Steel, Blood & Fire (Immortal Treachery Book 1)

by Allan Batchelder

  “Can you tell me anything now, sir?” Long asked.

  Again, Bailis eyed him. “This is shaping up to be the battle of our times. This End-of-All-Things is very nearly a god, if reports be true, and a wicked god at that. Scouts and refugees tell us he’s got a hundred thousand men, women and children in thrall. Story is, they carry out his orders mindlessly, like rabid dogs.”

  “Right,” Long said. “Right. Guess I shouldn’t have asked, after all.”

  “But,” the Major reminded him, “on the other side o’ the scale, we’ve got the Reaper and the Virgin Queen.”

  Long felt better. A little.

  “Anyway, you’ve got a while to rouse your squad. Second trumpet’ll be the sign to move out.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “See you tonight, in the officers’ mess,” Bailis said.

  *****

  Long didn’t usually dine with the other officers, preferring instead to eat with his squad. If you were going to ask a man to die for you, you had to be willing to eat with him. Janks wanted to come along, felt he deserved it, but Long needed someone to stay behind with the squad and keep them in line. Also, the fact was, Janks hadn’t been invited, which pissed him off something fierce. The corporal had actually outranked Long in younger days, when he’d made captain. Then, he’d been busted down for insubordination and that was that. But he’d never quite gotten used to taking orders from Long.

  Entering the Officers’ Mess, Long was instantly greeted with aromas he hadn’t experienced in a long time: maple-glazed duck, sautéed onions, rosemary…and expensive cologne. He had blessedly forgotten how vain some officers were. Looking around, he spotted the major waving at him from the far corner. He made his way through the crowded benches and joined his commanding officer.

  “I was afraid all the mead would be gone before you got here,” Bailis joked.

  “Mead?” Long raised an eyebrow. “Been ages, sir. Is there any left?”

  Bailis laughed. “There’s plenty, Sergeant,” he said magnanimously, as he passed a pitcher of the stuff.

  Long poured a generous goblet-full. “I guess there are some benefits to being in the army,” he said.

  Bailis was in high spirits. “Indeed, indeed. For an officer, at least.”

  Long heard that. His squad was likely drinking goat-piss ale right now, if they’d gotten their hands on anything over the course of the day’s march. “Sir?” he ventured.

  “Yes, Sergeant?” Bailis responded, around a mouthful of rabbit.

  “Any more news on our basic strategy?”

  The major nodded as he swallowed, giving himself time to clear his throat. “The idea seems to be to amass as big a force as possible and park us up north, so that, if forced to choose between the threat our army presents or the jewel of Lunessfor, the End-of-All-Things will choose the threat.”

  It sounded like good reasoning to Long. If their enemy decided to move on the capital, he’d have Vykers at his back and the Queen in front. Not even a wicked godling would be that impetuous. Unless he was insane. “Sounds good to me,” Long offered.

  “Unless our foe is insane,” Bailis grinned.

  Hearing his fears fed back to him did not seem grin-worthy to Long.

  One of the other officers, a tall, thin red-head, asked “Are we going to be able to match this End-of-All-Things’ numbers, though? I mean, the countryside’s pretty much been picked over from the last few campaigns against our new general.”

  “That’s the irony,” another man chuckled, “isn’t it? The Reaper empties the cupboard, and now he’s the one needs to find dinner there!”

  “Doesn’t seem that amusing to me,” the red-head replied.

  “Amusing or not,” Bailis interjected, “that’s our lot for the foreseeable future. Unless Vykers can conjure men out of the ground like he put them into it.”

  There was probably not enough mead in the world to bolster Long’s sagging mood, but he figured he’d never know unless he tested the idea.

  *****

  Vykers, In Ahklat

  The city of Ahklat was quite different from Lunessfor. Whereas the latter was noisy and bright with soaring structures of numerous architectural styles, the former was subdued, dark, quiet and all of a style. Its ancient walls were covered with ivy and other vines, and no guards stood atop its walls. In fact, the four gates (one for each season) stood wide open and unattended.

  Vykers had recently learned plenty about the place, but seeing it sitting almost forlornly beneath the Sthalshouf Mountains evoked an emotion within him that he could not readily identify: pity? Sorrow? Dread? At the very least, it confused him. “You coming in?” he asked Number 3.

  “They are acquainted with us. I see no reason we can’t join you.”

  As he understood it, the chimeras’ job was to escort him safely here, but he wouldn’t mind their continued company. It wasn’t that he feared Ahklat or anything therein, but the chimeras made Vykers feel more…normal…by comparison. And it didn’t hurt that they were serious bashers. “Come along, then,” he said.

  Passing through the Autumn Gate, Vykers marveled again at the lack of guards or other, obvious surveillance. His companions didn’t seem concerned, so the Reaper walked on. Unlike any city or large town he had ever visited, Ahklat had no crowds, no citizens with diverse business thronging the streets. But for the presence of a few figures in various locations in the distance, Vykers might have thought the city abandoned.

  They’re here, Arune assured him.

  Yes, I can feel them. But…

  It’s the lack of children. The population never grows or shrinks. Over the centuries, the locals must have learned one another’s rhythms.

  The Shaper seemed unusually chatty to Vykers. Strange, that a ghost could have nerves. The Reaper turned to Number 3. “Any idea where we’re supposed to go?”

  It was Number 17 who answered. “The one time we came here, the Ahklatians anticipated our arrival and our mission. Perhaps they will do so again.”

  Vykers didn’t wait for an answer, but pressed on until he came to a vast square, the city marketplace by all appearances, but more like a library in tone, such was the atmosphere. The merchants in attendance looked normal enough, but spoke to one another and their customers in whispers.

  Okay, this is creepy, Arune said.

  I like it, Vykers countered. Bein’ yelled at doesn’t make me more likely to buy something.

  Just ahead, a merchant was huddled with a taller figure who suddenly seemed to notice Vykers’ approach and politely broke away from his companion. Gracefully, the figure approached, and Vykers could see he was not quite human.

  “Greetings, Tarmun Vykers,” he said, drawing closer. “I am Nnsht-ttnntr,” he added – or at least that’s what it sounded like to Vykers. At the warrior’s frown of concentration, he clarified, “but you may call me ‘Nestor,’ if that helps.”

  Nestor was slightly taller than the Reaper, but wire-thin and as pale as snow. Even his hair seemed bleached of color. The only exception was his eyes, which looked like gleaming orbs of obsidian, devoid of whites, iris or perhaps even pupils.

  Now, that’s what I call creepy, Vykers nudged Arune.

  Nestor was dressed in a plain grey robe of linen, with a simple belt of corded rope. He wore no jewelry or ornamentation of any kind, and his feet were bare, as well.

  “We were advised of your coming,” Nestor continued in a barely audible monotone, looking dispassionately at the Five. “If you will accompany me, I will take you to the home of our historian. We feel he may be most able to advise you.”

  I’m takin’ too much on faith, he told Arune.

  <???>

  I keep telling myself they don’t want me dead, or I’d be dead. But I don’t quite believe it.

  Undoubtedly, that’s wise.

  You want to share any o’ your precious insights, here?

  This Nestor is old. I imagine you figured that out already. I get nothing else from him. He is li
ke a closed door.

  Great, Vykers griped.

  I wasn’t finished. This place reeks of sadness and regret. And more than a little shame. It’s really quite oppressive. One can almost –

  Any threats? Vykers interrupted.

  I don’t sense any, Arune answered curtly.

  Vykers turned to the Five, in attempt to gauge their mood. Two or three of them looked back, inquiringly. Nothing useful, there. “Okay,” Vykers told Nestor, “lead the way.”

  They passed through the market and down quiet street after quiet street. Sometimes, Vykers saw other Ahklatians – a man sitting in a garden, a woman painting a still life, another woman pruning a small plant on her balcony. The most common activity Vykers witnessed, however, was reading. Nine times out of ten, when he caught a glimpse of someone, that person was reading – a book, scroll, a sheaf of documents. At last, Nestor came to a stop in front of the smallest abode Vykers had seen.

  “You may enter alone,” the man told him. “Your friends will not be required and, as you can see, there is hardly room for all of you.”

  “We will wait for you here, then,” Number 3 said.

  You’re not going in completely alone, Arune reminded him.

  Every man dies alone, whether he’s surrounded by friends or not. It’s a journey he takes without company, Vykers responded. If something happens, it happens.

  As you say.

  Vykers ducked through the door into a single room with a low ceiling. There were more doors off to either side, but the man he’d come to see sat behind a table directly ahead of him, eating something out of a bowl with a spoon. He didn’t even look up when the warrior entered. Vykers felt awkward standing in the tiny chamber, so he sat in a chair, opposite his host.

  “Please, sit down,” the man said, belatedly.

  If that was a joke, Vykers didn’t take the bait.

  The man laid his spoon down, exhaled and sat up. Whatever he was eating smelled absolutely loathsome. Vykers had a strong stomach, but he was having a hard time keeping his last meal down. His host must have noticed his discomfort, for he said, “For seven hundred years, we have vowed to make eating an unpleasant chore in remembrance of the Great Crime.”

  Again, Vykers must have looked confused.

  “Come, come now. You know the stories. We ate our own in a short span of madness. And yet, we live…and live…and live. We determined it unfair that we should enjoy life’s pleasures when our beloved could not. Thus, we make for ourselves trials out of the things most people enjoy. It is our custom, it is our penance.”

  The Reaper studied the man. He might have been Nestor’s twin, except that his hair was black and he seemed a bit shorter in stature. “I see a lot of reading,” Vykers said, for lack of anything better.

  “What else is there to do? We do not make war. We do not make love. We do not truly make art. Oh, we try, but…well, I’m sure you seen examples of our efforts. What else is there, but the endless quest to find the ‘why’ of our past?”

  “Huh,” Vykers intoned, feeling a need to say something, any damned thing.

  “You cannot pronounce my name, Tarmun Vykers, but I am also called ‘the Historian.”

  Say as little as possible. This one frightens me, Arune cautioned.

  “You know my name. I’m guessing you know my mission.”

  “You’ve come for a sword.”

  “But…you don’t make war,” Vykers reminded the man.

  “We do not,” the Historian agreed. “That does not mean, however, that we cannot choose sides.”

  The Reaper leaned back, taking the chair’s front two legs off the floor. “You say you don’t take pleasure in anything? I know the feeling,” Vykers said. “Ever since I was captured in Bysvaldia, I’ve been living, eating and shitting at other people’s mercy. And that ain’t me. The Queen wants me to have a magic sword; you people might be willing to choose sides…what’s in all this for me? What if I decide to just drop out o’ this little game?”

  So much for not talking too much, Arune sighed in evident frustration.

  Sod off! Vykers thought back.

  The Historian placed his hands on the table, on either side of his unfinished bowl of…whatever. Vykers could see he had impeccably maintained finger nails. Countless hells! What kind of man had perfect nails? Finished gathering his thoughts, the Historian spoke.

  “I am not a seer, Vykers-the-Vicious,” the man began. “But I’ve learned enough about the world to make an educated guess, and it is this: if you refuse to participate, this so-called End-of-All-Things will have his way.”

  Not a very compelling answer, as far as Vykers was concerned.

  “Which will mean,” The Historian went on, “that several important questions will go unanswered, amongst which are: what caused the Great Crime? What caused the Awakening…”

  Vykers couldn’t have cared less.

  “And, of course, how great a warrior is Tarmun Vykers? The best that ever was or will be? Or something else, something…less.”

  Oh, please, Reaper. Don’t fall for that line of –

  “I could use a really good sword, though,” Vykers grinned.

  Shit.

  The Historian steepled his fingers in front of his bowl. “I assume Her Majesty is unaware of your…guest?” he asked, nodding at Vykers’ chest.

  Shit! Shit!

  Vykers let the chair’s front end slam back onto the floor. He thought he saw the trace of a smile on the Historian’s lips.

  “Well,” the man confessed, “you don’t get to be seven hundred and forty-two years old without learning a thing or two.”

  The warrior crossed his arms over his chest and stared into the other man’s eyes.

  “Very well,” the Historian said, “tell a secret to save a secret.”

  “Which means what, exactly?”

  “Tell me who is riding along inside you, or I’ll tell Her Majesty.”

  “Unless I kill you,” Vykers answered. It was always one of his favorite trump cards.

  “As much as I might enjoy the escape that entails, it wouldn’t be helpful to the success of your quest.”

  Still at someone else’s mercy. “Fine,” Vykers said.

  Vykers, don’t!

  “Her name’s Arune. She was Fourth Shaper to his Majesty, King Orstoth.”

  “Fourth Shaper?” the Historian repeated. “I’d say she’s a good deal stronger than Fourth.”

  Vykers was silent.

  “Forgive me my greedy curiosity. Knowledge is the only pleasure we allow ourselves. Arune, you say?”

  “Yeah.”

  The Historian took a small book out of his robes, retrieved an equally small piece of charcoal from a nearby shelf and proceeded to write something down.

  “You didn’t say anything about writing this down,” Vykers growled.

  “Ah, but I may be able to be of some help to you and this ‘Arune’ of yours,” the Historian replied.

  “And why would you do that?”

  “As I said, we do choose sides, from time-to-time. I am simply choosing yours.”

  Why?

  “Again, why?” Vykers demanded.

  “For the questions unanswered, and for one other reason…”

  “Which is?”

  “This End-of-All-Things may be one of our own.”

  *****

  The End, On the March

  The End-of-All-Things arrived at an idyllic mountain lake. “Take what you need for the host and poison the rest,” he instructed his generals.

  “As you wish, Lord,” they replied in unison.

  Privately, this sort of thing simply bolstered Wims’ concerns. He had no use for people or, indeed, most living things. But he could see this place as an excellent spot to retire, if he happened to live long enough. It was remote, quiet and clean. Why destroy it just for destruction’s sake?

  “Wims,” Anders called, disrupting the man’s reverie. “To my side.”

  Wims walked over. Had the
End-of-All-Things been reading his mind? Was this it, then? “Yes, my Lord?” he asked, bowing.

  “That midlands Queen is up to something. I can sense it, but it isn’t fully clear to me yet.”

  “What would you have me do, my Lord?”

  “I need you to travel to her Capital – what is it called, again?”

  “Lunessfor, my Lord. Although in the North they call it Moon’s Crossing and in the South, simply Lunsford.”