Corpse Cold (Immortal Treachery Book 3)

by Allan Batchelder

  Even as she pondered this question, she was whisked from her chambers and dropped into Her Majesty’s presence in the middle of an unfamiliar room.

  “See,” the Queen instructed without turning to acknowledge Arune’s arrival, “the consequences of duplicity!”

  Alheria stepped aside and revealed an odd shape resting on a table against the far wall. As Arune moved closer, she saw to her horror that it was Cindor’s head. Sprouting from beneath his jawline was a great tumor – what Arune assumed to be the makings of his new body. The tumor, in turn, was nestled in a wide, shallow bowl with some sort of fabric at its bottom. The Queen’s Shaper watched Arune’s approach with his one remaining eye, his gaze full of embarrassment and contempt.

  “That’s my replacement?” he croaked in a voice that seemed to come from someone, somewhere else.

  “Not a replacement,” Her Majesty replied. “But perhaps a more obedient substitute. And no one alive knows more about Tarmun Vykers.”

  “Yes, yes. And Brouton’s Bind?” Cindor spat.

  “Has served us well, so far.”

  This was news to Arune, though its meaning was not immediately clear. Arune had suffered, still suffered from Brouton’s Bind, and the Queen had made use of that fact? How? In what ways?

  Cindor sneered. “And her current body?”

  Alheria looked over at Arune, but continued to address Cindor, as if Arune weren’t even present. “I very much doubt she will bind with that.”

  Reasoning she had nothing to lose, Arune cut in, “And what am I to make of this conversation, your Majesty?”

  The Queen put her hands on Cindor’s bald pate and he fell asleep. “Only that it is unwise to second-guess my orders and decisions. As it happens, Cindor is worth my trouble. You may not be. Do as I say, when I say, and you may come out of this in good shape.”

  “Yes, Highness.”

  “Now,” the Queen said, “tell me everything you know about the Reaper.”

  *****

  Vykers & Alheria, In Camp

  Vykers wandered away from the fire in order to relieve himself, and showed not the least surprise when Her Majesty materialized at his side.

  “You got some special fascination with my privates?” the Reaper quipped, remembering a time when the Queen had commanded him to drop his breeches.

  “You’re the one waving them around all the time.”

  “Huh. What tidings? Shitty, I’m guessin’.”

  “I have verified that it is indeed the End-of-All-Things causing such trouble in the north.”

  Vykers shook out the last drops of piss. It wasn’t pleasant when the stuff froze on the legs. “You’d know.”

  The Queen stiffened. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “Bein’ his mother and all.”

  Her Majesty’s lips formed a hard, tight line. For several heartbeats, she appeared to stop breathing. “Is that what he told you?”

  The Reaper snorted. “Ha! You think I’d believe anything he told me?” He was getting rather cold so far from the fire, so he crossed his arms over his chest and pretended to have all the patience in the world.

  “Then where did you hear such a thing?”

  “You don’t deny it.”

  The Queen gestured, and a chair appeared at her back. Without looking at it, she sat and gathered her robes and furs about herself. The chair should have sunken into the snow, but did not. “I have made a few mistakes over the years. Who hasn’t?”

  “The End-of-All-Things is a big fuckin’ mistake.”

  “Yes.”

  “Look, if you’re not gonna provide a chair for me as well, can we at least have a little fire?”

  Alheria waved her hand again and an area of warmth bloomed into being between her and the Reaper. “Campaigner’s Fire,” she said. “I would still like to know where you got this information.”

  Vykers cracked his neck nonchalantly. “And I’d still like to know why you didn’t tell me this when I first faced that bastard.”

  “What difference would it have made? He posed a terrible threat and needed to be eliminated.”

  “And you, o’ course, don’t like killin’ your own.”

  It was subtle, but Her Majesty winced at this comment. “Whereas you have no compunctions about whom or what you’ll kill.”

  “I do not, no. So, how many other godlings you got runnin’ around the countryside?”

  “Let’s talk about the End; he’s the immediate problem.”

  “Until another one o’ your bastards crawls out from under some rock and decides to fuck with us? Maybe I don’t like cleanin’ up after you.”

  Her Majesty produced a flask from the depths of her clothing, uncorked it, and took a healthy swig. “You are many things, Tarmun Vykers, but a good liar is not among them. You live to kill.”

  “I’m beginnin’ to see that being a god has its limitations.”

  It was the Queen’s turn to snort. “How little you know!”

  “So, you interrupted a perfectly good piss to tell me the End is the End. Hardly seems worth leaving your castle for that.”

  “I came here to tell you that I plan to be present for his death this time.”

  Vykers smirked. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate that.”

  “You’re an insolent thing, Tarmun Vykers.”

  He bowed and began walking back to the campfire.

  “And we’ll have our own day of reckoning, you and I!” the Queen called after him.

  “Lookin’ forward to it!” he called back without turning around.

  *****

  Kittins & Rem, On the Road

  The north was unimaginably expansive, yes, and the part of it that Kittins and Rem had ridden into was naught but a great, snow-covered plain. When the weather was clear, a man could see for miles. At night, a fire could be spotted from an even greater distance. Kittins maintained that night-time fires were meant either as defensive measures or as traps; the only difficulty for those outside the fire’s glow lay in determining which it was.

  Rem stared at the far-off beacon, quite a ways to his right and somewhat behind him, and predicted the captain would insist on investigating.

  “I say we go take a look.”

  Ha! That was all very well and good for Kittins, but Rem did not relish the idea.

  “You can stay here if you like,” the captain said, knowing Rem would do no such thing.

  “And what is your plan if those tending that fire are hostile?”

  “Kill ‘em.”

  “Of course,” Rem answered sarcastically.

  “Well what the fuck else is there?” Kittins almost shouted, so fed up was he with Rem’s resistance. “Kill or flee. And I ain’t fleeing ‘til killing’s been tried and failed.”

  We could leave well enough alone, Rem thought. Don’t investigate in the first place.

  “Whoever it is might have food to share and liquor, might have news, or even a bleedin’ map.”

  That, at least, made sense.

  Rem put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “As you wish.”

  “Smartest thing you’ve said in some time.”

  They rode slowly, carefully towards the fire, steeling themselves for whatever might eventuate. It was a much longer ride than either man had guessed, but when they were a few hundred yards out, Kittins pulled up and fixated on his saddle horn.

  “What?” said Rem.

  “See for yourself. Some o’ those sitting ‘round that fire are too big to be human.”

  Giants. And yet there were a number of humans as well.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Giants and humans don’t normally travel together,” Kittins replied. “But they might do, if they were stalkin’ a common enemy.”

  “Svarren?”

  “Maybe. Or the Reaper.”

  “Or the End-of-All-Things.”

  “As we’re none o’ them, I don’t see the harm in approaching.”

  What if they didn’t
like strangers coming at them out of the dark? Rem wondered. Especially ones who looked like the captain.

  From the perspective of those around the fire, those approaching were more of a curiosity than a threat, although the bigger one looked like he’d been dead for ages.

  Before Kittins could hail the camp, someone in the camp hailed him and his companion. “State yer business!”

  “No business,” Rem offered. “Just hoping to share your fire.”

  Three of the giants stood up, humongous silhouettes against the fire.

  “Just the two o’ you?”

  “Just two,” said Kittins.

  “Dismount and come on, then.”

  Kittins and Rem did as instructed and led their horses the rest of the way. With every step, more details became apparent, and Rem’s nervousness grew. Six giants? He’d never seen more than Mardine.

  A lone man stood and turned towards them. “Mahnus’ balls! Is that the Dead One I see?”

  Rem was confused, but Kittins grinned and strode forward.

  “So I’ve been called. And you are?” But as he drew nearer, he could clearly see who’d addressed him: the Reaper. “Apologies,” said Kittins. “The light’s not so good out here.”

  Those around the fire made way for the new arrivals, and one fellow in red even took care of the visitors’ mounts.

  Although he was a bit taller than Vykers, Kittins was still awestruck to find himself in the legend’s presence. “Everyone knows who you are,” he said, “but how is it you know about me?”

  Vykers put a hand on the captain’s shoulder. “You…did me a favor once.”

  “Did I?”

  “Aye. But you’d never believe me if I told you about it. Point is, I owe you one. Welcome to our fire.”

  Rem was too stunned to talk. To meet both the Reaper and a half dozen giants in the same instant was almost too much to credit.

  “Tarmun Vykers,” the Reaper said, as he extended a hand to the actor.

  “Remuel Wratch,” Rem stammered.

  Vykers laughed heartily at this. “The man who’s been making his fortune playin’ me? What’s the money like?”

  “Unimpressive, I’m afraid,” said Rem. “Word is, I died a while back.”

  “You and me both!” Kittins added.

  “I hear a good tale in the offing!” Karrakan said, not wanting to be left out of the discussion.

  “And we’ll have it!” Vykers declared, “Though we’ve no ale left to draw it out of you.”

  But the Reaper didn’t hear most of it. He recognized the signs and felt himself again in the grip of something larger than himself, something directing and dictating his purpose. How else to explain his habit of finding an army just when he needed it most? He’d been alone, and then he’d found Turley. The two of them had run into Vykers’ former slaves, still eager to serve. The group of them had happened upon six giants. And now, the Dead One himself had wandered into the Reaper’s company. It remained to be seen whether or not the actor was worth anything in a fight; still and all, Vykers’ army was growing. Would it be enough when they met up with the End-of-All-Things?

  It would have to be.

  *****

  The End & Omeyo, In Camp

  The End had taken some pride in his newfound equanimity; it was, he thought, the secret to finally besting the Reaper and that old hag, the Virgin Queen. Little by little, however, he could feel it dissolving in the face of unforeseen setbacks. First, his bodyguard had taken it upon themselves to obliterate a good portion of their squad – or whatever it was Svarren called their stinking troops. Now, to the End’s extreme aggravation, his captive had escaped! The A’Shea was loose in his camp and who knew what damage she was capable of wreaking upon the End’s plans?

  Without waiting another moment, the sorcerer shot into the air above his horde, set himself aflame and thundered commands to his Svarren.

  “The human woman has escaped! Find her and kill her! Do not pause, do not speak with her, but kill her immediately!”

  He repeated this message several times over until he was sure every last Svarra had seen or heard it, and then he descended gently to the ground and extinguished his flames. He’d suffered no damage, of course, but the urge to inflict damage still burned bright within him.

  “Omeyo!” he yelled.

  The general appeared almost instantaneously. It occurred to the End that he could make Omeyo appear whenever he wanted, magically rip him away from whatever he was doing and drop him right in front of his master, but the sorcerer had no desire to catch the man with his pants down. Besides, the End rather enjoyed watching the general scramble to please.

  “Your will?”

  “We shall have to delay our decampment until the A’Shea has been caught and killed. I should never have left her alive, but we will correct that oversight shortly. In the meantime, send out the scouts. Instruct them not to engage, but to return as soon as they see anyone or anything approaching our position. As soon as the A’Shea is dead, we march.”

  But no one could find the A’Shea, the Umaena, for she’d been taken back underground by the very plant she’d sprouted. There, the roots led her along pathways no mortal had ever seen, travelled or imagined, until she was again ensconced in the greenwood. Oh, there was snow and ice, without question. But what did the mightiest of trees care? Their new High Priestess had been delivered unto them, and they would nurture the Umaena back to full health as if she were all that mattered in the wide world.

  Back in the End’s camp, the sorcerer’s calm façade continued to crumble and crack. His inability to find Aoife, much less determine how she’d escaped, was giving him fits, providing an unwelcome distraction when he most needed focus. He knew the Reaper was coming, and the Queen would not be far behind him. He wanted everything to fall out just as he’d planned, demanded, in fact. Aoife was not cooperating, however, and the End wondered, for the millionth time, why he hadn’t killed her back in their family home, all those years ago. He clenched his teeth in irritation and called out to his general. It was embarrassing, but he’d have to reverse his earlier decision and move the army without finding Aoife. This made him look and feel weak, and he hated himself for it. Moving the Svarren and getting them ready for war might well erase the stench of this latest failure.

  “Your will?” Omeyo asked as he stepped into view.

  “We’ll decamp according to our original plan. I’ll not waste another moment on this cowardly A’Shea.”

  “As you wish.” Omeyo nodded and bowed out of the End’s presence.

  Yes, the End thought. As I wish.

  *****

  Cindor, the Castle

  Cindor could do little but brood. There was no other way to pass the time. He’d tried reciting spells, but lacked his customary focus. He tried sleeping, but was too troubled by his feelings of helplessness. He’d made a mistake, a terrible, inexplicable mistake, and now he was completely at Her Majesty’s mercy. The blob beneath his jaw that was his still-developing torso as yet possessed no arms or legs and was too weak to be of any assistance in moving himself about, and so he was condemned, for the foreseeable future, into staring at the door through which the Queen sometimes entered and exited.

  And all because Cindor had tried to spy on her pet freak. Gods, Cindor had been trying to protect Her Majesty, and what had been his reward?

  The door creaked open just the tiniest bit. A mouse would have found entry difficult. But as Cindor watched, riveted, a strange dimness flowed through the crack and into the room. Once it was fully in front of the Shaper, the door closed and locked.

  The Shaper would have begun casting a spell, but he lacked the strength for anything helpful. Instead, he pursed his lips and waited, hoping that somehow, someone he knew would arrive at the door in time to stop whatever was unfolding.

  The shadow, meanwhile, resolved into the familiar shape of the Alchemist.

  “D’Marei,” Cindor spat.

  “Yes,” the Alchemist cac
kled. “And isn’t the irony of this moment delicious?”

  Before Cindor could speak another word, the Alchemist threw a handful of dust at him, instantly befuddling the Shaper.

  “Hag’s breath,” D’Marei said. “It’s wonderfully underappreciated stuff.”

  Cindor squinted back at the other man, then tried throwing his eyes as wide as possible. It was no use: a strange, hallucinogenic lassitude fell over him, and he was hard-pressed to string two thoughts together.

  The Alchemist paced, rubbing his chin. “Now,” said he, “I could smash your head to bits here and now, which would end your sorry life once and for all. I must admit I find that option rather tempting. Then again, I could simply take you with me, enslave you, carve you up and study you at my leisure.”

  Cindor missed most of this, but he certainly caught “enslave you.” He put up a hellacious fight for clarity and his own freedom, but ultimately it was for naught. He was terribly enfeebled, and the Alchemist was strong.

  “Sleep now,” D’Marei urged. “I can’t promise you’ll feel better in the morning, but at least you’ll feel!”

  A swirling black hole opened in the room, and, after covering Cindor’s head with cloth and scooping it up, the Alchemist stepped through and away.

  *****

  Vykers & Company, In Camp

  It was fair to say that alcohol had decided the group’s make-up and mission. And Vykers wasn’t bothered by this in the slightest. Alcohol made it hard for men and giants to dissemble, and under its influence, each and every member of Vykers’ squad – human, giant and actor alike – had avowed a passionate desire to kill Svarren and eradicate the creatures’ leader, whatsoever he might be.

  That was good enough for the Reaper.

  And, in truth, it seemed to him that this was how things were meant to be, that those around him had been drawn there to aid him in whatever way possible. He sensed, too, that still more were on the way. The challenge lay in waiting long enough to let these unknown others arrive, but no so long that the End seized some advantage.

  Vykers hated waiting.