Corpse Cold (Immortal Treachery Book 3)

by Allan Batchelder

  “Tush!” Zillia chuckled. “If we die out, it’ll be because our men are so soft-hearted! Now go out and fight those damned Svarren. Clear the north of their stink once and for all! We’ll still be here when you return.”

  They were standing just outside the mouth of Zillia’s magical cave. There was an enchanting pinkness to the morning sky, the air really, as if it had been stained that way by the rising sun. It seemed auspicious, though no one was willing to say so aloud.

  Eoman reached out a hand and stroked Esmine’s cheek a final time with one large finger. “You be good to Zillia, now,” he warned.

  Her resultant smile put the morning sun to shame.

  “Let’s go,” Beesmarch snapped, though no one believed his irritability in this instance.

  With a final backward glance, Karrakan waved goodbye and followed his friends back into the forest. If the brothers were anywhere within a hundred miles, they’d be easily found.

  And the principle reason for this was that their sibling rivalry knew no limits when it came to eating, wenching and killing. Eoman and his friends came upon an area that looked as if it had been hit by a tornado…except that tornados never occurred this far north.

  “This devastation has a certain familiarity to it,” Karrakan observed.

  “My thoughts, too,” said Eoman.

  Beesmarch, as was his wont, simply grumbled.

  They followed the wreckage of trees, bushes, and Svarren until they spotted the smoke from a campfire in the distance, and the sound of an argument reached their ears.

  “That’s them,” Beesmarch frowned.

  And he was correct. Huddled around a fire with their backs to their king’s approach, the brothers – all three – were slapping and punching and poking at each other over a haunch of Mahnus-knew-what.

  “Trandle,” Eoman called.

  All three giants turned in unison, ready to attack whoever it was that had interrupted their squabbling. Upon seeing their king and his friends, they relaxed considerably and broke into wide grins. The brothers, as they were known by anyone who spoke of them, were hirsute to the point of looking like oursine. Thick black manes graced their heads, and wiry black hair grew on their arms and even the backs of their fingers. They were younger than Eoman, Karrakan or Beesmarch, and possessed of a youthful enthusiasm that was almost infectious -- almost, because Beesmarch at least was immune to enthusiasm.

  “Are there any more of our folk hereabouts, do you think?” the king asked.

  “Not that I’ve heard,” Broadus responded.

  It was not difficult to convince the brothers to join in Eoman’s Svarren hunt, and though they were only six in number, they made a formidable force nonetheless.

  “How do we start?” Trandle asked.

  “The Long Teeth trails seem to be converging and heading in the same direction.”

  “North.”

  “Aye. North.”

  “Then we go north,” said Calder, the third of the brothers.

  “Brilliant,” snapped Beesmarch, just loud enough so everyone heard.

  Despite Beesmarch’s superior size, Trandle shot him a look that promised violence if the jibes didn’t cease forthwith. “Any idea what they’re after?” he inquired of his king.

  “Damned if I know,” Eoman returned. “They’ve a habit of banding together once in a rare while. Planning something nasty, no doubt.”

  Broadus laughed – a big, rollicking sound. “Think I’ll set me a record, then. Never killed more than fifty Svarren in one day. Might be, I’ll get ten times that!”

  This set off a boasting contest that lasted through the rest of the day, with Calder finally promising to exterminate every last Svarren in the world, to Eoman’s great amusement.

  “I’ll hold you to it, friend!” he grinned affably.

  “There’s one thing bothers me,” Beesmarch admitted. “Where’s everyone else? We can’t be the only ones in the north fed up with these filthy bastards.”

  Eoman combed his fingers through his beard and allowed that he’d wondered the same. “There’s only two kinds of folk, when it comes to Svarren: those who stand and fight, and those who flee. You’d think we’d see one or the other soon enough, no?”

  “I expect we will, any time now,” Karrakan answered.

  “Humph!” said Beesmarch.

  *****

  Kittins & Rem, On the Road

  Even in the bitter cold, they could smell the dead. Kittins gestured for Rem to slow his horse, and both men proceeded in silence. No other odors came to the ruin of Kittins’ nose, but he pointed to it anyway and then to Rem’s. Do you smell anything?

  Rem shook his head. No smoke, no sweat, no horse dung.

  There’d been a massacre up ahead, sure. But whoever had done it had moved on, leaving only the dead. As quietly as possible, Kittins drew his sword and indicated that Rem should do the same. They continued forward.

  The snow was covered in blood so dark it was almost black, except in spots where thinner traces of it showed it to be red. Svarren and parts of Svarren were scattered everywhere, and amongst their remains, footprints.

  Giant footprints.

  Kittins dismounted and stooped to examine the prints, and it struck Rem that the captain looked like a predator, stalking his prey. But only a madman would stalk a giant.

  “There’s more than one o’ these,” Kittins breathed.

  And only a madman with a death wish would stalk a group of giants.

  “Any idea how many?”

  Kittins stood and wandered through the maze of bloody offal. “Three or four, maybe. And it doesn’t much matter if it’s three or four, ‘cause that’s too many for us.”

  Rem pursed his lips, thinking. “Why assume they’re hostile to us?”

  “They’re damned well hostile to Svarren.”

  “Which we aren’t,” Rem pointed out. “And anyway, anyone who hates Svarren can’t be all bad.”

  Kittins coughed and Rem understood he was being laughed at. “You’re too trusting. That’ll get you killed one o’ these days.”

  The actor wanted to ask, “And what has distrust done for you, but ruined your face and your life?” But the plain truth was, he was afraid of the captain, afraid that crossing him at the wrong time – and who could even guess when that might be? – would result in an instant beheading.

  “Still,” Kittins went on, “I’ve a mind to follow these giants. Never seen more than one at a time before; this might be interesting.”

  In days gone by, the formerly vainglorious actor would have chafed at the insinuation that his company wasn’t interesting enough for his companion, but he had learned that in the captain’s world, interesting was often synonymous with life-threatening, and, at present, Rem craved nothing so much as the uninteresting. In an effort to remain on the captain’s good side – assuming there was such a thing – Rem nodded in agreement.

  The giants were not difficult to follow, as they made no effort to hide their tracks. On those rare occasions when Kittins and Rem lost the trail, they were able to pick it up again with just a few minutes’ search. On each of these occasions, Rem secretly hoped the trail could not be rediscovered, only to be frustrated when it was. Heading north to sate Kittins’ curiosity no longer made any sense to the actor. If Cindor was going to kill them both anyway, why endure a single moment’s discomfort more than they had already? Why couldn’t they run away to the southwest, or even the chain of islands off its shores? That part of the country was reputed to be warm all year ‘round, with an abundance of exotic fruits and beautiful women. It was an impossibly long journey, certainly, but every step away from this hell would be a reward in and of itself. Well, Rem supposed, Kittins would hardly kill him merely for broaching the subject…

  “Have you ever been to the far southwestern lands?”

  “Once,” Kittins grunted.

  Rem brightened immediately at this news. “Are they as beautiful as they say?”

  “Some parts.�
�

  Damn the man’s laconic nature! “For instance?”

  Kittins glanced irritably at his companion. “What’s this, an exercise in self-abuse?”

  Now he was talking.

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “We’re slogging through half the infinite hells, and you wanna talk paradise?”

  “Why not? It lightens the load.”

  “I’ll lighten your load,” Kittins grumbled.

  Later in the day and quite unexpectedly, Kittins said, “The ocean down there’s warm enough to swim in.”

  “Is it?” Rem asked, not daring to say too much or too little.

  “Almost as warm as bath water, with great, mighty waves the locals love to float around in. And blue? You never saw such a color.”

  So, the captain did have a lighter side. “I’d love to see that someday before I die,” said Rem.

  “Fat chance.”

  Sometimes, it’s better to keep one’s mouth shut.

  About an hour shy of sunset, the tracks they’d been following merged with another set of giant tracks. It appeared this new, larger group had lingered a while, perhaps discussing something, before eventually deciding to move off together.

  Kittins was almost gleeful. “I’ve never seen more than one giant, and I damned sure never thought I’d see a whole pack of ‘em. There have to be six or seven in this group now. And they’re headed the same way we are.”

  “Well, they’re clearly not on the Svarren’s side, so perhaps they’re mustering against them,” Rem offered.

  “Of course they are.”

  Rem reached into his saddle bag to find something to eat, was dismayed by his dwindling supply.

  Kittins noticed Rem’s unease and tossed him a large chunk of jerked meat. “Number one rule o’ campaigning: always carry more food than you think you’ll ever need.”

  “Oh? And how much did you bring?”

  “Enough to last ‘til the end of the world.”

  Judging by the size of the man’s various packs and bags, that wouldn’t be long in coming. Again, Rem lapsed into silence.

  *****

  Vykers & Company, On the Road

  They’d emerged from the forest along a vast ridge, stretching directly northward. Other ridges ran parallel, like the fingers of some long-dead titan. Vykers reined his horse in and summoned Hjuest to his side.

  “What do see on that other ridge?”

  The red knight turned to his right and peered across the valley to the next ridge. “Looks like people.”

  “Those ain’t people. Not like you mean it,” Vykers said, directing his own attention towards the distant figures. “Those are giants.”

  Hjuest’s eyes grew large at the pronouncement. “Tvari!” he called to one of the other men. Tvari pushed his horse through the throng and came to Hjuest’s side, whereupon the red knight said something in a language unknown to Vykers. Tvari then gazed over at the alleged giants.

  “Sen!” He said to Hjuest. Correct.

  Hjuest smiled. “Yah, it is chiants.”

  “Chiants?” Vykers mocked.

  The red knight looked flummoxed. “Ya? So? Chiants. As you said.”

  “Five?”

  Hjuest said a few more words to Tvari, who responded with a single syllable, and then the red knight said, “Six!” aloud.

  “Six giants,” Vykers repeated to himself. “Six giants. Sure like to know what they’re up to.”

  “Maybe the same as us?”

  The Reaper flexed his shoulders, thinking, and put his hands atop his head. “Maybe,” he said at last, though he did so with little conviction. “Only one way to find out.”

  “You propose a meeting?”

  “Aye.”

  The ridge seemed to stretch onward forever, and, once it became clear they’d never get off it before sunset, Vykers began looking for a suitable camp. There wasn’t much cover on the ridge, which meant they were all in for an especially cold night. On the positive side, however, the giants on the far ridge would be able to spot Vykers’ campfire with ease. Better to let the big folk know he was there, rather than sneaking up on ‘em. If they came to him, they’d feel like they were in control and, thus, would be more liable to be congenial. Of course, more liable didn’t mean ‘certain,’ but it’d do in a pinch.

  There was just the slightest hint of pink on the eastern horizon and most of the men weren’t awake yet, when the giants came strolling up the ridge from the north and into Vykers’ camp. It seemed they’d walked most of the night in order to identify the source and owners of the fire they’d seen. Vykers wasn’t sure who or what they’d been expecting, but he clearly wasn’t it.

  “You’re Tarmun Vykers,” one of them said in a voice so deep it was practically unintelligible.

  Vykers didn’t stand, didn’t budge an inch from his spot near the fire. “I am,” said he calmly. “Who are you?”

  The noise of conversation awakened the rest of Vykers’ men, who quickly determined that continued silence and stillness were the order of the moment. The Reaper had things in hand. Or so they hoped.

  “We’re a bunch of giants, aren’t we?” snapped the largest of them. One of his peers gave him a warning glare and he said no more.

  “If you’re here as friends, sit and enjoy the fire.”

  “Friends remains to be seen,” said the giant who had spoken first. “I am Eoman Harkin Hainen, King of giant folk.”

  The biggest giant rolled his eyes and scowled, but kept his mouth shut.

  “And we’d like to know,” Eoman continued, “what your intentions are so far north of your human capital.”

  “Hjuest! Igraine!” Vykers called, “Let’s get some food on the fire, eh? We’ve got guests.” As the red knight and the young woman set about fixing a meal for everyone, the Reaper went on. “If you know who I am, then you know what I am. I go where I want and I do what I list.”

  The giants were not enjoying the Reaper’s attitude much, but, in their exhaustion, could not resist his fire.

  Vykers continued. “As it happens, I’m lookin’ for a man carryin’ out raids with Svarren and using my name to do it.”

  “And what is this man after, do you think?” Karrakan prompted.

  “Have to ask him that before I kill him.”

  The massive quantity of food Vykers’ companions prepared was little more than an appetizer to the giants, but it was hot, flavorful and always better than nothing. Five of the six giants seemed content with the offering. Beesmarch, however, seemed to grow more irritable than usual.

  “You talk like a giant, Reaper,” said he. “But all I see is a little man.”

  The comment had an instantaneous impact on everyone else, setting nerves on edge and igniting a fresh sense of alarm. Those who’d been eating, stopped; those who were not, stood and began to creep away from the fire.

  The Reaper merely put his feet up on a large piece of firewood and gazed at Beesmarch in an almost bored manner. “You’re the dumb one, then, are you?”

  Eoman fought back a grin and said, “Let’s have no hostilities. It’s Svarren we’re after.”

  “And supposin’ I want hostilities?” Beesmarch rumbled.

  Vykers tossed the bone he’d been gnawing into the fire and stood, languidly. “I’m ready.”

  Eoman stood as well, his temper flaring. “Bees, as your king, I command you to leave be!”

  Around the fire, everyone had risen and assumed defensive stances at some distance from the two would-be combatants.

  “Or what? You’ll kill me? Isn’t that what this wee one is intent on?” he asked, indicating Vykers.

  To everyone’s astonishment, Igraine stepped between Beesmarch and Vykers and said, “I suggest a bout without weapons. First to cry ‘enough’ loses.”

  Eoman and the other giants stared hopefully at their surly friend, whilst the humans did the same towards their leader.

  Beesmarch seemed to chew on the suggestion for an eternity and then resp
onded, “Good.”

  Vykers said nothing, but his silence was taken as tacit agreement.

  “Rules?” Hjuest inquired.

  “None o’ your human bullshit – no pullin’ my beard, nor bashin’ me in the gonads.”

  Vykers walked five or so paces away from the fire into an open area and looked back at Beesmarch. “Agreed.” This last was said to reassure the giant, but Vykers had found that those who insisted on stringent rules were usually the first to break them. This Beesmarch would cheat. Of that, Vykers was certain.

  The giant flexed and reflexed his hands, tightened his belt a notch and moved to face the Reaper.

  “First to cry “Enough!” Karrakan reminded the opponents.

  Beesmarch actually laughed. “Won’t be me!” He took a step towards Vykers and readied himself for a massive swing at the Reaper’s chest.

  Vykers studied the giant. Even for his kind, he was immense, a mountain. And with that observation, he knew how to attack his foe.

  Beesmarch swung and, to his amazement, completely missed his target. The Reaper dodged and danced away, just out of reach. “So, it’s to be like that, is it?” the giant taunted.

  “That and worse,” Vykers quipped.

  The giant feinted at the Reaper’s head and aimed a kick right at the man’s privates.

  The Reaper dodged aside, grinned. “Just like I figured.”

  Beesmarch unleashed a series of sweeping swings, attempting to overwhelm the Reaper with the speed and number of his attacks. None came close to the Reaper. “Stand still and fight, you little gnat!” Beesmarch roared.

  Vykers did not stand still; he continued to appear where he wasn’t expected and vanish before the giant could hit him, to Beesmarch’s ever-growing frustration.

  “This ain’t a fight!” he complained. “It’s a bleedin’ cinque-pace! Stand still, you bastard!”

  The harder Beesmarch tried to connect, the more fatigued he became, until, inevitably, he was gasping for air. In that moment, Vykers ran forward, bounded off the giant’s thigh, leapt up his chest and jabbed two fingers in each of Beesmarch’s eyes – not hard enough to blind him permanently, but firmly enough to disable him for the near future.