Steel, Blood & Fire (Immortal Treachery Book 1)

by Allan Batchelder

  A broad-chested fellow with an axe slung over his shoulder stepped forward. He was about Vykers’ height and years, though his shoulder length hair was a good deal redder. His nose had been broken too many times to count and half his left cheek was caved in. When he spoke, his bearded jaw moved awkwardly to the left every once-in-a-while.

  “We’re not lookin’ to fight,” the man said. “Less we have to, in which case…” he trailed off.

  “Not lookin’ to fight,” Vykers repeated. “What is it you want, then?”

  The other warrior looked to his mates and then back at Vykers. “That’s a broad question, ain’t it? For starters, what in Tors Mima are those things you’re travelling with?” he gestured to the Five.

  “These are my brothers,” Vykers said. “You sayin’ they’re not handsome lads?” He paused, “Cause I don’t take kindly to folks mocking my brothers’ looks.”

  The other man laughed.

  “I’m still waiting to hear what you’re aiming for.” Vykers reminded him.

  “If we don’t have any trouble here, we’re heading south to the Virgin Queen’s realm.”

  Vykers raised an eyebrow. “Really? You planning to attack her, you twelve?”

  The man raised his arm and more figures emerged from the trees. “Oh, we’re a good deal more than twelve. More ‘n twelve-times-twelve. A good number, no?”

  Vykers shrugged.

  “But no, we’re not for fighting Her Majesty. We hear the Great War’s a-coming, and we plan to take her side.”

  Arune was curiously silent. Vykers looked to the chimeras, who were likewise quiet. “What in the infinite hells for?” he demanded. “Way up here, you’re likely out of the fracas.”

  “No, sir. We got cousins to the East who say otherwise. There’s some sort of mad demon, wipes out every living thing in his path. They say a million or more have gone to it, already.”

  Vykers adjusted his gloves. “Sounds like the strong one, you ask me. Why not join up with him, instead?”

  The other man bristled at this. “Are you mad? We got wives and children back home.” He took a moment to compose himself, reassess. “Sides, they say the Reaper’s joined up with the Queen, too.”

  “The Reaper? What’s so great about him?”

  The raider was astonished. “You been living in a cave, man?” he asked.

  Why, yes, in fact, Arune thought.

  It was all Vykers could do to keep from laughing. “I know of the Reaper,” he said, “but he’s just one man.”

  Several of the raiders guffawed at this. Their leader spoke. “One man? He’s a force o’ nature, is what he is. And a right bastard, too. A ruthless, brutal son-of-a-bitch who cares not one whit for this demon nor anyone else, I’ll wager.”

  “Oh, he’s all that, is he?” Vykers asked. “And I s’pose you’d say that to his face, would you?”

  The man laughed heartily. “I ain’t stupid, stranger.”

  “Then maybe you’ll say it again to me, if ever we meet again?”

  The sound of one hundred and forty eight men laughing echoed through the woods.

  Well played, Arune said. Shall I kill them all now?

  The Reaper – the Mahnus-cursed Reaper – stayed his hand.

  Let’s just get back on the trail, he grumbled.

  “On your way, then, brave warrior!” the man across the trail yelled.

  Vykers smirked at him and led his companions away.

  You’re not well, you know that? Arune asked.

  The Reaper looked back one last time, to watch as the unnamed raiding party proceeded across the trail behind him and into the woods on the far side of the trail. They looked healthy and well-equipped. Good.

  So? He responded.

  You were actually planning to kill all those men!

  So? He repeated.

  They’re men! They’re people. They have lives, families…

  Blah, blah, fucking blah. Yeah, I was planning to kill them. I was planning for us to kill them. Why does that surprise you?

  I guess the joke’s on you, then, huh? It’d be kind of foolish to kill your own troops.

  And I didn’t, which means I’m no fool. Now, how much farther to this Morden’s Cairn?

  You read the map.

  I did. But I want you to do something other than annoy me.

  A week, maybe.

  A week? Dammit. I feel like everything’s moving into position for the big dance with this End-of-All-Things, and I’m off in East Bumblefuck pickin’ daisies.

  Northwestern Bumblefuck, more like. But we’re hardly picking daisies, and the Queen knows how to draw things out if she needs to buy us some time. The important thing is that we find this sword the Historian spoke of.

  Vykers wasn’t mollified. He felt drawn to this coming war like a lodestone to an iron shovel. He wondered if the End-of-All-Things even knew he was coming.

  *****

  Deda, In Gabesh

  Wims Deda came into Gabesh at the reins of a cheese monger’s cart, the original owner of said cart having perished at Wims’ hands earlier in the day. It wasn’t that Wims disliked the man or had any particular objection to cheese, but his clothing and cart provided a plausible disguise for the warrior, and Wims always took what he needed. He thought, for a moment, of the men Anders had sent with him on this journey, all dead or gone now, butchered or chased away by the general. He didn’t want allies, couldn’t work with them. Better to have them out of his way and be done with it. The only thing that mattered to Anders, he was sure, was information. Wims would get it.

  He studied the port town with a jaundiced eye. There was absolutely nothing – nothing! – remarkable about it, nothing of the slightest interest to anyone who had options elsewhere. This was the kind of backwater Wims was only too happy to see Anders eradicate, and he looked forward to seeing this one die, as well. When he finally made his way to what laughably passed as a market in Gabesh, he stationed his cart next to a chandler’s and set about arranging his cheeses for sale, as he imagined the cheese maker might have done. Between customers – and they were few and far between – the idiot chandler attempted to befriend Wims and make conversation. This was, Wims reflected, the closest he’d come to torture since his long-ago incarceration in the Yellow Lands. Still, he had a role to play and information he needed to acquire, so Wims kept up the charade. Customers came and customers went; Wims sold seven cheeses, most of which he had to invent names for on the spot, since he’d never known them in the first place. “Ah, the DeBleck!” he heard himself proclaim, “Finest in the land! Favored by the Virgin Queen herself!” Or, “Hurry and buy the last of my special edition Blue Gnarsooge!” “This Rippling Dog’s Pizzle has never been more flavorful.” It didn’t seem to matter what he called it, anyone inclined to buy cheese was going to buy it, any how. Huh, Wims thought, this is almost like theft. Maybe I’ll go into cheese making when I retire from mass murder.

  Over the course of the day, Wims heard enough gossip to piece together a reasonably accurate picture of events in the Queen’s Realm. The big news, of course, was that she was mustering a host of her own, to counter or perhaps engage the End-of-All-Things. But there were also rumors of her having enlisted the services of someone called “The Reaper.” Wims sat on the bench of his cheese cart and brooded. Years ago, he’d heard campfire stories about this so-called Reaper; they were more like fables and fantastic legends than anecdotes derived from personal experience. Wims had heard, for instance, that the man had once defeated an entire army by himself. Even six months ago, he might’ve laughed off such tales as absurd and impossible. But he’d seen the End-of-All-Things do that and more. Was it possible there were two such beings? And what would happen if they were to clash in battle? Would anything survive the meeting of the End-of-All-Things and the Reaper? Wims realized he’d been holding his breath for some time – perhaps even over a minute. He exhaled slowly and grinned a terrible frightened and frightening grin: he was going to have a front row sea
t. More than that, he might just find himself in a position to tilt the scales one way or the other.

  Wims realized quite suddenly that his unsettling smile was scaring away potential customers, which only made his smile bigger and broader. Fucking peasants. Without even packing up his stores, Wims stalked off through the market and down a side alley. He’d played his role in Gabesh. It was time to move on and corroborate the rumors he’d heard in some other town, farther down the coast.

  *****

  The End, In Camp

  The child was developing a disturbing aspect, which was all to the good as far as the End-of-All-Things was concerned. Anders prodded him with a long, boney finger. The little boy didn’t move a muscle, but watched his master with dark, dead eyes. Dead eyes in an infant! Wonderful, wonderful! Anders thought. Truly, he will be my squire one day, my apprentice, or perhaps my next vessel. He dipped his index finger into a nearby goblet of blood and then inserted the tip into the boy’s mouth. The boy tasted it, curious, and then sucked it all off. The End-of-All-Things had no taste for blood, himself, but he knew the fearful power that blood-drinkers had over the weak-minded, so it was useful to have a few in his retinue at all times. Fear was a power greater than magic, fire or gold. Fear could raise great pyramids, and it could raze great pyramids, too. It was all at the discretion of the wielder.

  In another part of his consciousness, Anders noted the approach of the boy’s father, General Shere.

  “Yes?” he intoned, without looking up from the child.

  “A local Baron and his leal knights approach our pickets, to challenge us,” Shere reported, keeping his emotions at bay.

  Anders turned and placed the boy in Shere’s arms. “Is that so?” he asked, like a child responding to news that the circus had come to town. “Well, then, I think it is time to justify my legend. Must keep the host amused, after all, mustn’t we?”

  Shere always felt it best not to answer such questions; you never knew what Anders was after. He stared down at his son and saw nothing he recognized.

  The End-of-All-Things lifted his sword from a nearby stand and left the tent. With a gesture, he summoned a boy who rushed off and returned with Anders’ mount. The End-of-All-Things climbed into the saddle, put spurs to horse and rode out toward the pickets surrounding his host. Shere hadn’t provided a direction, but it was laughably simple for Anders to sense it.

  In ten minutes’ time, he arrived within sight of the approaching knights. Well over two thousand of them. Fearlessly, almost carelessly, Anders continued to ride until he was within fifty or so strides of them. Each one had his weapons drawn; a number had crossbows trained on him. Anders didn’t care. He jumped from his horse.

  “And who leads this party of lemmings?” he sang out.

  “Tis I,” said a knight with particularly ornate armor. “Baron of Eemonfeld. We would know your intentions in our lands, End-of-All-Things.”

  Anders smiled. “My reputation precedes me,” he beamed.

  “It does,” the knight replied, “And so I ask again, what would you?”

  “Why,” Anders chuckled, “I’m planning to kill you all! What else?”

  “A lone wizard against the pride of Eemonfeld? That won’t come cheap,” the Baron answered.

  Anders howled. “They all say that, little man! They all say that.” He continued walking towards his opponents.

  “Be warned, we’ve got Shapers of our own, tyrant!”

  The End-of-All-Things waved an arm and several heads exploded within the Baron’s company, accompanied by brief but, Anders felt, satisfying gasps of dismay. “Had Shapers, dead man, had Shapers.”

  Crossbow bolts flew and the knights charged. Anders said a word and the bolts disintegrated in mid-flight. He allowed the men to continue their approach. “Too many choices, too many choices,” he said to himself, before drawing his sword and swinging it in a wide arc before him. The Baron’s men began sweeping past on either side, in attempt to flank and surround him. An uncooperative bolt did find Anders’ armor, only to disappear into it, as if it had been shot into a lake. There was a subsequent crackling of energies across Anders’ torso and then everything returned to its previous state. The End-of-All-Things waited another moment to allow the knights to complete their circuit, then stabbed his sword into the ground at his feet, yelling a single, unintelligible syllable as he did. Immediately, the earth heaved and shook in great ripples, extending outward from Anders’ sword. Knights were thrown from horses, others tumbled over, many simply stopped in their tracks. Hard on the heels of this action, Anders sent a sea of fire surging outward in all directions, raging through and over the knights, their horses and anything else in its path. He was sure the screams of men and beasts could be heard for some distance. Still, men battled through the inferno and drew closer. The End-of-All-Things was as impressed as it was possible for a man to be with an ant’s feats of strength. But he was glad there were survivors, because he adored a little-hand-to-hand work.

  To one determined fellow who stumbled up to him, heaving like an overworked ox, Anders said “Strong but stupid” and beheaded him in an instant. Three more men approached, crawling, limping, dragging themselves towards him. All had weapons raised. Anders allowed the first man to swing his axe, more out of curiosity than chivalry. It was a simple matter, however, to parry the blow and turn it forever aside. The poor man’s momentum spun him completely around, and Anders reached out with the tip of his sword and almost gently touched the naked flesh of the knight’s neck. That was enough to kill him, eventually. First, he ran off, howling, overcome with more mental and physical anguish than mortals were meant to bear. Inevitably, he would take his own life or, if not, wither, like last year’s apples. It mattered not to Anders, as he always enjoyed either outcome. He also liked watching the first victim’s effect on his former fellows-in-arms. The two men closest him stepped back and lowered their swords, struggling with fears and doubts.

  “Damn you, tyrant!” a hoarse voice bellowed from the now smoking, seething mass of ruined horse and human flesh.

  Anders didn’t have time to play with these closest victims, so he exploded their heads, as well. He knew countless less gory ways to dispatch his opponents, but he favored the bloodier, more violent means for their shock value; more often than not, they stunned standers-by into permanent confusion and havoc. Anyway, he wanted to focus on the Baron, whose head, he knew, would make an excellent trophy.

  “Rather stupid of you,” he called to the man, “wasting all these loyal men in so pointless a manner.”

  “Not stupid,” the Baron croaked, as he staggered into view, burnt and bleeding. “It was said that you annihilate without compunction, but many of my fellows refused to believe it.” He turned his head ever-so-slightly to some nearby hills. “They’ve seen it now, though. They’ve no choice but believe.”

  Sending out a Questing Eye in that direction, Anders could indeed make out thousands more men watching the conflict from a safe distance. Interesting: he had thought them overconfident and under experienced pageant knights. Instead, they’d been bait, meant to tempt the End-of-All-Things into demonstrating his true powers and nature.

  “It’s naught to me,” Anders assured the Baron. “I did all this alone, in the span of ten heartbeats. Imagine what I can do with my host by my side.”

  “I’ll brook no more of your boasting!” the Baron spat and surged into striking distance.

  This one, Anders thought, I will enjoy playing with.

  The Baron came at him with long sword in his right hand and small axe in his left. His helm was gone, and his beard had been burnt to a shapeless mass. He needed neither, though, since he expected to die in this final fight. Awkwardly, he swept across Anders’ midriff with his sword, while simultaneously aiming for the End-of-All-Things’ head with his axe. It was a clumsy move, but a bold one, too. As Anders stepped back out of range, the Baron backhanded both weapons in a scissoring motion, which Anders smashed aside with his own sword.
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  “What’s the matter, wizard? Out of spells?” the Baron snarled.

  In this moment, Anders could almost respect his adversary’s contempt for death. The man had no hope of winning, but he continued to press the issue as if he had. “I don’t like to exert myself in that way for a single enemy. Besides,” Anders said, “sometimes it’s more fulfilling to ram a sword through a man’s heart.”

  “I couldn’t agree more!” the Baron yelled, lunging at Anders’ chest with his long sword.

  The End-of-All-Things parried the blow and spun to his left, adjusted his grip and swung at his foe’s right knee. Anders, himself, had not seen more than a hundred such encounters, but his sword had experienced infinitely more, and it urged him to duck, just before the Baron’s axe came whiffling overhead. Somehow the man blocked Anders’ sword and stepped back, resetting his stance and switching his weapons from left hand to right, and visa versa.