Steel, Blood & Fire (Immortal Treachery Book 1)

by Allan Batchelder

  “At long last!” Dosin cried joyfully.

  “Truly, we are saved!” Rundel added.

  “Whu…whu…’scuse me?” Spirk stammered.

  “What is your name, honored one?” Korith inquired humbly, tears of elation streaming down his cheeks.

  “Me?” Spirk looked around. “Spirk. Spirk Nessno.” He answered.

  “All hail Spirk!” Korith prompted his companions.

  “All hail Spirk!” they obliged happily.

  “Fuck Spirk!” someone in the crowed jeered in less than helpful fashion.

  But Spirk was too caught up in the odd declarations of the trio before him to take any note of other goings on. “I…uh…don’t get it.” He announced unashamedly.

  “Great Spurt…”

  “Spirk. It’s ‘Spirk!”

  “Yes…yes, of course it is, noble Spirk!” Korith agreed. “Long have our people awaited your coming, and at last you have arrived.”

  “I didn’t even know I was coming ‘til my Da gave me the boot last week…” Spirk protested.

  “No, noble Sperm, your coming…er…your arrival was preordained, just as it is your destiny to lead our people out of oppression and into greatness.”

  “What are you talkin’ about?” Spirk demanded, both disturbed and delirious as he began to feel the stirrings of greatness in his concave chest.

  “Surely you know of the prophecy?” Rundel asked.

  “Uh…’course. But…er…remind me a bit, okay?”

  “Well…” Korith began, “the…the prophecy tells us that one of humble birth and bearing the mark of the rooster…”

  “I thought it was a griffin,” Spirk interrupted.

  “Why yes. Yes it is. My mistake.” Korith conceded. “Anyway, one of humble birth and bearing the mark of the griffin will one day…ah…”

  “Arrive! Er…arrive and um…” Dosin added, excitedly.

  “Arrive here! Yes, here at the Hog’s Tooth…” Rundel declared.

  “Don’t be an idiot!” Korith growled under his breath as he elbowed his fat companion in the ribs. “Actually,” he said, “the prophecy don’t really mention the Hog’s Tooth specifically, but, er, it does lead one to believe that the savior will be found in an establishment such as this here!”

  “And one day become King of the West!” Rundel added quickly, as if attempting to gain the last word.

  “We’re in the East, fool.” Korith glared at him.

  “Did I say West? Ha! I meant East o’ course. King o’ the East!”

  “Really?” Spirk asked, barely able to contain his growing euphoria. Gods, wouldn’t his old man just die when he learned that ‘Spirk the Jerk’ had become King of the West! Or East.

  “Oh yes, your magnificence!” Dosin fawned.

  “Absolutely,” Korith agreed, again lowering his face to the floor.

  “You bet!” Rundel said.

  “Then I’m gonna be your king, eh?”

  “Yes!” the three men insisted.

  “Then…I could give you orders, for instance?” Spirk asked, anxious to begin reaping the benefits of his newfound greatness.

  “Why, uh, I suppose so, yes.” Korith responded, with poorly masked surprise.

  “Buy me a drink, then!” Spirk commanded.

  After a brief moment of silence, during which Spirk’s three subjects glowered at each other in irritation, Korith finally said, “Majesty, it is unseemly for so great a monarch to refresh himself in so base a tavern. Please, my king, permit my friends and me to escort you to a more worthy establishment.”

  “You mean, more expensive?”

  “Aye.”

  “Well, escort away then!” Spirk assented gleefully.

  “Let us leave by the back door then, my friends,” Korith told his companions gravely, “that our king may not be mobbed by his adoring subjects.”

  “What sayeth you, my subjects?” Spirk demanded, trying his best to sound regal, “I art not a’feared of the adorishments of my people.”

  “Of course not, my king!” Korith quickly agreed. “I merely suggested we use the back door so that your loving subjects would not, in their excitement, tear your royal person limb from limb in search of souvenirs. But if you still wish…”

  “Methinks thy first idea wert good, after all,” Spirk admitted. “Let us leave by the backdoor then, for sooth.”

  And so, the odd processional marched toward the rear door: Korith, Rundel and Dosin in front, sporting the most solemn of expressions on their faces, and Spirk striding nobly behind them, his hand resting clumsily on the hilt of his father’s sword. As they passed out the door and into the damp night, Spirk sneered disdainfully at a couple of toughs who were beating an old drunk.

  “I care not for violence in my kingdom,” Spirk proclaimed, stepping out of the tavern and into an oncoming fist. Instantly, he went blind with little white stars, but a follow-up kick to the stomach cleared his head.

  “Whatsa matter, yer majesty?” He heard Rundel sneer. “Royal life too tough fer ya?”

  “Lemme heap s’more ‘adorishments’ on ‘im!” Dosin cackled, smacking Spirk across the thighs with the flat of his old sword.

  “Just take his valuables, if the cretin has any, and leave him to the scavengers!” Korith commanded, as he threw a knee into Spirk’s ribs.

  And the abuse got worse after that, so that, in a matter of minutes, Spirk lay semi-conscious and bleeding in a mud puddle, as the derisive laughter of his assailants receded into the distance. “I care not for violence,’ Ha! Whatta rube!” he heard one of them say.

  *****

  Short grunted, pensively. “If we do this by the book...”

  “What book? Janks here can’t read!”

  “No,” said Short, “but you and I can. Anyway, it’s just a figure of speech.”

  “Whereas I’m a figure of action!” Janks proclaimed.

  “You’re a figure of moldering dunghill,” Long countered, “but let’s hear what

  Short’s got in mind.”

  “But I…”

  Short cut in. “What I meant was we’re still lacking a giant, a Shaper, and any number of worthy arms.”

  Long and Janks just stared at him.

  He continued. “Look, a good crew’s gotta have a little slight-of-hand, which I guess is Janks. It’s gotta have a leader. It’s gotta have a decent basher. And it’s gotta have some magic. Now, we…we’ve got a whoremaster…”

  “I’m not a whoremaster!” Long objected.

  “A cripple…” Short pointed to himself, “a scoundrel and, counting Spirk, an imbecile. Y’see what I’m saying, lads? We’re shy a bit of real flash and smash.”

  Long Pete considered. “Yes, yes, I see. Can’t really call ourselves a decent merc squad without some magic and muscle. Any ideas, boys?”

  “I hear there’s a mighty big fella over to Farnsley.” Janks said.

  “None closer?” Long asked.

  “War cleared ‘em all out. They was all pressed into service on one side or t’other. Surprised there’s anyone over five feet left alive, to be honest.”

  “You? Honest? There’s a laugh.” Short snorted.

  “So, Farnsley.” Long mused. “And what about the Shaper?”

  “Well, there’s always D’Kem.” Janks answered.

  “Dickum? Man’s a wastrel, a drunk.” Short said.

  “Beggars can’t be choosers,” Janks replied. “And anyways, man’s good company.” He paused. “But he don’t like to be called ‘Dickum.”

  Short sneered. “Until he’s sober enough to stop me, it’s ‘Dickum.’ So, to recap: we’ve got ourselves a whoremaster, a cripple, a scoundrel, an imbecile, a drunk and a could-be, might-be, possible giant living in a town a good three days’ travel from here.”

  “Well,” Long observed, “one has to start somewhere. Now, uh…” he continued awkwardly, “there’s the matter of leadership…”

  “This whole crew was my idea!” Janks reminded them.

>   “And we still don’t know it’s a good idea. So, that counts you out. Plus, you can’t read.” Long said.

  “What’s readin’ got to do with it?” Janks demanded.

  Short ignored him. “So, it’s down to Long and Short. But here’s the brilliant bit: we let everyone think it’s Long, but it’s actually me. That way, our enemies will waste all their time trying to kill him, when it’s really me they’re after!”

  Long bristled. “Now, wait a minute…”

  “I like it!” Janks bellowed.

  “Done!” Short said.

  “But I…” Long Pete stammered.

  And so it was decided.

  *****

  Vykers and Arune, In the Forest

  Fire. So often, it had been his weapon of choice. There was a time when he’d burnt an entire city to the ground (and salted the farmlands around it), even after its people had surrendered to his host. He hadn’t just wanted to incapacitate them; he’d wanted to burn their collective spirit.

  And now it bolstered his. After placing Arune’s skull on a stone ledge inside his cave, Vykers set about gathering wood into a pile, and the Shaper set it ablaze. He worried briefly about smoke, but his ghostly companion seemed to have that covered as well. All-in-all, things were almost…pleasant.

  And he must have dozed off, because Vykers jolted awake, disoriented and famished. Strangely, the fire looked unchanged.

  “Burner.”

  A pause.

  “Tarmun?”

  “Don’t call me that. Why’s the fire look like that, same as when it started?”

  “We needed the wood to get it started, but it’s not burning wood now.”

  “Huh. What’s it burning?”

  Another pause. “It’s complicated.”

  “Fine, then. Look, I’m starving. I’ve gotta go out and find something to eat.”

  “And if I said I could bring something to you?”

  Vykers sat back on his haunches, thinking. “Why are you being so helpful?”

  “You’d rather I didn’t help?”

  “I just wanna know what you’re after, what it’s gonna cost me.” He spat, “I can’t see as I have anything you’d want. You an idiot, Burner?”

  “Your meal has arrived” the shade said, and be-damned if Vykers didn’t hear snuffling and grunting near the cave’s entrance. In a moment, a wild pig wandered in.

  “How’m I supposed to…”

  And then it fell over dead, its legs kicking a final three or four times.

  “That’s a hell of a trick. That work with people, too?”

  “Not that well. People are a little harder to penetrate. Anyway, I’m afraid you’ll have to figure out how to butcher that beast on your own.” Arune said. “There’s not really a spell for that sort of thing, or, if there is, I’ve never heard of it.”

  Vykers would like to have been more cautious, but this was more meat than he’d seen in he-had-no-idea-how-long. He scrambled into a corner and retrieved the sharpened stone fragment he used for gutting rodents and frogs. He found he was drooling like a simpleton. Before he could eat, though, he’d have to figure a way to cut up that pig and put some on the fire. Hard to do in his condition, but he had every reason to try.

  *****

  Young Aoife and Anders, At Home

  With each day, Anders changed a bit more. He never became talkative in the fashion of regular folk, but neither was he as detached as he had been for the first several years of his life. Quiet as he was, his eyes were alive and utterly engaged, utterly present in whatever was going on. It was creepy, really. To Aoife, he was like cat watching a mouse, biding its time and waiting to pounce. “What?” she used to challenge him, only to be greeted by further silence or, worse still, the faintest hint of a smile.

  She remembered the day her father was ill and asked Aiofe to take Anders and tend to the sheep on the North meadow. It was the warmest, most pleasant day of spring, and Aiofe could not resist running barefoot through the grass and wildflowers. When she looked up, her brother was already a good distance away, kneeling before one of the lambs. As she watched, he took its head in his hands and snapped its neck. Aoife ran to him in anger and horror.

  “What in all hells have you done?” she yelled.

  When he saw her approaching, he winked at her, stopping her dead in her tracks. Slowly, he laid the lamb down on the grass and placed his hands on its side. Again, he looked up at her, as if about to impart a mischievous secret. He squinted at the lamb and clenched his jaw. And then it opened its eyes and struggled to get up. Anders stepped back. It jumped up and ambled off after the other sheep. The boy looked over at Aoife with a smile that was more frightening than anything she’d ever seen. He had killed that lamb and brought it back.

  Aoife turned and ran home to her parents, crying in fear and confusion. When she finally reached them, her hysteria had grown so intense she was absolutely unable to communicate, and her parents simply stared at her, worried and bewildered.

  “Calm down now, Sweet. Calm down” her mother urged. “Are you hurt?”

  Aoife shook her head.

  “Your brother, then. Is Anders hurt?”

  Aoife let out a wail of terror.

  “Is it Svarren?” her father cut in.

  Again, Aoife shook her head, gasping for breath.

  “Is it the sheep, then?”

  Finally, Aoife found the breath to speak, just as the door opened again and Anders walked in. She stared at him, her mouth open, words on her tongue. He looked right into her eyes and then casually nodded to his parents before heading over to the wash basin to clean his hands. Aoife’s parents exchanged glances.

  “Everything alright on the meadow, boy?” her father asked Anders.

  He grunted in the affirmative. And then, “Everything is perfect,” which amounted to a monologue for Anders.

  Perfect? Far from it, Aoife thought. But how could she ever convince her parents of what she’d seen? And what could they do about it?

  Months went by, years evaporated, and while Aoife witnessed many strange and disturbing things from her brother – things that made her fear him like nothing else in her life -- he never revealed himself to his parents. They seemed to have no idea of what he’d become…or perhaps he had them under some sort of spell. Eventually, Aoife knew, she’d be expected to marry and make a home of her own somewhere else, leaving her parents alone with Anders until it was time for him, too, to make his own way. But the thought of leaving her parents alone with him, sleeping in the same house without her nearby to keep the boy in check was terrifying.

  *****

  Vykers and Arune, In the Forest

  Vykers lay back, firelight reflecting off the grease on his distended gut. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so full.

  “Burner?”

  “Vykers.”

  “It’s time you told me what you want from me.”

  “I felt I had to earn your trust first.”

  “Not gonna happen. But, as you can see, I’m not really in a position of strength right now. So?”

  “So…you’ve seen a small sampling of my abilities…”

  “Mmmm.”

  “And you must realize we’re in a similar predicament…me being completely without a body and you, dealing with a greatly damaged one.”

  Vykers rolled over and looked at the skull, suddenly alert. “And…?”

  “What if I said I could restore your hands and feet?”

  “I’d say you’re full of shit.”

  “I didn’t say it would be easy or enjoyable. But I can do it.”

  “Huh. And you’re gonna ask some terrible price…”

  “Terrible? I don’t think you’ll find it terrible.”

  “You wanna eat my soul, or some such shit?”

  “Eat your soul?” Arune laughed, “No. I’m not even sure that’s possible.”

  “Well, spit it out, damn you! What’s the cost?”

  “You’d have to allow me in, to sh
are your body until such time as I found a more-suitable host.”

  “Alheria’s poisonous tits! That’s some fuckin’ cost, alright.”