“Why have you kept this from me?” Aoife demanded. She had no reason, she felt, other than the sense she’d lost control, somehow.
“We had no need to visit thriving forests. Ours was – is – the task of planting them where there are none.”
“And what has changed?”
“There is forest on either side of your brother’s intended battlefield.”
Which meant she and her children – no, the children of Nar, if she was honest – would be able to attack her brother when his focus was elsewhere, potentially helping to bring him down. Yet…
“I cannot abandon these little ones,” she said. “I simply cannot.”
The satyr tilted his head, as if something had just occurred to him. “There is another option.”
*****
It was by far the fastest of Aoife’s gestations, lasting from roughly the time Toomt’-La had suggested the idea until moonrise of that night. But it was also the one she felt most needful of. It would turn this broken little village into woodland, disguising it, perhaps, from raiders and scavengers, while at the same time providing her collection of orphans with eldritch guardians. The resultant forest might even lead to a sort of rapprochement between humans and the children of Nar. Aoife could dream, if nothing else.
In the morning, Aoife felt apprehensive as she prepared to introduce her offspring to the village orphans, but she needn’t have worried. Children are nothing, if not resilient. With the exception of Tadpole, every one of the kids seemed spellbound by the collection of goblins, fairies, imps and sprites. It was a smaller brood than usual, but, given the circumstances, Aoife was more than pleased. Perhaps she had planted more than a forest here; perhaps she had founded a new type of community.
Glancing over at Tadpole, her buoyant mood faltered.
“You’re fixin’ to leave now.” It was not a question.
Aoife stepped near him and touched his face. She found she could calm him. “I am going to war, young one. All you have seen and experienced – horrible though it was – is a drop in the ocean of what is to come for me.”
Calm, yes, but still irrepressible. “You need me.”
“Aye,” Aoife smiled. “That I do. I need you to protect my young while they grow. Once grown, they’ll protect you, in turn, until I can rejoin you.”
Tadpole sniffed. “You’ll come back?” he asked. “You mean it?”
“I swear by Alheria’s light, by Mahnus’ hammer and by the Forest of Nar itself. You will see me again.”
“I’d better.” And then he was off, eagerly stepping into the crowd of Aoife’s children.
“Shall we go to battle?” Toomt’-La asked from a shadowy corner.
*****
Vykers, On the Trail
Gods, it was good to see the sky again. Even if it was grey and threatened snow. “Damn me, if I ever go near a moors again,” Vykers exclaimed.
We shook our pursuers, Arune reminded him.
And lost one of our number, too.
Ah, but you’re still alive. That’s what matters, eh?
“Master,” Number 17 said, gesturing to the south. “Something comes.”
Arune?
It’s an Essuragh.
A what?
Before the Shaper could answer, a small bat fluttered into view.
It’s carrying an Essuragh – a sort of lodestone for magic.
“Shall I destroy it?” Number 17 asked.
No!
“Er…no. No, let’s wait and see what this is.”
Without knowing why, Vykers extended his right hand, and the creature flew towards it, not a bat after all, but a tiny gargoyle. With an odd purring sound, it landed gently on Vykers’ outstretched fingers. In its left foot, it gripped an iridescent purplish bead.
“Just when I think I’ve seen…” the Reaper began.
“Tarmun Vykers?” the creature croaked, in a voice several times too large to have come from its body.
“Yes,” was all he could think to say.
The thing chirruped. “Please wait.”
Vykers looked over at his companions, each of whom was every bit as confused.
Burner?
It’s a messenger of some sort, I’m guessing. The Essuragh in its claw drew it towards us.
Right, and?
I don’t know. Wait, I suppose.
“I don’t like waiting!” Vykers said aloud.
The creature did not respond, but climbed up his arm to sit on his shoulder.
“What am I waiting for?”
“Please wait,” was all he got in response.
“Wait. That’s fuckin’ great.” Vykers took a deep breath. “Boys,” he said, “let’s see if we can scare up a real meal, huh?”
The chimeras grinned and bolted off in different directions; the hunt was on.
“I guess I’ll find some firewood while I wait,” he said, placing special emphasis on the last word.
In no time, game was roasting over a small but serious fire, and Vykers was, again, lying back and relaxing. The chimeras wolfed down enormous chunks of raw flesh, occasionally tossing a tidbit or two to the gargoyle, who had found a new perch on Vykers’ right foot. The Reaper pulled off his gloves and examined his hands. His fingers and toes had been tingling ever since he’d eaten the chimera’s liver. Now he knew why: his nails had hardened and grown into sharp, mean-looking points. He sat up.
“Hey, boys, what am I supposed to do with these?” he asked, somewhat accusingly.
The three chimeras looked at one another, and Number 3 said “Retract them?”
“Retract? What do you mean ‘retract?” But almost as soon as he said it, Vykers understood. It was an odd sensation, but not entirely unpleasant. He started laughing. “I’ve got claws. I’ve got Mahnus-be-damned claws!” The chimeras smiled sheepishly at him, as if he wasn’t quite right in the head.
I always knew you were a beast, Arune added.
Yes, and be glad of it!
“The war has begun,” the gargoyle suddenly said in an all-too-familiar voice.
“Your Majesty,” Vykers said. “You’re looking well.”
“As you, alas, are not. You look like you’ve been living in a cesspool these last few weeks.”
“You’re not far off the mark. Tell me what’s happened.”
It was weird and beyond weird speaking to the Queen through the little gargoyle. The gravity of her message, however, overrode all other thoughts for Vykers.
“The lunatic – I will not call him the ‘End-of-All-Things’ – has surprised us by attacking at the onset of winter.”
“Thought he’d wait ‘til conditions were more favorable, did you?”
“A reasonable assumption, but a lesson learned notwithstanding.”
“If the battle’s started, I don’t see how I can help you, magic sword or no.”
“My Shapers have the ability to get you there almost immediately. But you won’t have had time to meet the troops, structure your command, formulate strategy…”
A mischievous gleam came to Vykers’ eye. “Please wait,” he said and went inside to talk to Arune.
“Wait?” the gargoyle croaked. “This is no time for your cheek, warrior! I brought you down before and I can do so again.” The Queen ranted for another minute or so before Vykers spoke aloud again.
“Can your Shapers get me behind the enemy, say, a league or so?”
The gargoyle stopped jabbering, its mouth hanging open. When the Queen spoke again, her voice was quiet, steely. “What are you planning, Tarmun Vykers?”
“You said the enemy surprised you. What do you say we surprise him right back?”
“I don’t like asking twice: what are you planning?”
Vykers leaned forward, tore a piece of meat off the haunch in the fire. “You’re gonna have to trust me, Your Majesty. Just like I have to trust your Shapers won’t drop me into a crevasse somewhere.”
“Fine!” the gargoyle-cum-Queen snapped. “You may as well eat you
r fill. This will take a few minutes’ time to prepare.”
Vykers, I wouldn’t…
Oh, leave me be. I’m hungry, and I’m gonna eat.
Suit yourself, Arune retorted.
*****
Vykers was on his hands and knees, vomiting so violently, he felt sure he’d bust a rib.
I tried to warn you, Arune protested.
Fuckin’ Shapers. Don’t think I’ve ever been so dizzy in my…Vykers puked again. At least, he noted, the chimeras weren’t faring much better.
A half hour later, he sat on his ass on the frosted ground and stared at a fixed spot between his knees. “I think I can stand now.” And so he did.
All hail, the mighty Vykers!
There was a haze across the southern horizon that could only have been the enemy’s host. ’S a big fuckin’ army, all right. You work things out with 17?
We’ve already started, Arune said.
*****
Deda, the Queen’s Castle
Her Majesty looked disappointed. “You’ve survived,” she said dryly.
“Only just,” Wims admitted, finally allowed to sit up on the table to which he’d been chained. All his joints ached as if he’d been stretched on the rack; perhaps there had been a physical element to his torture, after all.
“I’ve decided to accept your offer,” the Queen said. “You now work for me. Times being what they are, I believe I can use someone with your lack of…convictions, shall we say.”
Wims wasn’t completely brainless. “What do I have to do?”
“I like the way you put that – ‘what do I have to do’ – it shows an accurate assessment of your situation. You have to do as I command. And what I command is for you to return to your former employer and pretend to resume your…whatever it was you did for him.”
“I won’t be welcome if I come back without having done, er, some damage to Your Majesty.”
“Which is precisely why my staff have already begun spreading rumors of horrible crimes perpetrated against me and my inner circle by an unknown assailant. We’ve even come up with a few sadly unidentifiable corpses to lend veracity to the claims. Try to stand now.”
Slowly, Wims pushed forward and slid his legs down onto the floor. Excruciating pain shot up both legs. After several deep breaths, He hobbled across the room in order to work more blood into his legs. “Don’t know as I can ride a horse in this condition.”
“Who said anything about you riding? Time is short. My Shapers will have to send you.”
If there was one thing Wims didn’t like, it was magic. The End used it of course, so Wims swallowed his fears and suspicions. “Yeah, well, about that…”
“This is not negotiable. Remember where you are and to whom you are speaking.”
“Yes. Your Majesty.” Then he had a thought. “There is one other thing, though. Something I’m supposed to bring back to the End-of-All-Things.”
“You refer to that mummified head.” Not a question.
Wims was flabbergasted. “Is there nothing you don’t know about?”
The Queen smiled a brief, secretive smile and changed the subject. “You’ll need to bathe and change your clothes. We can’t have you returning to your former employer smelling like a jakes.”
“Nor a lord, neither, Your Majesty.”
“Just so.” She turned to the friar. “Take Mr. Deda to the room we’ve prepared. See him washed, fed, and dressed appropriately. Make sure he doesn’t leave before our Shapers arrive.” Without another word, she stepped towards the door.
“Eh…Your Majesty…”
The Queen went rigid, turned back at glacial speed. “Something else, Mr. Deda?”
If a man didn’t stand up for himself, who would? “I was just wondering what sort of, uh, pay I might get for this job?”
The response was a while in coming. “I am unclear as to how it has escaped your notice that I have your life in my hands.” The Queen glanced down at those hands and wrenched one of the numerous rings off her fingers. Imperiously, she thrust it into Wims’ face. “Take it. I’m too old to wear that particular gem, anyway, and it will lend credence to your tale. Now, do not speak to me again, Mr. Deda, or I will have your tongue out.”
He could not meet her eyes, so he examined the ring she’d given him instead. A man could buy a farm with such a ring.
“Let us go,” the friar/torturer said.
*****
A hot bath and an abundance of sack put Wims in a better mood than he’d enjoyed in ages. Truth to tell, he couldn’t remember feeling better. Oh, his joints and muscles still ached, but, on the whole, he’d have to argue he’d come out on top again. He experienced a brief moment of trepidation when two servants came in with his supper, because he worried it might be poisoned. But that made no sense: the Queen could have killed him any number of ways. Indeed, she seemed the kind of ruler who’d shove the dagger in your guts herself. Confident the enormous, diverse and tantalizing meal before him was not poisoned, Wims dug in with gusto.
Of course, it was poisoned.
*****
Janks & Company, Before the Battle
It was colder than Mahnus’ balls in a snow drift in Janks’ opinion, and, judging by the mobs of men packed around campfires, he wasn’t alone in that belief. But even had it been warmer, he wouldn’t have been able to sleep. Within the hour, he knew, the eastern sky would begin to lighten, which meant – just being realistic – he had as little as sixty minutes to live.
A pair of tall, shiny boots appeared to Janks’ left. He didn’t need to look up to know who’d come calling.
“One of us’ll be dead soon,” Kittins growled. “But I promise we’ll bury your corpse…after I’m done shittin’ on it.”
What has a dead man got to lose? Janks stood up, chest-to-chest with the sergeant. “Little confused about which side yer on, there, big man?” Kittins sneered at him. “I’m fighting for the Queen, myself,” Janks said. “How about you?”
Kittins scanned the rest of the crew around the campfire; all eyes were on him. “I’m fighting for the Queen, too,” was all he could manage. He spit on Janks’ boots and walked away.
“One down,” Janks muttered to himself, “hundred thousand to go…”
Somehow, Spirk heard him. “You really think there’s a hundred thousand of ‘em?”
“You tell me,” Janks replied. “You was in their camp, right?”
“Right, but…I can’t count that high.”
Bash guffawed. “Fancy numbers don’t matter, anyways. Only question in war is, who’s got more troops, them or us?”
“Them,” Spirk answered.
“There’s your answer, then.”
“Of course,” Rem chimed in, “there are plenty of stories of smaller armies besting larger ones.”
“Let’s hear one, then!” Janks said.
“Ah!” Rem said, settling into a comfortable position nearer the flames, “one of my favorites has to be the surprising victory of the Desetorian Elites against the Jebuur Nation…”
*****
Long, Before the Battle
“Wannanother?” Yendor asked.
“Nah. No thanks. Guess I’ll die sober and defy the gods.”
Yendor laughed good and hard at that one. “Not me,” he said. “If I’m gonna die, I don’t wanna feel it.” He drained the last of the Skent and fished around in his coat pockets for more.
“Anyway,” Long sighed, “I rather expect another visit from the master before hostilities begin.”
“All the more reason for drinkin’!”
“Then I think I’ll leave you to it, my friend. Best of luck in the battle.”
Yendor snored in response.
Long Pete would be dead by noon, one way or another. He was certain of it. Well, and about time, he figured. Short Pete was probably tired of waiting for him to cross over. Long felt he should dedicate a few moments’ thought to Mardine and his unborn child, but it all seemed so futile. No matter how hard, ho
w loud or how often he prayed, the giantess would never hear him, would never know he was actually proud of their relationship and only ashamed of the end he’d brought her to. He hoped his son had a chance to be born, a chance to live and to grow. He hoped his son would become a better man than he’d been, leading a more purposeful, less self-indulgent life. He hoped his son never knew self-pity.
Steel, Blood & Fire (Immortal Treachery Book 1) Page 39
