Beesmarch bellowed in pain, raising his left hand to his face and lashing out blindly with his right. The fight was over, but he could not acknowledge it. The Reaper closed in to deliver a blow of his own and the giant roared with such volume and ferocity that Vykers temporarily lost all sense of where he was and what he’d been doing. In that brief span, Beesmarch flailed blindly and just managed to clip Vykers on his right shoulder, sending him spinning through the air like a spent firework. The force of the hit and his subsequent landing in the snow cleared Vykers’ mind, brought him back to the present.
“Well struck, giant!” he exclaimed.
But Beesmarch was not mollified. Compensating for his injury and lack of sight, he lowered himself into a crouch, whereupon Vykers again leapt up and slammed his palms over both of the giant’s ears with a loud popping noise. Beesmarch fell over backwards, his hands on his ears, his eyes clenched shut, and his mouth in a tight line of agony. Because he either could not or would not say “Enough,” his king said it for him.
“Enough, the Reaper wins.”
Vykers didn’t gloat, but walked calmly back to his spot by the fire and rummaged for more to eat. His shoulder throbbed, but he wouldn’t give Beesmarch – or anyone else – the satisfaction of thinking he could be hurt.
The brothers helped Beesmarch to his feet and dragged him back to the fire as well.
“A drink!” Hjuest called out, hoping the proposal would smooth over any feelings of resentment.
It did. The five giants not involved in the fight were more than willing to drink all of the humans’ liquor and even produced a small amount of their own from deep pockets. Even Beesmarch, his vision blurry and his hearing muffled, could not resist a taste of the humans’ ale forever. It was half-gone before noon, but there was no one left awake to rue the fact. The combination of constant travel and strong spirits proved too much for everyone.
The following morning, Beesmarch’s eyes were red with blood, giving him a demonic appearance, and his ears rung like a million funeral bells. Yet all that was nothing compared to the hangover he endured. “You’d’ve done better to kill me,” he grumbled at the Reaper.
“You’ll feel better once we find the Svarren,” Vykers responded.
Beesmarch smiled. “Yes,” he admitted, “I expect I will.”
*****
The End & Omeyo, In Camp
The End was in an uncommonly good mood, which made Omeyo more wary than usual, if such a thing was possible. Both men toured the Svarren camps, inspecting their readiness for departure, action or whatever else the End might require. The sorcerer spoke in hushed tones to various Svarren throughout the tour, but Omeyo caught none of it. Not that he cared. He understood by the End’s buoyancy that everything was going according to plan, which meant that Tarmun Vykers and perhaps even the Virgin Queen would be arriving in the vicinity shortly.
Omeyo considered the differences between the last time the End had engaged Vykers and the Queen and this time. Last time, the End had possessed a much larger host, but a host devoid of independent thought, a host without an innate appetite for carnage and destruction. Last time, the fey – impossible creatures of legend – had engaged the End’s flanks from the forest. This time, there was no forest. Last time, the Queen’s army had been waiting for the End. This time, the sorcerer had attempted to goad the Reaper and Her Majesty into rushing northward to confront him, sans army. Only time would tell if that strategy worked, but the general couldn’t believe the famed Reaper would be foolhardy enough to attack without an army at his back. Last time, the End had possessed a magic sword; this time, he had no such weapon, but instead held a hostage in the form of the frozen A’Shea. Last time, the End had been a petulant, volatile lunatic. Now, he seemed more seasoned, more rational. Would any or all of these factors be enough to win the coming conflict? Omeyo had no way of knowing, but as he wanted nothing more than a swift death himself, he didn’t suppose it much mattered either way.
Tooth and Nail appeared out of nowhere and watched Omeyo with hooded eyes as the End spoke to them. They were likely aware that their master had changed, that the End who’d given them permission to abuse the general had been supplanted, and now they stood upon uncertain ground. Did this new End still favor them over the general, or would he someday punish them for what they’d done? And what role did Omeyo himself play? If he gave the word, would his master kill his Svarren body guards?
In their primitive, savage faces, the general saw contempt, resentment and even fear, which told him they would strike again if they could find a way to avoid the master’s wrath. But the death they promised would not be swift, so Omeyo couldn’t allow it. More, he supposed he’d have to find a way to kill the Svarren first. Again, the master came to mind. If only Omeyo could trick Tooth and Nail into doing something counter to the End’s wishes…
“Time was, I was wont to pretend I could read your mind. Would that I truly could, general. Your face betrays a thousand private thoughts more interesting than anything I see on this frozen plain,” the End said, interrupting Omeyo’s scheming. “What are you thinking on?”
“I was remembering a battle in my youth,” Omeyo lied.
“Be grateful you can recall your youth,” the End said cryptically.
“I am, Master,” Omeyo lied again. “But have you no instructions for me as regards the disposition of your forces?”
The End laughed. “It seems you’ve read my mind, general. I have found a mountain somewhat north and east of us that will serve our purposes. We’ll set the host in that direction on the morrow, and there we’ll lay our trap.” Just when the general thought the conversation complete, the End said, “And have you killed that Svarren slut as I bid you?”
“Your pardon, Master,” Omeyo sputtered. “I thought it best to catch her sleeping, which she hasn’t done since you gave the order. It will be accomplished soon, though, according to your wishes.”
The sorcerer nodded.
Omeyo waited patiently to hear more, but the End said nothing further, choosing instead to turn away and walk through the camp. Seeing that Tooth and Nail were still within ten strides or so, Omeyo quickly set off in pursuit of his master.
*****
Aoife, Captive
She imagined herself standing naked on a glacier somewhere, the cruel wind raging between her legs, wrapping around her waist, whipping beneath her arms, and tearing through her hair. The cold was terrible, a malevolent, hungry thing whose appetite never abated and whose presence never faded.
On some level, Aoife understood that these thoughts, these sensations meant she was still alive. She remembered being struck by something and thrown onto a woodpile. There had followed a desperate struggle that seemed to last for ages. She was comfortable for a while, until she was not. Now, she was freezing and unable to rouse herself from her preternatural sleep. Something – everything – was wrong. Still, the Umaena would not allow herself to fade into oblivion without a fight.
Below her, far, far under the snow, she found seeds, frozen and sleeping just like her. But Aoife would wake them…if only she could maintain her concentration. She would…she would…
Something about seeds. Yes, her seeds. They were down there, in the dark, in the cold, awaiting her commands. She would conjure them from their dormancy and compel them to free her from…from…
They would embrace her, impart warmth, and carry her away.
Sprouts forced their way through the ice and snow inside the tent that held the Umaena. There were several Svarren guarding the tent on the outside, stationed so as to prevent entry, but none had imagined the most dangerous threat would come from within, and so the vines grew undetected. The block of ice that imprisoned Aoife had numerous fissures too small to be seen by mortal eyes, but not too small to be found by the creeping tendrils of the thing the Umaena had summoned. It worked its way inside the cracks and pushed, pulled, burgeoned into something large enough to burst the ice wide open.
The Svarren
heard this noise and charged into the tent to investigate.
They never made it out again.
*****
Mardine, On the Road
Mardine spotted a long train of refugees and made her way towards them as carefully, as openly as possible. The last thing she wanted was to frighten them into running away or, worse, attacking her.
They barely looked up at her approach, which told her something about their determination to keep moving.
“May I walk with you?” she asked the nearest man.
He looked at her from the corner of his eyes, but kept his focus on the trail in front of him. “A giant? Can’t hurt to have you in our number.”
“You’re running from Svarren, aren’t you?”
“And who ain’t?”
“Have you seen a girl, might look a little like me?”
The fellow shook his head, kept plodding forward. “I seen some o’ yer kinfolks’ tracks, though.”
This news just about dropped Mardine. “You what?”
“Said I seen some giant tracks a ways back. Not yourn. Too big, too many.”
Suddenly, the giantess’ heart was beating too rapidly and her breath was coming in great gulps. More giants? She’d never seen more than two at a time herself. Would she know any of them? Would they help her find Esmine or even rescue her if necessary?
“Which way?”
“North, o’ course!” the man answered.
Mardine was gone before her “Thank you” reached the fellow’s ears. She trotted along the refugees’ back trail, wanted to race full speed towards the promised tracks, but fearing she’d run out of energy before she found them. She took a moment to glance backwards at the fleeing peasants, but they had already disappeared from sight. If Mardine had other questions, the opportunity to ask them was lost to her now. All she could do was press onwards and hope it didn’t snow until she found what she was looking for.
Hope, however, had little impact on the weather, and Mardine hadn’t travelled for more than fifteen minutes before tiny flakes began wafting down from above. Well, she hoped again, maybe it won’t get worse. But of course it did. Soon, the snow was pelting her, burying the refugees’ trail and everything else it encountered, including hope.
Mardine plunked herself down in the snow and wept in frustration. How many hardships had she endured? How many leagues had she walked, and how many meals had she missed? She would have done anything for Esmine, no question. But had all this sacrifice brought her any closer to finding her child? Briefly, the giantess considered lying down and letting the cold have her. Humans had a favorite curse, “Endless hells;” Mardine thought maybe she’d visited them all, and each was only a different type of pain. Endless pain. Fear, hunger, cold, fatigue, loneliness, regret, guilt – all of these and more too numerous to name made up Mardine’s endless hells. Was this what men meant? What could possibly be worse than a mother’s agony?
Tears froze on her cheeks, eliciting an hysterical laugh from the giantess. Bad as it is for me, it must be worse for my little one.
Mardine heaved herself onto her feet and resumed walking. After a time, she came upon a channel underneath the snow, crossing her path perpendicularly. On a hunch, she got down on hands and knees and scraped the snow away.
She’d found the tracks!
Joy flooded through her weary body so quickly, so entirely, that it temporarily overwhelmed her senses, and she sat back on her haunches, stupefied, like someone who’d just taken a great blow to the head. Her kinfolk! And not just two or three, but several! With frenzied speed, she scraped more snow off the footprints and tried to determine their makers’ direction. West? Northwest? She couldn’t be sure, but she did believe she could follow the channel they’d made well enough, snow storm or not.
For the longest time, Mardine had secretly worried that her daughter was dead – and Alheria knew she still might be – but worse still was the notion that Esmine was alive and Mardine simply could not find her in the vastness of the north. What could one giant do in all that space? But many giants? Many giants increased Mardine’s chances of finding her child considerably.
The hope that had forsaken her earlier began to creep back into her bosom. Her inner cold, at last, began to thaw.
*****
Omeyo & The End, In Camp
It was simple enough, really. Omeyo instructed one of the more credulous Svarren to deliver a large barrel of liquor to some of his brethren, who not so coincidentally lived within earshot of Tooth and Nail. Once the barrel was breached and the debauchery began, Tooth and Nail couldn’t fail to notice and wander by to determine the reason for the revelry. Being Svarren – and especially nasty ones at that – they proceeded to lay claim to the liquor, even though it had not been delivered to them. This led, predictably, to a brawl that eventually ensnared every Long Tooth within two hundred paces. By the time Tooth and Nail and their supporters prevailed, a score of Svarren were wounded or dying, and someone had pissed into the barrel. Fortunately, the liquor in question was Skent, so a little more urine made no noticeable difference.
Having won the barrel, Tooth and Nail had it dragged back to their yurt, where they and their companions proceeded to drink it at an astounding rate. Soon, they were buggering everyone who came within arms’ reach and killing those who resisted. Somehow the yurt caught on fire, but Tooth and Nail were so busy eating one of their former comrades that they failed to notice until it was too late. They then attacked the remainder of their supporters for allowing such a catastrophe to occur and, before long, the whole area erupted in bloodshed…
Which is exactly why the End had kept the entire host’s alcohol under lock and key. Svarren are notoriously bad drunks, especially when the liquor in question is Skent. Sadly, the only witness to the barrel’s provenance, the Svarren who’d carried it for Omeyo, had been killed in the first round of violence, so no one was able to enlighten a furious End-of-All-Things when he finally got wind of the disaster.
He came flaming out of the sky like a fallen star and thudded to a stop right in front of Tooth and Nail, who suddenly became terribly distracted by their own navels, their nails, or, in short, anything that took them away from the sorcerer’s face.
“What,” the End roared, “in the infinite hells is going on here? General Omeyo!”
The general rounded the nearest yurt at a trot, holding a map and a still-wet quill in his hand, as if he’d been working on war plans.
“Master?” he inquired, confused. When his eyes took in the devastation around him, the color drained from his visage.
“Explain this,” the End demanded.
Omeyo looked around again, utterly bewildered. “It appears…the Svarren fought amongst themselves. There is a strong stink of alcohol. Perhaps…”
“Yes, yes, yes! I can bloody well see they fought over alcohol. But you witnessed none of this?”
“No, Master. I was working on the plans for decampment, so the army would be ready to march tomorrow as you commanded.” Omeyo again held up the map and the ink quill.
The End rubbed his temples and heaved a sigh of exasperation. “Savages,” he spat at Tooth and Nail. “You are aptly named. One of you must pay for this fiasco. Which of you will it be, however?”
The two Svarren immediately set upon one another, claws extended and teeth bared. So much for friendship. The End stepped backwards so as not to get any blood on his robes, whilst everyone else pressed forward to watch the spectacle, which was falling out exactly as Omeyo had planned.
In short order, both combatants were slathered in bloody filth, each fighting frantically to gain some advantage. One had lost an ear, but he’d bitten his rival’s nose off. Omeyo nearly laughed aloud, but worried how that might look to his master. The loud snapping of bone heralded a decisive turn of events, and one Svarra staggered clear of his nemesis, his left arm hanging limply at his side. The more-whole of the Svarren sensed momentum was turning in his favor and leapt at his injured foe, focusing
all his energies on the creature’s only healthy arm. It was not a good strategy, because the one-armed fellow still had a mouth with plenty of jagged teeth, which he proceeded to sink into his tormentor’s neck. The one bitten made the most natural and unfortunate choice of attempting to pull away, only to have a large chunk of his throat ripped out. Blood geysered from the wound, even as the Svarra held up a hand to stop it. Now, it was the one-armed combatant who pushed the attack, and his rapidly fading enemy who scrambled to defend himself. The wound to his neck was too great, however, and he finally collapsed into the slushy crimson snow. One-arm gave his body a thorough beating before turning back to the End for approval and was relieved to see the master smiling beatifically.
“Good show!” the End shouted. “Good show!”
And then he set the victor on fire with a snap of his fingers.
The Svarra shrieked and howled in torment and then joined his former companion on the ground.
“There will be discipline in my camp!” the End proclaimed, “Even if you are savages. Those we go to face will offer no quarter. They’ll exploit every weakness. If any of you are as witless as these two,” he nodded at the corpses of Tooth and Nail, “say so now, and you shall be free to go. If, on the other hand, you have the intelligence and the will to restrain yourselves until ordered to attack, unlimited plunder shall be yours!”
Those Svarren standing witness to the drama of the last few minutes roared their approval. Omeyo roared his, as well, though his reasons were different: he’d defeated his attackers with minimal effort and no trace of culpability.
He wondered if he might do the same to the End.
*****
Alheria, Arune & Cindor, the Castle
The truth was that the Queen, Alheria, did not have the standard and expected contingent of Shapers, and the more Arune thought about it, the more sense it made. Her Majesty was a goddess, after all, the most powerful Shaper in existence. So Cindor had been – what? – cover? And why had Her Majesty bothered to take Arune under her wing? As gifted as she was, Arune was not the Shaper Cindor had been. What was Alheria playing at?
Corpse Cold (Immortal Treachery Book 3) Page 39
