“Uh…yes.” Vykers agreed. “Anyway, she wants to work with you,” he pointed at Number 17, “to seek out this army and get a good look at it.”
The chimeras twitched in various ways that Vykers had come to understand meant they agreed.
“Once we know more about this alleged army, we can make a plan.” The Reaper looked into the fire. “And believe me, the End-of-All-Things ain’t gonna like what we come up with.”
Every night, Arune expected the End-of-All-Things’ specter to reappear and taunt them, but he did not. Every morning, Vykers joined hands with Number 17, so that Arune and the chimera could collaborate on their search. They sent a pair of Questing Eyes eastward, weaving back and forth across a central tack. So far, all they had discovered was that the enemy’s army was not within three days’ march.
“I want you to look for something else, too,” Vykers said one morning without preamble. “Find some Svarren. As many as you can. Tell me where the biggest gathering is and how far away.”
That’s your plan, Svarren? Arune asked, skeptically.
Part of it. Depends on how many you scare up. Then, I need to find the right valley…
Ah! And they won’t be expecting an ambush from a party of five.
More ‘n likely, they’ll be expectin’ us to try and sneak by on either side.
So, what kind of valley are you looking for?
Steep – maybe cliffs – on one side, climbable slope on the other.
And how will it work?
Vykers balked. I’ll let you know when the time comes.
That day’s search, however, was complicated by torrential rain. Rather than slog on in the muck and mire, Vykers ordered the Four to join him, huddling in the lee of a large boulder.
Can either o’ you get a fire going in this wet?
Nothing will burn in this weather.
Shit, Vykers spat.
I didn’t say I can’t help, though.
Vykers began to feel a familiar and mildly unpleasant prickling – the burn – throughout his body. Moments later, he noticed the boulder was giving off heat. Within minutes, it was well and truly hot to the touch.
“Ahhhhh,” the warrior sighed. “’Least we won’t freeze our asses off, now.”
In the deluge, there was nothing to do but wait. Arune and her spell partner could see nothing through the endless sheets of water. She decided to learn more of her host.
Vykers?
Eh?
Who were your parents?
He chuckled. So, I’ve still got a secret or two, have I?
So, you’re keeping that hidden from me?
The Reaper pondered his knuckles for several breaths. Be nice if I was keeping that secret. Truth is, I got no idea.
You’ve got no memory of a mother or father?
Nope. He bit at a loose piece of finger nail.
But you must have come from somewhere…?
I expect so.
What’s your earliest memory?
Burner…Arune. What’s the point of all this? It ain’t like we’re goin’ to get hitched now, is it? You ain’t fixin’ me up to meet the in-laws, are you?
It was the Shaper’s turn to laugh. That’d be an awfully awkward wedding ceremony, though, wouldn’t it?
Vykers grinned.
Silence. Two of the chimeras dozed off; the other two became even more alert.
I’m asking, Arune continued, because the things you do with a sword – even a plain old army sword – aren’t possible.
Did you see me do ‘em? Vykers countered.
I did, but –
Then they’re possible.
They’re not, though. Not for anyone human.
His hackles up, Vykers protested, You sayin’ I’m not human?
Arune tread carefully, I’m saying, Tarmun Vykers, that you may be more than human.
*****
The End, In Camp
Tarmun Vykers was more than he seemed, of that the End-of-All-Things was certain. What bothered him was that he couldn’t determine what else was involved. The man travelled with four monsters, the like of which Anders had never seen, but nevertheless admired. They would make excellent pets in his personal retinue, if he could manufacture the means to capture them alive. Of more concern was the man, himself, and the strange sword that cloaked him in a mysterious vortex of crackling energies frustratingly unfamiliar to the sorcerer. Anders had meant to call lightening down upon his adversary, but somehow the sword’s aura had thwarted the attempt. In fact, the whole encounter had been much less satisfying than he’d envisioned when he conceived of it. Fortunately, the End-of-All-Things had a contingency plan – an army of 20,000 faithful, led by General Shere– that would wipe the smirk off Vykers’ face, smash the swagger right out of his body. And if for some reason Shere failed, there was always the rest of Anders’ host.
He reached out with his mind and found his general, doggedly proceeding towards the region Anders had described to him. The End-of-All-Things would like to have used the Scaldean Heads, which would have allowed for a two-way conversation, but he’d given one to Wims and they only worked in a pair. Instead, he sent the Whispering Mouth and spoke instructions in his general’s ear, reminding him that he, Anders, held the man’s son as insurance against any treachery or incompetence and telling him, with as a much detail as possible, where he might expect to cross paths with the Reaper.
Shere, for his part, was not happy to hear from his master and pathetically clumsy at hiding that fact. But it amused Anders to see the man’s extreme discomfort and discontent, along with his inability to do anything about it. In four days – five at most – Shere and his troops would face the legendary Reaper. From the End-of-All-Things’ perspective, there could be no greater or more enjoyable act of theatre in the world. He viewed his general and troops the way a small boy looks at ants, as things to be fed, tortured or squashed, according to his whim. At the same time, he knew fresh troops were increasingly hard to come by, and he wanted Vykers dead. Whatever the outcome, Anders was sure it would be thrilling to witness.
*****
Spirk and D’Kem, In the End’s Camp
The eighth army and, D’Kem suspected, the larger host of which it was part featured the most bizarre command structure he had ever encountered: a general oversaw a band of mercenaries, all of whom had the rank of captain. There were no officers between the general and his captains. Each captain roused and motivated a specific number of troops – a battalion, essentially -- in much the same way a shepherd’s dog managed a flock of sheep. And what sheep they were. After consuming the End-of-All-Things’ offerings, these former peasants, craftsman and soldiers had become little more than animals, filthy, ravenous and apparently without freewill. Tragically, to the Shaper’s way of thinking, he noted countless women and children in the mix, every bit as mindless and primal as their adult male counterparts. These women and children would go to their deaths just as willingly and probably with greater ease than the men, never knowing…well, never knowing. The Shaper assumed that any unassigned mercenaries formed what served as the host’s cavalry and scouting parties, but as they hadn’t seen any combat since D’Kem had joined, it was only a guess.
As dire as the Shaper’s situation was, he hadn’t been idle. Two could play at this mind-control game, and, after insuring his own and Spirk’s immunity to the End-of-All-Things’ magic, D’Kem set about capturing the mind of the captain assigned to his group. It wasn’t a difficult task, as it turned out, since the man was barely more than Svarren himself. “Ugh,” as D’Kem thought of him, was an immensely fat, slovenly and foul-smelling brute who did most of his work with the toe of his armored boot. He would quickly lose weight under D’Kem’s control, however, as the Shaper made the man do endless circuits around the perimeter of his charges, cursing at random to add veracity to his actions. Thus engaged, Ugh left his troops alone, which gave them a little more peace and rest and D’Kem time to think than they’d known in ages.
&n
bsp; Spirk continued to pepper the Shaper with questions, until the older man had to threaten to silence the younger’s vocal chords for good and always. One problem that Spirk did point out, though, was that because he was not ensorcelled, it was a good deal harder to ignore his hunger than it was for the other troops. And feeding the troops didn’t seem to be a priority for the End-of-All-Things. As the saying goes, “Even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in while,” and D’Kem realized Spirk was right: they needed to eat. Thus, the Shaper directed Ugh to temporarily leave his patrol in search of food. Given the man’s girth, this wouldn’t surprise his peers in the least.
After some time, the man returned with a poorly roasted haunch of boar, charred on one side and little more than raw on the other, and a bottle of awful but strong wine. Given what he knew of the Shaper, Spirk was worried the older man would keep the whole bottle for himself and was surprised when D’Kem passed on it entirely. In no time, Spirk was drunk and laid down for a nap, which pleased the Shaper no end; it was much easier to think without having to worry about the boy and his antics.
*****
Long, In the End’s Camp
On the other side of the host, Long Pete was as miserable as he’d ever been. If it was possible to die of misery, he expected to find out, soon. In the meantime, he was charged with corralling a throng of witless and frightening peasants and keeping them organized until the order came to break camp. He thought often of Mardine, worrying incessantly and helplessly about her whereabouts and current condition. He wondered, too, what had become of D’Kem and the lad, Spirk, though he expected they had probably succumbed to the End-of-All-Things’ sorceries. Somewhere in this horde, they were likely drooling and stumbling about, just like the rest of the “troops.”
Troops! That was a laugh. Sleepwalkers was more like it. These troops had been rendered completely devoid of self-awareness and free will. The End-of-All-Things had a seemingly endless supply of them; he would throw them at the Queen’s army in wave-after-wave, utterly unconcerned for their survival. And that was bound to have some kind of negative effect on morale on the Queen’s side.
Long meandered through his charges, making sure none were absent-mindedly fornicating, injuring themselves or otherwise creating a nuisance he’d have to deal with later. When he heard his new master’s voice, he froze in his tracks.
“Sergeant!” the End-of-All-Things said behind his back. “You’re a man of many surprises!”
Long turned, carefully, met the other man’s gaze as briefly as he could manage, and bowed his head ever-so-slightly. He didn’t speak; he knew the End-of-All-Things would get to the point, sooner or later.
“Your…girlfriend…is with child,” the sorcerer said. “Did you know this? Aha! I can see by your expression you did not. I don’t blame you for being surprised, of course. I myself didn’t know such a thing was possible. Indeed, I would have sworn otherwise, but there it is nonetheless: you’re an expectant father.”
The End-of-All-Things paused, savoring Long’s confusion and despair.
“Of course,” he continued, “there’s no question of your being able to raise the child; you’re my slave now, after all, which makes your child my slave, as well. Not to worry, though, I’ve become something of a surrogate parent myself of late, and your spawn shall not lack for company.”
He paused again, studying Long’s face.
“Oh, little insect,” he sighed condescendingly, “do you hate the mighty sun? What on earth are you going to do about it?” And with that, he withdrew, laughing not-so-quietly to himself.
Yes, Long thought, I am an ant.
*****
Vykers, On the Trail
It was time for a heart-to-heart. Vykers sat on an old stump and faced the Four.
“I guess I haven’t been fair to you,” he confided. “What I’ve got in mind’s probably suicide, but there are other options.”
The chimeras listened without comment, waiting for Vykers to continue.
“We could run some other direction, for instance. Or we could try to sneak by the advance scouts, though I reckon he’s planned for that. Hells, we could even go back into Morden’s Cairn. It’d take ‘em centuries to dig us outta there.”
Finally, Number 3 spoke up. “Your pardon, master, we are confused. A full-on assault seems to be your preference, yet you say it is suicide. Surely, you don’t intend to die?”
“I don’t think any warrior intends to die…but it happens. And if the information that you and Arune have given me is correct, we’re outnumbered a thousand-to-one and more.”
“Excuse me, again, master, but if that is so, why even attempt it?”
Vykers ran his hands over his scalp, exhaled. “Let me put it to you this way: how’d you feel if you were this End-of-All-Things and you just saw one of your armies routed by five men?”
Being rather literal in their thinking, the chimeras took some time in considering this question and conferring about it. At last, Number 3 spoke again, “We would be profoundly concerned, afraid even.”
“Just so,” Vykers agreed.
“And how do you rate our chance of success?” Number 4 asked.
“Not good, but that depends upon how many Svarren we can locate and attract. And there’s always a chance that if we create enough havoc, we can escape in the confusion.”
“We will stay with you,” Number 17 said.
“Some of you might get killed,” Vykers pointed out.
“We will stay with you,” Number 3 said with finality.
“Good. Happy to have you.” Arune?
Mmmm?
You having any luck finding Svarren?
Are you kidding? Turn over a rock and fifty’ll jump out at you, Arune quipped.
How are you plannin’ to get their attention?
Do you remember that wild pig back in your cave, or the oursine on the way here?
Yes.
Like that, only much, much bigger and much, much worse. I put a buzzing in their brains they can only stop by killing me.
You mean me.
Well, yes, you too.
You figure they’ll get here in time.
Some will, some won’t. Don’t tell me the Svarren are your whole plan.
Vykers scoffed. Hardly. Soon’s we find the right kind o’ valley, I’ll tell you the rest. Only, we’d best find it pretty quick. We’re running outta distance between us and them
You think I’m unaware of that?
Just wanted to be clear.
As it happens, Number 17 thinks he’s found a crease in the hills ahead that might serve. We should be there before sundown.
If it suits our purpose, we’ll camp there and make our stand tomorrow.
Aren’t you even a little worried? Arune asked.
What’s the point? You can only die once.
That’s what you think.
*****
Deda, At Lunessfor
His master had warned him that he could not enter Lunessfor while carrying the Scaldean Head on his person, but Wims knew that he could not discard it, either, without incurring the End-of-All-Things’ wrath. It was the work of an hour to find a suitably hollowed out log in a nearby copse and stash the head within so it would never be found by accident. Such was the relic’s aura, Wims very much doubted even scavenging animals would take much interest in it.
Once free of the Head, Wims joined the train of traffic travelling into the Queen’s Capital. He had been here before, years ago, but found the place even more spectacular than he’d remembered. Most of the cities he frequented in the past few years were either slowly crumbling into ruin or hastily erected without much thought to posterity. Lunessfor, on the other hand, had been built as both a statement of man’s potential and a defiance of his mortality. If Wims’ life had unfolded differently, if he’d made different choices, he wouldn’t have minded settling down in the Capital, acquiring a position of power and perhaps even angling for the throne, itself. If he was going to dream, he reason
ed, he might as well go the whole hog.
He arrived at a mammoth gate – he’d forgotten its name – and was surprised at how closely the guards inspected him. More than surprised, really, he was taken aback. No one he’d thus far encountered had shown the slightest skepticism about his identity, and yet, all of a sudden, these guards were suspicious. Wims felt a trickle of sweat run down his neck and between his shoulder blades. He decided to give his monk a nasty cough, in hopes the guards would be anxious to move him along. The guards were well-trained, though, because no matter how thick Wims laid it on, they took their time in asking his particulars – his name, where he’d come from, why he was visiting, where he hoped to stay and for how long. Fortunately, Wims was a skilled liar, elsewise, he’d have been detained for sure. At long last (or so it seemed to Wims), the guards lost interest in him and focused their attentions on whoever was next in line. He took that to mean he’d passed muster and was free to continue on his journey.
Steel, Blood & Fire (Immortal Treachery Book 1) Page 27
