“We’ll leave him behind, then,” D’Kem said, “Unless you fancy lifting him back into his saddle.”
Spirk, goggle-eyed, could only shake his head in response.
D’Kem made a dry, chuffing noise that sounded like it might evolve into laughter in a couple of years. “You needn’t worry, lad. They’re asleep. I’ll keep the men that way and rouse the horses when we need to go.”
“But how do we…?”
“We’ll each climb up and ride behind one of these scouts. From a distance, it’ll look like we’re their prisoners, or perhaps part of their party. At any rate, I can deal with anyone who gets too curious.”
Spirk believed it and was uncharacteristically silent.
“Nothing remains, but we take these bastards back to Major Bailis.”
Spirk’s thoughts drifted back to Long Pete and Mardine. He hated abandoning them like this.
*****
Long, the End’s Host
He was talking to Yendor when he saw the man’s eyes go wide and the color drain from his face. The other man even took a step backwards and lowered his head in submission. Without turning, Long knew the End-of-All-Things was behind him. Steeling himself, he did turn. The sorcerer frightened him, anyway, standing a mere foot from Long’s face. Now, it was Long who took a step back.
Without introduction, the End-of-All-Things held up a familiar flask and asked “Where is the Shaper who made this elixir?”
How to reply? “I’ve not seen him or the boy since you summoned me from that first holding pen.” Long said.
The End-of-All-Things was silent, ruminative. He looked around as if seeing his surroundings for the first time. “Tell me everything you know of this Shaper,” he commanded.
Long didn’t hesitate. “He’s an old burn-out. I didn’t even want to travel with him at first, truth be told. Didn’t see how he could help the squad.”
“The fellow’s name?”
“D’Kem. Anyhow, that’s what everyone calls him.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Well,” Long hedged, “I’ve known of him for a couple of years. But known him? We’ve only been working together a scant two months.”
“During which time, you witnessed him doing what, exactly? As a Shaper?”
Long laid it on. “Not bloody much. Set a guy’s beard on fire once when a friend’s life was a stake. The friend died and the Shaper fell back asleep. ‘Nother time, I saw him kill an archer with an exploding arrow. He mighta started a campfire or two. Things like that.”
The End-of-All-Things frowned, held the flask up again. “Do you know the purpose of this elixir?”
Now, Long could share without reservation. “It’s nasty stuff. I was stupid enough to try some once…”
“You tasted this?” the End asked, astonished. “Whatever possessed you to do that?”
“I dunno. Thought it was some sort of special liquor.”
The End considered Long with an appraising eye. “I’ll have to reassess both your physical strength and your intelligence. The one’s much better than I’d assumed; the other, much worse. This…stuff…is meant to disable the ability to Shape and blunt the desire to try. Presumably, then, it alleviates the burning that most Shapers feel constantly, to one degree or another.” He paused. “If your D’Kem drank this regularly and was still able to walk and converse – to say nothing of casting minor spells – he’s much, much more than you took him for.” Another pause. “How does it feel to have been deceived for so long, by one so close to you?”
What he did not say, Long deduced, was that D’Kem had somehow escaped and the End, remarkably, felt threatened by the old burn-out. Long tried a different tack. “And the boy? Is he still…?”
“I have no interest in the cretin.” the End responded. “But I do have one other item of interest to you: my scouts have located a village a day’s ride to the northwest. As you may have surmised, it has been my practice to raze villages and press the most-able of their citizens into my host. Tomorrow, you and I will travel to this village and, in order to make myself thoroughly understood, I will kill every last man, woman, child or animal I find. This, I do on your behalf, so that you will know I have both the will and the means to do what I say.”
Long about collapsed in horror. “That is not…necessary. I believe you. I believe you are, as you say, the ‘End-of-All-Things.”
The sorcerer smirked. “You would have me spare them?”
Long nodded.
“Beg.”
Long sank to his knees, bowed his head. “I beg you…master. I beg you not to do this thing.”
“Kiss my feet.”
Inwardly, Long wept. If he produced any real tears, he was too shaken to notice. He leaned forward and kissed the End’s left boot. Before he got to the right, the End erupted in laughter.
“You may as well entreat the night not to fall. I will see you bright and early tomorrow morning, my slave.”
Long fell back onto his haunches, stunned. There seemed no bottom to the misery, the despair he was capable of feeling in the End’s company. Every day brought something worse, and yet Long’s heart continued to beat.
*****
The End
Predictably, he got no sleep that night. And he hoped his newest general hadn’t, either. The End-of-All-Things did not require as much sleep as most men, but when he got less than he wanted, it was bad for his officers and worse for everyone else. He was vexed and beyond vexed when he pondered the escaped Shaper, D’Kem – if that was even his real name. The “old burn-out” was clearly nothing of the sort. What he was for a certainty was a troubling and troublesome mystery. How had he resisted the compulsion, the magical nutlike pellet the End had literally fed him? Anders couldn’t compass letting the man flout him in this manner. And quite apart from that problem, he had learned that General Shere hadn’t fared well in his first brush with Tarmun Vykers. He hadn’t expected immediate success, but, from everything he’d seen, it didn’t appear Shere laid a finger on him, while sustaining massive casualties himself. Finally, Anders hadn’t heard from General Deda in too long. He understood the man had stashed the Scaldean head somewhere outside of Lunessfor, as instructed. But Anders had not reckoned on weeks and weeks going by with no word whatsoever, and the myriad spell-wards on the Queen’s castle made it nigh impossible to gain any further information.
In short, things were not going as well as they ought, and Anders was more than ready to take his frustrations out on a few thousand hapless peasants. Yes, yes, it was akin to pulling the wings off butterflies, but the End-of-All-Things would take his little pleasures wherever he could find them. And, anyway, the best part of the carnage would be laying it all on General Long’s head. One way or another, he would break the man to his will, while still leaving him just enough sanity to insure he remained useful. For someone who bore a more than passing resemblance to a barnyard chicken, General Long had proven surprisingly resilient.
*****
Long, the End’s Host
The End-of-All-Things got his wish: Long also got no sleep that night. Awaiting a village’s execution, he decided, could not have been much different from awaiting his own. The only distinction, as he saw it, was that with luck – bad luck – he’d survive the day and have to live with the guilt and horror of it. Before he went completely mad, however, Long found himself distracted in thinking about D’Kem. What did he really know of the man? They’d lived in the same town for a couple of years, yes, but Long had never seen him as anything more than a wastrel, a has-been, or perhaps even a never-was. Now, somehow, the Shaper had managed to escape the End-of-All-Things’ host and had taken the boy, Spirk, with him. That, at least, was good news. He’d never thought much of the young man’s ability or prospects, but, strangely, had grown somewhat fond of him anyhow. Or maybe the desperate nature of Long’s situation had made him maudlin. It was all one: he would have relished anyone’s company – save the End-of-All-Things’ – in the dark
hours before dawn. When nothing emerged to distract him further, he considered suicide. For one heartbeat, maybe two. The fact was, he still felt an unquenchable and inexplicable spark of hope that somehow he and his would emerge on the winning side of this catastrophe; he felt an equally stubborn thorn of responsibility, pricking his conscience on behalf of Mardine, their child, Spirk, D’Kem, Janks and all the others. And Short. Always, Short.
There’s no night so long that self-torture can’t devour it in time.
For someone so unquestionably evil, the End-of-All-Things had proven surprisingly spontaneous. He was actually singing when he arrived outside Long’s dismal little pup tent in the morning.
“There be a young maiden in Fallaree
Whom all the young lads want to bed
But lacking a suitable dowry,
There’s nary a one she will wed.”
He might have been accounted a fair singer were it not for the disconcertingly sadistic gleam in his eye, which made it impossible to enjoy his voice.
“Still abed, you sluggard?” the End teased.
Long felt goose bumps rise on his arms and neck. He climbed to his feet.
The End studied him for a moment before speaking. “You don’t look well, General. Have you been eating?”
Oh, that’s rich. “I’m having a little…difficulty adjusting to…life…in your camp.”
“Yes, well, it’s not life in the camp we’re concerned with this morning, but death in the village,” the End reminded him.
Long tried a final time. “With all respect…Lord…this ain’t…isn’t…necessary. I fully believe you are in earnest. Only a fool would seek to test you.”
“Well spoken!” the End beamed, clapping his hands together. “But, as I’ve rather been looking forward to this, I’m afraid I can’t possibly change my plans now. Are you ready to leave?”
It was hopeless. “Do you mind if I…that is, would it be alright if I…er…relieved myself before we go?”
The End blew his lips out in irritation. “If needs must. Be quick about it. Do not try my patience.”
Long limped off in the direction of the pit latrines, too weary even to talk to himself along the way. Every day was worse than its predecessor. Every new moment brought fresh horrors and indignities. Surely, there was a limit to how much a man could endure before he imploded. Perhaps creatures like the End-of-All-Things existed solely to test that limit. Finished with his business, Long returned to his tent.
“Time to go!” the End roared, as he reached out and grabbed his general by the left shoulder.
There was a sudden collision of sound, light and darkness, a furious rushing of winds, and then Long was thrown to the ground, where he indulged in a few moments of dry heaves before his nemesis yanked him to his feet again. They were elsewhere. The grass was longer here, not having been trodden into the mud by the tireless feet of countless thralls. In the near distance, the thatched roofs of the doomed village peeped over a small hill. Smoke crept upwards from two or three chimneys, and Long caught the scent of bacon.
The End must’ve read his mind, because he turned sharply to his prisoner and said “You’ll never want bacon again after today. Come.”
Long was powerless to resist. To his horror, the village was sizeable, which meant more death than he’d imagined at first glance. The End led him into a central square, pleasant and quaint by anyone’s standards. The charm of the place was killing the old soldier. Snug in their cottages, the locals, Long thought, were blissfully unaware that the End was nigh. Ha! Calamitous choice of words: the end was nigh because the End was nigh.
The sorcerer looked at Long. “Now,” he began, “I can’t have you mucking this up for me, playing the fool and attempting to warn these people. The greatest purpose they will ever achieve is in serving as the instruments of my lesson to you. They await my pleasure, and before this hour is up, you will see that I am all that will ever matter to you for the rest of your life.” In a flash, his hand snaked out from his sleeve and his forefinger brushed ever so gently against Long’s brow, completely immobilizing him. “Watch, wonder and learn.”
The sky, which had been brightening with the advent of dawn, began to reverse course and grow darker. The End shot both arms over his head, and the heavens began to rain fire upon the thatched rooftops all across the village. This was followed by the first sounds of alarm within those cottages nearest the square. Now, the End reached towards the earth, making an eerie keening sound, and a deep rumbling shook the ground beneath Long’s feet. Huge cracks opened between the cobblestones of the various paths leading to and from the square. A figure burst from a smoking building, but was unable to escape the End’s attention. In the next moment, the luckless fellow dissolved in a mist of blood and bile. Across the square, another two peasants emerged from their cottage, only to be dispatched in like fashion. By this point, fire had taken hold of every structure in town, whilst great, thundering tremors toppled walls and tore enormous holes in the earth. An angry red cloud emanated from the End’s open mouth, spreading eagerly as it searched nearby windows and doors with an unholy hunger. Where it found life, the red mist grew until Long felt sure there was nothing left in the world but blood and fire. In the distance, screams rang out with ever greater frequency and emotion, desperation and terror plain in their discordant melodies. On top of the horrific sights and sounds, the odors that began to assault Long’s nostrils threatened to snap his tenuous hold on sanity. The End had been correct, though, in saying Long would never want bacon again.
For a brief period, the beset villagers came to recognize the source of their misery and attempted an armed response. A few of them on every side took up swords, axes, farm tools and anything else that came to hand. But it was all for naught: the End was not to be bested today, not by such as these. He exulted as he drew his sword: nothing was more fulfilling, more exhilarating than sword work, especially with this sword. The thing eagerly leapt from its scabbard at the promise of bloodshed, racing from target to target, as if the more it fed, the hungrier it became. The End seemed merely an extension of his blade, instead of the other way ‘round, an anchor in space from which it could lash out without danger of becoming lost or embroiled in actions too far from home. It was a fell and foul thing, to Long’s eye, an unlovely shard of steel that seemed to grow uglier and more vicious with each swing of its master’s arm.
Forced to witness this endless butchery, Long found himself praying to Time, that it might quicken its pace for mercy’s sake. But Time had never been merciful. There was nothing she could not, did not reduce to dust in the end. And therein lay Long’s only solace, that even the End-of-All-Things would know an end, some day. Alas that Long would not be there to see it.
The massacre continued around him, as, at last, his mind began to drift.
*****
Aoife and Toomt’-La, In the Forest
Despite all the magic and the ever-rejuvenating effect of Toomt’-La’s company, Aoife was growing genuinely weary of her new destiny. She had birthed several broods and could not fully embrace the notion of continuing to do so endlessly. Toomt’-La, always alert to her moods, reached out to her.
“You are…anxious?”
“I do not think I can do this forever.”
The satyr’s eyes twinkled with unspoken mirth. “You cannot, no. Yet, no one is asking that of you.”
Aoife pushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “It does feel that way, sometimes.”
“Ah, but look what you have accomplished!” Toomt’-La beamed. “You have done much to return the forest to the world. And in so doing, you have established a wall against your brother’s retreat, should he be so foolish.”
“Tell me.”
“His army remains to our west. To his south lies the mighty kingdom of your Virgin Queen. She, in turn, has wisely sent a portion of her forces to your brother’s southwest, although I do not think they will plant themselves there. With luck, we shall have him surrounded.
> “But…”
“Yes, but. Always but.” Toomt’-La laughed. “There are those others I spoke of, as well. Do not underestimate them.”
“And be sure you do not underestimate my brother.”
For a moment, Aoife thought she’d gone too far. The satyr’s expression darkened dramatically and he sneered at the ground. “Not again, no. Never again.”
Neither spoke for some time, and then Toomt’-La said “But a few more birthings, Mother-sister. This brother of yours grows impatient. Whatever we achieve must of force serve our turn.”
Aoife took the satyr’s strangely rough and smooth hand and resumed her journey.
That night, she dreamt of her past-self, of her childhood and her parents. Curiously, there was no trace of her brother. Later, her dreams dragged her again through her failed marriage, the many occasions she felt she could almost love Bres, and the hollow, desolate feeling she’d known when at last he left her. She then saw herself entering the Sisterhood and reliving the many trials she’d endured on her way to becoming A’Shea. She watched herself travelling a dark road, as tendrils and roots reached up from the earth and snatched at her robes and leggings. They wound about her torso and sought entrance into her eyes, ears, nose and mouth. Struggling, dream-Aoife screamed, vomiting leaves into the sky. Looking down, she saw her skin shifting and cracking as it turned into tree bark. An explosion, an eruption was coming.
Steel, Blood & Fire (Immortal Treachery Book 1) Page 32
