, though it was clear he was pleased with the compliment.

  “It occurs to me that if we giant folk weren’t so solitary and chose to live in cities like the humans, we’d be a force in this world,” Eoman mused.

  “We are a force in this world,” Beesmarch countered. “And the next.”

  “I meant that we could muster an army and wipe out slavers and Svarren once and for all.”

  “Makes you wonder why we spread ourselves so far and wide in the first place,” Karrakan said.

  “You don’t remember?” Beesmarch asked, astonished.

  “And you do?”

  Beesmarch tugged his beard again, crossed his arms and leaned on the tabletop. A faraway look came to his eyes. “They say we fled the humans in the Great Awakening.” He looked over at Nelby and continued. “The little bastards were runnin’ mad, burning, smashing, destroying everything they encountered, including each other. The king at the time is said to have proclaimed, ‘You can’t reason with a mad dog,’ and giantkind escaped to the hills and forests. But we had a city, once.”

  “Te Connac,” Karrakan whispered.

  “Aye,” said Beesmarch. “Te Connac.”

  “I’ve often thought to look for it,” Eoman confessed.