“Skent,” Plotz shrugged. “It’s made from fermented Baleerian urine.”
Long was poleaxed. “Here’s what I wanna know,” he said, “what in the countless hells was wrong with the first man to try this stuff? I mean, what possesses a man to even consider something like this without knowing anything else about it?”
“The kick, you mean?”
“Aye, the kick. Not knowing that part even exists, why would someone get near this stuff in the first place, much less put it to his lips?”
Yendor Plotz laughed as he thought of it, and Long joined him.
“Yep, that’s some right nasty shit.”
“Oh, mate, it’s that and then some.”
“But, again, there’s that kick.”
“Yes, yes.” Long found himself feeling rather light of limb and somewhat mischievous.
“Care for another taste?” Plotz inquired.
Uncharacteristically, Long giggled. “Don’t mind if I do!”
*****
It was an epic struggle just rising into a kneeling position and Long felt, not for the first time, that maybe he had a drinking problem. Oh, he didn’t drink often. But when he did drink, the results were practically always catastrophic. Witness his current condition, a hangover worse than any he’d ever felt, worse than the mead that brought him into Mardine’s bed, worse than D’Kem’s fell potion, worse than anything. He might’ve come up with a suitable metaphor, if only he weren’t so devastated.
“Urmphllll…” someone groaned nearby.
Long was assaulted by the horrendous howling of the muscles, tendons and vertebrae in his neck as he turned his head to seek the source of that groan. His temples pounded like Mahnus’ own war drums. Two paces off, Yendor lay in a pool of his own creation, though Long was unwilling to ponder the substance of that creation.
“Ffffffuck. Me.” Yendor managed.
“Mind if I wait ‘til I’m not dead?” Long retorted sourly.
His new friend actually laughed. It was a painful, sickly sort of laugh; still, the bastard must have been superhuman.
A stretch of minutes passed, during which Long felt breathing was the most difficult task he’d ever undertaken. Finally, he said “I’m guessing the point of this little picnic was to teach me there are some things worse than the End-of-All-Things’ wrath…?”
Yendor laughed yet again.
Long did not. “I’m gonna hafta kill you when I feel better.”
“Fine by me,” Yendor moaned, rolling onto his back like some great, beached sea creature.
Long gave in and crashed back onto his back, as well. “The fuck drinks fermented piss that makes you yearn for death?”
More croaking laughter from the other man. “I knew I was gonna like you, General Pete, the moment I saw you.”
“Can’t imagine what you’d do if you hated me…”
“Prob’ly make you drink fresh piss!”
This time, even Long started laughing until his tears carved streaks down his filthy cheeks and made a sodden mess of the hair on the back of his head.
Time passed, and Long slowly became aware of the thrall, still shuffling to-and-fro to no apparent purpose. He sat up, surprised at his own resilience. Yendor had fallen asleep, snoring lustily despite his circumstances. Long battled his way to his feet and was reminded of the way toddlers do the same in their first few attempts.
The sun was setting. He’d wasted a whole day or, rather, wasted a wasted day. Didn’t that mean he’d redeemed it? He was still too muzzy to sort that out. What Long did know was that no one had come by to check on him or his charges all day, except for Yendor. Strange army, this was. A light breeze wafted through the camp and, setting aside the stench of his thralls, it felt rather pleasant on his face. The sound of purposeful footsteps approaching cleared his head in an instant.
“You General Fendesst?” a rather non-descript soldier in battle motley asked (battle motley, as experienced campaigners called it, was whatever mismatched assembly of armor and weapons a fighter could scrabble together in the field).
Long sighed. “Guess so.”
“The End wants to see you.”
‘The End?’ Long thought. Cute nickname for a monster.
It was a long, deeply depressing walk through the host’s maze of camps until Long and his guide reached their destination.
“In you go,” the other man said. “I weren’t invited, and I ain’t following.”
“Lucky for you,” Long replied.
The man turned without a word and disappeared into the gloom. Long entered the tent.
“General Fendesst,” an unwelcome voice crooned, “how are you enjoying your new…assignment?”
The-End-of-All-Things was in a distant corner of the huge tent, reclining on a large bearskin rug, next to the infant Long had glimpsed earlier. When Long failed to respond, the End prompted, “Come closer, man. It is difficult to have a civilized conversation when yelling across so much space.”
Absent other options, Long obeyed and drew nearer. Even spread out on the floor and playing with a small child, there was something ghastly about the sorcerer.
“Good,” the End said, “Good. Now, you didn’t answer my question: how are you enjoying your new assignment?”
Perhaps it was the lingering effect of the Skent, but Long felt unafraid of answering honestly. “I go by Long, and I am not. Enjoying it, I mean.”
The End nodded. “Well, then, you’re not completely stupid, are you? Nor cowardly, speaking your mind like that. To me.”
Long wasn’t sure what was expected of him.
“That lack of stupidity and cowardice might make you valuable to me. But I must have your complete loyalty.”
The silence that followed, though it must surely have been no more than a few seconds, seemed in Long’s mind to last an eternity.
“If you will turn to your right, General Long, you will find reason to prove loyal to me.”
The shock was almost overwhelming. Stepping out of a darkened corner Long hadn’t inspected on his way in were three guards pulling the chained form of…Mardine. A single second of eye contact and then she refused to look up at him, so miserable and ashamed was she. Long wondered if he could reach the End-of-All-Things and actually do any kind of damage to the man before being killed himself.
“I know what you’re thinking!” the End intoned in a sing-song voice. “I wouldn’t try it, if I were you, but I admire your pluck.”
Long watched in horror as the End passed something dead to the child to play with.
“And here’s why you’ll never betray me, General…”
“I’m no general.”
“But you are. Interrupt me again, though, and I’ll tear your lady love’s ears off and make you eat them. Where was I?” The End gazed at the child, as if expecting him to answer. “Ah, yes. Your loyalty. I believe I mentioned earlier that your giantess is with child. I wasn’t convinced you quite believed me, so I’ve brought you together so you can see the truth of it for yourself.”
Oh, he saw the truth of it. One look at Mardine’s defeated body language told him everything he needed to know. He felt as if he’d gone completely hollow and was slowly being filled up with ice water. The End broke into weirdly musical laughter at his discomfort.
“Amazing, is it not? I’m terribly curious to see the thing, of course. I’ll probably add it to my menagerie when it comes. I do so love a good curiosity. At the same time, you know, children are so malleable. Truth to tell, I’ve been getting a mite bored of this one,” he said, gesturing to the child by his side, “and the get of a man and a giant, well! Thrillingly bizarre!”
“You’re insane,” Long managed at last.
And found himself flying through the air and out of the tent, unable to breathe as if he’d been kicked by a score of horses. As he lay on his back, disoriented and in agony, the End came and stood over him.
“You will obey me, General. You will accede to my every wish and whim, and you
will address me with respect, or I will rip your child from the womb and immerse it in molten iron. Then, I will beat your love to death with the smoldering result and make you watch.”
Long dared not even inhale.
“Do you understand me, General?”
Long nodded.
“You are mine, now. Mine. And when we go to fight the Bitch Queen, you will command and fight and die for me.” The End’s eyes seethed with a fury the like of which Long had never seen or imagined. “That is all.”
*****
Vykers, On the Trail
I don’t believe it! The great Tarmun Vykers – the legendary warrior – ran away from a battle! Arune said.
If it hadn’t, I’d have been legendary for my stupidity and not my fighting, Vykers countered.
Still, I don’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved.
I’m not done, yet.
Oh?
Whoever’s commanding that shambles they call an army seems bent and determined to waste every last body they’ve got in pursuit of us.
Of you.
Yes. Down south, I could lead them into a desert and watch them all die of thirst and exposure.
Ah. But there are no deserts up here, are there? Too rainy and cold by half. We…Arune paused, chuckled. I think I’ve got just the thing, she said finally.
*****
Shere, In Pursuit of Vykers
His fate had been sealed in that last engagement, Shere realized. The only excuse for losing his grunts on such a massive scale was in capturing Tarmun Vykers. But Shere had not done so. He’d never even come close. In fact, it was now painfully evident he hadn’t the right resources for the game of cat-and-mouse his quarry proposed. Overwhelming numbers alone were not the answer; guile was, and Shere had precious little of that.
One of the other “generals” approached, but Shere thought of the man as little more than a glorified sergeant. “What’s the damage?” Shere asked him.
The other man shook his head, sneered at nothing in particular. “Over five thousand dead, another three-or-so going to it shortly.”
“That’s more than a quarter of our army,” Shere said, more to himself than his confederate.
“What do you want to do?”
Shere became angry. “Want? What do I want to do?” Flecks of spittle sprayed the other man as Shere heated up. “Want’s got nothing to do with it, has it? We fucking press on. We catch that bastard Vykers and bring him back in chains, or the End’ll make us howl for it!”
The target of his outburst saluted weakly and walked off. Shere would like to have been ashamed of himself, but he hated everyone and everything associated with this pathetic army and the greater host to which it belonged. He was damned, and he knew it. The only question that really bothered him was why he hadn’t the courage to kill himself and be done with it.
*****
Vykers, In the Moors
Having skirted the moors days ago, the chimeras were of course mystified to be returning and actually entering them now. But inquiries as to the purpose of such action were always greeted with Vykers’ enigmatic grin and an equally cryptic “you’ll see” or something similar. Normal men might have received such a paucity of information with predictable trepidation. Not being normal, however, the chimeras were only perplexed. They had even learned to adopt Vykers’ characteristic shrug, as if to say “It makes no difference to me, one way or the other.” The very fact they were asking, however, told Vykers that it did. In straights as dire as theirs and surroundings as bleak, these little games were sometimes the only things that kept them sane.
The hard, reliable ground they’d all been used to gradually gave way to tussocks and clumps of softer soil, floating in mossy bogs.
How far’d you say this thing is across? Vykers asked the Shaper.
That depends on your speed, of course, but days and days, by anybody’s measure.
Days and days, is it? I like it.
I thought you might, Arune answered wryly.
A dense, almost tangible mist began to seep up from the mire, reaching knee and sometimes belt height, making the search for solid footing evermore difficult. To Vykers’ surprise, the chimeras seemed possessed of some instinctive knowledge of such things and had no difficulty scouting the path for him.
“Where’d you learn how to do that?” Vykers wondered aloud.
“Here and there,” Number 3 said, smiling sheepishly.
Vykers laughed: they were giving his own back to him. “But can you lead us to the center?” he asked, seriously.
This time, it was Number 17 who responded. “I believe we can, Master. Yes.”
“Good,” Vykers nodded. “Good.”
It got dark so early, the Reaper felt a tinge of uncertainty.
That’s the mist, Arune assured him. We’ve only just now passed mid-day.
Huh. I guess you and the boys’ll have to tell us when to camp, then, ‘cause I can’t tell my ass from my elbow in this soup.
Arune sighed. Ah, the quips we forego in the name of friendship.
Friendship?
Stranger things have happened.
Vykers glanced ahead to the dim shapes of the chimeras. Truer words were never…whispered in someone’s head by a ghost.
In full health, the Reaper was not a man to get tired, period. But he’d never slogged through an endless marsh before, either. The good news, as he saw it, was that it would be a worse hell for his pursuers. It had to be. After some time, Vykers was ready to bed down for the day.
“Where’s a good place to make camp?” he asked aloud.
“There’s a small island just off to the left a few hundred strides. It should be sufficient for the four of us,” Number 3 replied.
“Five. Five of us,” Number 17 reminded him, “counting the other Shaper.”
Wading through the muck, Vykers slipped, sank and had to be rescued more than once.
“This does wonders for a man’s self-image,” he grumbled.
I’m sure your self- image will be just fine, Arune answered.
The promised island was little more than a glorified clump of moss and roots, but Vykers was glad to finally climb ashore and get off his feet. The whole island settled a bit deeper into the water once the others joined him and bobbed ever so slightly with their movements.
“One more man and we’d likely sink,” Vykers said, giving voice to everyone’s thoughts, and then “Can anyone get a fire going?” This was something he’d done himself countless times, but with two Shapers in their number, he had no qualms in passing that frustrating chore along.
“I will do it,” Number 17 replied, as Vykers had suspected he would.
If you want me to do something, why not just say so? Arune asked.
What, the fire? No, I want you to do that thing you do, scout the surroundings for potential threats.
Uh-huh. And what are you going to do?
Vykers stretched out on an especially lush patch of moss. Sleep. A sullen silence greeted him. Look, Burn, I’m a fighter. Show me something to kill, and I’ll kill it. This other stuff? Scouting, hunting, starting fires? You four are better at that, and we all know it. So: you do what you’re good at. Time comes, I’ll do what I’m good at.
You’re pretty good at giving orders, Arune quipped.
But Vykers was already asleep.
*****
Vykers awoke with a painful frost on his tongue and a roaring susurration in his ears. Hundreds, thousands of minute swatches of darkness swirled about him, diving at his face as if seeking entrance to his body. He could feel them leaching at his warmth, sucking the heat right out of him. So numerous were they, Vykers had trouble seeing the four chimeras, though he could hear them struggling well enough.
Arune!
Working on it!
Vykers felt blindly, frantically for his sword. A blade would be useless in this situation, but maybe…He found it, ripped it from its scabbard and was instantly greeted with a sound like a chorus
of midsummer firecrackers, multiplied by a thousand. All around him, the little specks of darkness exploded in showers of sparks. The few that escaped that fate raced, hissing, off into the moors.
“Anybody wanna tell me what that was all about?”
The chimeras shrugged. Or at least Vykers thought they did.
Would that I could.
That’s helpful. I thought you Burners knew everything.
Steel, Blood & Fire (Immortal Treachery Book 1) Page 30
