Steel, Blood & Fire (Immortal Treachery Book 1)

by Allan Batchelder

  “Yes, yes,” Anders said, irritably. “Go to this Lunessfor and infiltrate the Queen’s inner circle.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Make whatever preparations, commandeer whatever supplies you think needful. I will equip you with the means to report what you’ve discovered.”

  Secretly, Wims was relieved. True, he had no particular fear of death; however, his master was as unstable as certain alchemical compounds, unpredictable and likely to blow at the least provocation. The chance to move out of Anders’ immediate sphere of influence was highly attractive to Wims. “Yes, my Lord. Immediately.”

  *****

  After seeing his general off, Anders climbed a small hillock and surveyed his host. What they lacked in training and skill, they more than made up for in numbers and ferocity. Either his magic had worked especially well upon his unwilling draftees, or humans were all more savage than they cared to admit. Looking out upon them, he saw them huddled in large, teeming masses around myriad bonfires. They were always ravenous for food, of course, but also for sex and violence. The End-of-All-Things would be happy to destroy them all, once they had served their purpose.

  Pivoting to his left, he held out his arms and a slave laid the infant into them. It was a funny looking thing, this child. And would get funnier still, by the time Anders was through with it. He had decided, after some thought, that it was time he created something for a change. He would be the end of all things presently in existence, but this child would be the first of his new race, beings made especially to serve and obey him. Worship would not be required, as he felt he would probably kill large numbers of them whenever he got bored. Perhaps he should also create a competing race and pit them against one another!

  *****

  Long & Company, the Army

  Long had been deliciously, decidedly, stinkin’ drunk. Officer’s prerogative, he told himself, and it was true, too. That probably accounted for Janks’ obvious envy: he couldn’t get anywhere near as plastered on the gaseous swamp-waterlike ale the regulars drank. But now, Long was terribly, annoyingly, painfully hung-over. And in the wrong tent, to boot. This one was huge! Forcing his eyes all the way open, Long took a good look around and just about pissed himself. There, on the ground next to him, lay a semi-naked giantess of familiar features!

  Long bolted to his feet and instantly stumbled over his britches, subsequently tumbling over Mardine’s sleeping form. She giggled in her sleep. He gasped in horror. What had he done? Well, it was bloody obvious what he’d done. The real question was how he could be so stupid. But even that was obvious when the odor of mead wafted up from his shirt front.

  “Alheria’s tits! You’ve done it now, old boy!” he chastised himself, as he rooted around for his stockings. If the rest of the gang found out…and then he heard laughter.

  “How’s it going Long Peter?” Janks’ voice cackled at him through the tent, placing special emphasis on the word “Long.”

  “Were you long enough last night?” Rem’s voice snickered. “Or was it rather a long night?”

  Gales of laugher washed over the tent, threatening to wake Mardine. Long hissed through the canvas in an urgent, angry whisper, “Will you shut it, lads? I’m in a tight spot here, and…”

  More laugher, bordering on the hysterical.

  “Ah, for Mahnus’ love, can you please, please, please just go away?” Long pleaded.

  Of all people, it was D’Kem whose voice shooed the merry-makers away. “Come on, lads. You don’t want the sergeant assigning extra drills, do you?”

  The laughter subsided into the distance, and Long was about to peek out the entrance, when a powerful hand yanked him back down onto the ground. “Once more before brekkie?” Mardine asked playfully.

  Long was never so scared in his life.

  *****

  Breakfast was more like the mid-day meal by the time Long was composed enough to approach the squad’s campfire. He walked with as much dignity as he could muster and kept his head down, so he wouldn’t have to see the self-satisfied smirks of his men.

  “Any of that sausage left?” Janks called across the fire.

  “Just a couple,” said one of the twins.

  “Well, gimme the long one,” he smiled.

  At once, the whole squad – minus Mardine, who was still dressing – struggled to contain the giggles.

  “Seems to me,” Long mused, “that someone I know was once busted down from captain to corporal for insubordination.”

  Janks stopped giggling. Which made everyone else giggle all the harder. “Oh, so that’s how it is, huh?” Janks snapped resentfully.

  “Sounds like one of you two’s taken a giant step forward, so to speak, and the other, a giant step back!” Rem offered, quite proud of himself.

  Even D’Kem was laughing. Finally, Long started laughing, too, and it wasn’t but a few moments later when Janks joined in. Soon, the whole squad was howling. Until, that is, Mardine showed up. Everyone grew deathly silent. But the baffled look on the giant’s face was too much, and the campsite exploded with unabashed hilarity. There are worse ways to bring a squad of disparate parts together.

  Unfortunately, Spirk never knew when a joke had died and kept rambling on and on in a beyond-feeble attempt to land a good punch line of his own. Long rolled his eyes and clenched his jaw in exasperation and salvation came from an unlikely source. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bash lean over and pick a small stone off the ground. Casually, the big bruiser sauntered over to Spirk and interrupted his sadly uncomic monologue.

  “Know what this here is?” he whispered to Spirk, holding the stone up in front of the lad’s face.

  “A rock?” Spirk guessed, hopefully.

  “Oh, aye, but not just any rock,” Bash said.

  Spirk scrunched up his face in a parody of concentration. “A special rock?”

  Bash winked at him, held a finger up to his lips. “A magic rock,” he said, his voice heavy with portent.

  “Magic?” Spirk’s face lit up like…something really, really bright. “Where’d you get it?”

  “Been in the family for generations. Trouble is, I can’t figure out how to work it,” Bash replied wistfully.

  Watching all this, Long was impressed with the man’s artistry. The fellow was good enough to give Rem a run for his money.

  “Maybe I could figure it out!” Spirk said.

  Now, it was Bash who looked excited. “Could you?”

  “I could give it a try.”

  “Thanks, lad,” Bash said and passed the stone into Spirk’s waiting hands.

  Without another word, the young man wandered off, struggling to decipher the mystery of the magic stone.

  *****

  Aoife, In the Forest

  As an A’Shea, she knew the signs, but did not want to believe them. Her brother’s attack had left her barren, or so she’d thought. And her failed attempts to bear children for her long-ago husband only served to emphasize that brutal truth. Now, impossibly, inexplicably, the sickness was undoubtedly upon her and her belly swelled and rounded with new life. But whose life? Of what nature? Instinctively, she knew the answer to that, too. Foolishly, she had chosen to try and cross the incinerated Forest of Nar, and its ghosts or gods, or the ghosts of its gods, had chosen her to bring them back. Because they enjoyed the irony of it? Or because she had simply presented the opportunity? It mattered little. Soon, uncannily soon, she would serve as the instrument of their return.

  Aoife sat on a mossy stone next to a creek and ruminated on her plight. There was no such thing as a pregnant A’Shea. Oh, some had found the order after raising families, that was true. But Aoife had never seen or even heard of an A’Shea with child. She was fairly certain that was enough to get her drummed out of the Sisterhood, unless she could prove she had not had sexual congress with a man. Well, she thought wryly, whatever she gave birth to should be proof enough of that. Unfortunately, that would lead to a whole other series of questions she could not and per
haps would not answer, beginning with her relationship to the infamous End-of-All-Things and her subsequent quest for vengeance – about as unbecoming an objective as an A’Shea could imagine.

  Aoife looked down and, for the hundredth time that morning, placed her hand on her belly. This was happening too quickly. Where a human child would gestate for about nine months, the life inside her was fairly charging into the world. She might not carry him – it – for a month. And so, the A’Shea began to rethink her plans. Rather than pressing on to the Capital, it might make more sense to go to ground for a few weeks and wait this…experience…out. What Aoife needed was an abandoned hovel, a cave or an old ruin, someplace with a bit of cover over her head and room for a fire. Fresh water nearby would be nice, too, but again, this was something she could divine if necessary.

  She sighed and stood up. Time to begin looking for a suitable nest.

  *****

  Not two miles downstream, Aoife found an empty and rundown farmhouse just across the water. After exploring a while, she discovered a tree that had fallen across the stream ages past. It made the perfect bridge. The farmhouse was, as expected, missing a good deal of roof, but there was one corner in particular that looked more than serviceable, being situated out of the wind and potential rain. Nearby, Aoife found everything she needed for a small fire. In fact, she could easily have built an enormous fire, but smaller was better if she hoped to remain inconspicuous. Casting about with her mind, the A’Shea discovered an old root cellar, concealed beneath some half-rotten planks, a large sheet of oilcloth and a mountain of straw. Within the root cellar, she found some tiny, withered things that might once have been apples. But she also found six earthenware jars sealed with wax. Breaking the seal on the first, she discovered it filled with a delightful jam made of spiced apples, raisins, nuts and brandy. Another jar held the same, but the third held a hard, yellow cheese, the fourth was empty and a fifth contained some sort of smoked and dried meat. The seal on the final jar was broken, and the odors emanating from it did not smell inviting, so she put that one aside. Still, this was a wealth of food, and Aoife would not gainsay her good fortune. She knew things would get worse some day and possibly soon.

  The next morning, she woke up and saw that, yes, indeed her belly was growing at an accelerated rate. She worried, briefly, that childbirth might kill her, but as the resultant adrenalin surged through her body, it was countered and overwhelmed by something else that left her with profound feelings of comfort, safety and peace. Was she being used? Perhaps, she mused, but at the moment she was too relaxed to care. The important thing, to Aoife’s mind, was that this child was coming, and she needed to be prepared. Given its growth rate (and, frankly, its mystical origins), she had no idea how much time she had, so she assumed the farmhouse would be her home for the foreseeable future.

  It wasn’t until moonrise that evening that Aoife understood the timing of her baby’s gestation. He or she (Aoife was already thinking of it in those terms) would be born on the night of the next full moon. Again, she felt a surge of fear, followed by an opposing surge of serenity. Of course a child of the old gods would be born when the moon was full! And that was just a few nights away.

  Returning to the bedroom she’d fashioned for herself inside the farmhouse, Aoife was surprised to see a will-o’-the-wisp floating and bobbing in the air around her bed. The A’Shea had never seen one before, but somehow recognized it just the same. Stepping closer, Aoife noticed the wisp made a soft fluttering sound, and the intensity of its light wavered ever-so-slightly.

  “Hello,” she said, shyly.

  The wisp suddenly glowed a warm, amber color and bobbed a little faster.

  “Can I help you in some way?”

  The wisp changed hues to a soft pink and sank slowly.

  “Or are you here to help me?” Aoife tried.

  The wisp bounced back up, glowing the warm amber again.

  The A’Shea took a wild guess. “Are you here to help with the baby?” she asked.

  The wisp bobbed rapidly up and down and made a noise that sounded like a whispered giggle. Aoife was not yet convinced they were communicating.

  “If you can understand me,” she said, pointing, “can you land on that old barrel?”

  The wisp chirruped and did so.

  Company, then. Aoife would have company through the childbirth.

  Two nights later, she was joined by another will-o’-the-wisp. This one, however, favored blues and greens. The next day, she encountered an unusually large frog that faded in and out of existence. At least, that’s how it looked to Aoife. The frog took up a station at the foot of her bed and would not budge. That afternoon, a talking hedgehog surprised her by introducing himself as she bathed in the stream.

  “I am Mik Mik,” he announced, right out of the blue.

  Aoife didn’t know which to feel more, embarrassed at her nakedness or astounded at meeting a talking hedgehog. “I am Aoife,” she replied.

  “Ah, yes, I know, Miss. And I am here to help you, Miss,” Mik Mik answered.

  “Well,” Aoife said, “I suppose you can join the others inside the farmhouse.”

  “The farmhouse, is it? I shall be delighted, Miss, most delighted.” And, with that, Mik Mik scampered off into the farmhouse.

  The last to appear was a tiny brown dragon, no bigger than the end of the A’Shea’s little finger. At first, she thought it a grasshopper or some other sort of insect. But as she looked more closely at it and witnessed it breathing miniature gouts of flame, she knew it for what it was.

  “And how are you all to help me?” Aoife asked the assembled menagerie.

  “We’re here to keep off the darklings,” Mik Mik said.

  “The darklings?” she inquired.

  “Them as feeds on nature’s young,” the frog said. Aoife hadn’t known he could talk.

  “And we’re to be here for the birth. An honor it is,” Mik Mik added.

  Aoife glanced down again at her amazingly distended belly, passed a hand over her swollen breasts. The moon would be full tonight, she thought. Yes, tonight. She didn’t know about protection from darklings, she just hoped her strange guardians would not be underfoot when the time came.

  At moonrise, she felt her first contraction, which was completely unlike anything she had expected. Instead of pain, she felt gentle, satisfying flexing throughout her abdomen. She had assisted in enough birthings to know this was not the way of things; then again, her child was most likely not human. Every time she started to panic, though, the familiar wave of calm descended upon her, and her fear evaporated.

  With her contractions increasing in frequency and intensity Aoife began to make her final preparations for the birth. She cast a series of small, helpful spells that all A’Shea used in such circumstances. Her guardians continued to hover around her, doing mysterious things of their own and keeping themselves quite busy. Carefully, Aoife lay down on her back in the straw. The wisps floated near her face; the hedgehog and frog settled in near her shoulders; the little dragon flew around the entire area, as if greatly agitated. At last, the birth began. As with everything else in this otherworldly experience, the results were not what the A’Shea had expected.

  ~ FIVE ~

  Vykers, In Ahklat

  The Reaper was not surprised. Nothing that had happened since his capture surprised him any more. “One of your own,” he repeated.

  The Ahklatian nodded, almost imperceptibly. “In the old tongue, we call him N’ Athka-T’ren, the Renegade. In the days following the Great Crime, N’ Athka-T’ren continued the killing so many others had indulged in – not out of vengeance or disgust, but because he had come to enjoy it. As sanity and calm returned to the rest of us N’ Athka-N’Amesto – ‘survivors’ – we quickly expelled him from our community. We were done with killing, forever, but could not, dare not tolerate that mad dog in our midst.” The Historian sighed. “It has been seven hundred years, and while rumors and anecdotes appear throughout the land from t
ime-to-time, we have not been able to locate him.”

  Ask him about the magic, Arune prompted.

  “Assuming your renegade and this End-of-All-Things are one and the same, what can you tell me about his magic or his sword?” Vykers asked his host.

  “His magic,” the Historian said, almost to himself. “We Ahklatians have an…affinity…for basic magics of all kinds. We assume the renegade made use of that to access those with greater knowledge and ability.”

  “Access? Kidnapped, tortured and killed, you mean.”

  “Likely,” the Historian admitted.

  “So, how powerful is he?”

  “If what we hear is true, that he holds entire populations in thrall, he may be the most powerful sorcerer alive.”