“Well, you certainly fucked the North, but good.”
Vykers was silent. Mercifully, so was Arune.
“Nothing to say?” the Queen asked.
“The way I figure it, you could have me killed in a heartbeat, if you liked. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure I could snap your neck before your friends’ swords found my back. So, what I’m wondering is, what in the hells is this all about?”
The Queen ignored him. “I was told your previous hosts had taken your hands and feet.”
“You’re well-informed”
“Apparently not.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re disappointed?”
“Because I’m the one who ordered it done.”
Vykers paused, taken aback. “You…?”
“Yes, you brainless Svarra: me.” After another pause, the Queen continued. “I am old. Unspeakably old. I have no heirs, but enemies on all sides, including my allegedly noble cousins. You have potential, but were also a possible threat to my kingdom, so I needed to remove you from the field of play until I could figure out what to do with you. And here you are, with hands and feet intact. Tell me, Colossus, how did you manage that?”
Say nothing.
Really, Burner? Say nothing? How would I ever have reached that conclusion without your help? Vykers thought back with as much sarcasm as he could muster. To the Queen, he said “A magic pixie restored ‘em in exchange for a kiss.”
“Oh,” the Queen responded suggestively, “I’ll wager it was more than a mere kiss.” Again, unexpectedly, her demeanor changed. “Here’s what you need to know: as you did to the North, another is doing to the East.”
“Huh.” Vykers scratched at his scruffy beard. “And you want – what? – me to stop him somehow?”
“I don’t believe you can stop him. But you might slow him down, weaken him.”
“You don’t think I can stop him? Is that supposed to goad me into accepting this challenge?”
The Queen’s tightlipped smile was more a grimace than a grin. “Not at all. You see, you don’t have a choice. And not only because I’ll have you killed otherwise, but because you know you can’t resist. What? The idea that someone out there is mightier, more ruthless than you? Heresy!”
“Hard to win much at cards when the dealer holds all the best. Are you going to tell me of this enemy, or am I to be surprised?”
“Well, man-of-a-thousand-names, you’ll love this: they call him ‘The End-of-All-Things.”
“Sounds like my kind of guy.”
“Except that we’re not sure he’s even human.”
“What, then? Svarren?”
“No.”
“Not human, not Svarren. What else?”
“In addition to the fact he leads a massive, relentless host?”
“Well, I sort of assumed that, yes.”
“Two things, then: he’s some kind of sorcerer and carries a magic sword.”
“Magic sword? Ha! Stupidest thing I’ve ever…”
The Queen turned and strode towards the shadowy figure near the dais, then returned with a sword in hand. “Let me see…” She pondered, and approached a nearby statue. With one swing, she cut it clean in half, the sound of its upper portion crashing to the floor startling many of the men-at-arms around the chamber.. “I never liked that fellow, anyway.” She said, turning back to Vykers. “What do you say now?”
“Every magic sword I’ve ever encountered turned out to be crap.”
“So, if you’ve never seen it, it doesn’t exist? You’re an idiot.”
“Fine. I’m an idiot. And this End-of-All-Things is a sorcerer with a magic sword and an enormous army. What is it you think I can do against that?”
“I think I can come up with an army for you. As for the magic sword, well, you can’t have this one,” the Queen purred, coquettishly, “it’s mine, and it’s worth more than this castle. But I might know where you can get one of your own…”
*****
Aoife, On the Road
Years had gone by since her time with the Sisters, and still she had found no peace, drawn no closer to the vengeance she sought. Although pleasant, she considered reflecting upon her time with the Tarn A’Shea and the others a distraction. If she had been truly called to heal, there could be no better way than to prevent the destruction her brother had wrought and seemed bent on continuing to wreak upon everyone and everything in his path. There was indeed no shortage of work in this latest village, but Aoife knew she could not stay. She did as much good as she was able, purchased a few small supplies and headed off, in the opposite direction from which she had come.
The townsfolk were naturally very sorry to see her go, but they were also used to disappointment, so they let her depart without much drama. Privately, Aoife wouldn’t have minded just a little drama. To feel that someone wanted her, really wanted her, would be wonderful. Sentiment! It bedeviled her.
She decided to travel to Lunessfor. Perhaps there, she thought, she might encounter that person or thing that would crystallize her thinking, galvanize her efforts. It was a long trip and time seemed short, but Aoife could think of no other choice.
*****
Long & Company, On the Road
On the third night of their trek towards Milford, the merchant and his mercenaries were set upon by bandits. More of the same desperate filth that had killed Short, in Long’s estimation, and he was glad for a chance to pay back that debt.
The squad had just settled into dinner when eight or ten dark shapes came boiling out of the underbrush around them, swords, axes and clubs in hand. Amateurs, Long thought. Better to lead with arrows, maybe take out the giant. “To arms!” Long shouted and was pleasantly surprised to see his people – including the merchant – rise into cautious crouches with weapons at the ready. The only exception, predictably, was Spirk, who stood fully erect, swinging a club back and forth with full force.
“Easy there, lad, easy. Don’t wear yourself out in the first few seconds.” Long said.
He studied the situation. In the firelight, he counted ten bandits – as bedraggled a crew as he’d seen in a while. They looked hungry, nervous and ill-at-ease with the presence of a giantess. “There any point in trying to talk this out, or are you bent on killing yourselves this night?” Long called out, loudly. Though he wanted to avenge Short’s death, he wasn’t stupid. Anything could happen in brawl like this. Any one of them could become worms’ meat.
One of the larger bandits stepped forward a bit and said, “Talk? Sure, here’s some talk: throw down your weapons and walk away.”
“You can’t be that stupid!” Long replied.
“Yeah, stupid!” Spirk chimed in.
“Shut it, Spirk.” Janks warned.
“Stupid, is it?” the bandit leader said. “You’re outnumbered and surrounded!”
“You willing to die for a wagonload o’ soap?” Long called out into the darkness.
“Soap?” he heard someone’s incredulous cry from somewhere behind him.
“Don’t listen to ‘im!” the bandit leader yelled off to his left. He turned back to Long. “You, big nose! You say it’s soap? Show me.”
Slowly, carefully, Long crab-walked over to the wagon, tore open a package in one of its crates and grabbed a slab of soap, which he then tossed towards the bandit leader. It thumped in the dust at his feet.
“Nice toss,” he told Long.
“Yeah, well, I used to play stones for drinking money.”
“So, it is soap. Fuckin’ soap.”
Long could hear grunts and groans of disappointment from the bandits. “Hardly worth dying over, is it?”
“No, you’re right there. Still, might be you mercs have got a few things that’ll improve our lot.”
“Fine sense o’ humor, you’ve got. I can see why you’re the leader o’ the gang. Know what we’re gettin’ paid for this little adventure? Wanna guess?”
The bandit was silent.
“Twelve fucking pennies a
day, and almost half o’ that goes to buy extra food for my large friend over there!” he gestured towards Mardine.
“Twelve pennies?” the bandit asked. “Twelve pennies!” Suddenly, he began laughing. “Twelve pennies!” he cackled. Soon, all of his mates joined him in boisterous laughter. They laughed long and hard. Every once in a while, one of them yelled something like “Ooh! Look at me! I’m a wealthy merc! I make twelve pennies!” and the laugher redoubled
Finally, the bandit leader called out “Come on, lads. His Lordship’s got the right of it. Twelve pennies and soap ain’t worth dying for.” With that, the bandits receded into the night, marked only by the occasional giggle as they disappeared.
Long exhaled, lowered his sword. As he stared into the darkness, he felt one of his companions approaching from his right. D’Kem.
“That was well done.”
Great. A compliment from the Mahnus-cursed Burner. “Huh,” Long replied.
“A less-experienced man would have led us to catastrophe.”
Long didn’t respond. Truth be told, he was a little embarrassed. He didn’t care for the Burner. He’d made that pretty clear, but the man didn’t let that stop him from speaking his mind and behaving in a…professional manner. Long didn’t want to give the man credit for anything, but…he was beginning to hate him less.
“Darn!” Spirk yelled. “I was gonna bash some heads in!”
*****
Two days later, more bandits appeared, and this time they attacked.
It was late morning, and Mardine had taken the van. She was an immense woman, but there wasn’t much she could do against arrows, so when two of them hit her in the shoulder and hip out of the blue, she immediately bellowed and dove under the wagon. “Bandits!” she roared. Every one of her companions looked her way, every one noticed the arrows.
“Defensive positions!” Long yelled, and his team drew tightly about the wagon, while the merchant dove in amongst the cargo.
Five men in ragged clothing and gear rushed forward from the trees on the left side of the road, while another four came from the right. And there was still the unseen archer in the trees. An arrow thunked into a wagon plank not two inches from Long’s head. That’s what I get for yelling, he thought. And then the first man was upon him.
He had little time to study the man’s face but he could tell his adversary was ill and mad with hunger. The man’s gauntness accentuated his sickly pallor – or perhaps it was the other way ‘round. Whatever the case, he came right at Long’s head with a rustic axe in his right hand and a rusted knife in his left. Long held his sword straight out, curious to see how his assailant would parry. All around him, he could hear the clash of steel on steel, grunting, and cursing.
Long’s attacker backhanded the sword out of his way with his knife and came in with his axe in attempt to gut his opponent, but Long had anticipated something along those lines and continued to spin with his sword until he had come full circle with enough momentum to chop deeply into the man’s shoulder. The fellow screamed and dropped his axe, and Long bashed his teeth in with the butt of his pommel. The man wasn’t a complete pushover, though, as he surprised Long by lashing out with his knife and tearing a rent in his tunic, narrowly missing his chest. Sometimes, Long knew, the grievously wounded made the most dangerous of enemies, as they had little left to lose. Long swiped at the bandit’s head with his sword, just to back him off a bit and followed up with a swing at his right knee. His opponent surprised him again, however, by spitting blood and bits of teeth into his eyes. In disgust more than injury, Long stumbled backwards, but was saved from falling by the wagon behind him. He saw a large shadow as his frantic assailant launched himself at him. Stabbing blindly, Long thrust his sword up and out again, this time scoring a solid hit in the bandit’s belly. The man tumbled sideways in slow motion, sliding off the end of Long’s blade.
Long dared a peek over the top of the wagon and saw Mardine swinging the corpse of a bandit back and forth like a monstrous two-handed sword. Elsewhere, Rem was putting on a fencing exhibition, all the while spouting what sounded like poetry. Janks was sitting on another bandit’s chest, pulverizing his head and face with a mace of some sort. Spirk stood in the center of the conflict, howling incoherently and completely unnoticed. As advertised. Finally, D’Kem stood just off to Long’s left, staring intently at an arrow he held in his hand. Without warning there was a tremendous fireball off in the woods and an agonizing scream. Scratch one sniper. D’Kem looked up from the arrow, caught Long’s eye and gave him a most disconcerting smile. So, the crazy old son-of-a-whore could magic, after all. Long stood up and circled the wagon. There were three bodies on the ground. Two more figures could be seen running off in different directions. After a moment’s silence, a voice asked “all clear?” and the merchant sat up from inside his wagon.
“Twelve pennies is hardly worth that kind of trouble,” Long told him.
“Maybe. Maybe not. But it’s all I can spare,” the merchant replied.
“Well,” Janks called over, finally done cleaning his mace, “let’s see if they’ve got anything on ‘em.” He immediately began rifling through the corpses’ clothing and gear.
Long staggered over to Mardine. It looked like she’d pulled the arrows herself, and her bleeding had stopped to boot.
“I saw you get peppered with those arrows; I thought you were a goner for sure.” Long commented.
“Nah.” Mardine laughed dismissively. “We heal fast.”
Long nodded. “I’ve heard that, but I never knew how fast. How many o’ these cutthroats you take down?”
“Me?” Mardine asked, coyly. “Four, five. Not as many as I wanted. You?”
“Uh…just the one. Got a little complicated there for a bit.”
Janks strolled over with various knives, clubs and short swords under his arms. “Got a couple o’ coppers and some kinda brass-colored coin I never seen before. And this pile o’ beat up weapons.”
Spirk came over, too. “I must have scared the piss out of them! Did you see me? I must’ve scared ‘em bad. Not one of ‘em wanted a piece of me!”
Long had to cover his mouth and Janks turned away to avoid laughing out loud. D’Kem was standing off by himself, so Long took a deep breath and approached him.
“That was something, whatever you did to that sniper,” he told the Shaper.
“Do you recall the flaming beard I gave that one bandit a while back?”
Long nodded, reluctant to revisit the topic.
“This was a hundred times as much.” Silence. “It felt like redemption and revenge.”
“Well, uh, I s’pose we’d better get back on the road. Don’t want to waste daylight.” Long offered, feeling old and awkward.
Later, he found his chance to ask Rem about his odd behavior during the fight. “Heard you shouting some kinda poetry at your man, back there.”
Rem coughed, embarrassed. “Iambic pentameter, actually,” he said. “I, uh, find I can’t fight without it.”
If Long had possessed the energy, he’d have blown his top at this tardy revelation. Now, he was just too damned weary. “Verse, huh?”
“Yes.”
Well, Long had been bored almost to death the last time he’d seen a play. Maybe this was Rem’s version of two-weapon fighting.
*****
The End, the Forest of Nar
When the host reached the borders of the great Forest of Nar, its generals asked The End-of-All-Things how he wished to proceed. “Burn it,” he said, flatly.
“Burn it, my Lord?” they might have responded, or “Are you serious?” But of course they did not, for that would have meant death. Even to think such things was dangerous around a man – a being – as skilled in the mystic arts as Anders. Still, burn the Forest of Nar? Madness. Though they were to a man remorseless, treacherous scum, the generals inwardly balked at his order, for the Forest was legendary, home to the ancient gods, if the stories were to be believed. One thing was certain, tho
ugh: it held more life and a greater diversity of it than all the cities of man combined. The destruction, the desecration of this forest would be by far their most heinous act to date, the one crime above all others that absolutely insured their damnation. And yet, Anders’ generals were too terrified of him even to save their own souls, much less pause for a moment’s reflection before action.
Except for one. General Wims Deda was as ruthless, unfeeling and cruel as his brethren, but he didn’t much care whether he lived or died, whether his death was a satisfying fading or lingering agony; it was all the same to him. As he watched his peers break up and head back to their respective legions, Wims thought about The End-of-All-Things and how his response to every obstacle was predictably the same: destroy it. But to what end? Who wants to be the King of a wasteland? And who wants to be Prince to the King of Nothing? Part of Wims admired his master for his singular focus and determination, but part of him struggled with the conundrum at Anders’ core: if one’s sole purpose is truly the end of all things, what does one do after the end? Did Anders intend to finish himself when everything else was gone? If so, was this whole effort nothing more than suicide on an impossibly large scale? And why should Wims – or anyone – die because Anders wished to do so? Again, Wims reflected he didn’t care either way for his own life. But he didn’t feel the need to take everything else in creation with him. Why, then, did Anders? What secret was he privy to that Wims and his fellows were not? Wims kicked a rock from his path and sighed. The only way to find out was to play along. He headed towards his own legion.
Steel, Blood & Fire (Immortal Treachery Book 1) Page 8
