How long do you think they’ll hold out?
Hard to tell from this angle. Maybe a day.
The longer we can wait…
I know, you told me: the better our results. Vykers looked over at the chimeras. “Three, think you can sneak around through those woods and get a better look at this fight, a sense o’ how it’s going?”
Number 3 grinned wickedly. “I would be delighted.”
“Have a go, then.”
Number 3 raced off into the forest on the left side of the field and disappeared amongst the trees.
“Sorry, boys, I need you two with me,” Vykers told the remaining two.
*****
Were it not for his magic stone, Spirk would have passed out from the sheer terror of watching the thralls’ advance. He’d spent time with them, it was true, but he’d never seen them like this, so agitated and enraged. Once upon a time, his old man had been forced to put down a mad dog. The thing had been snarling and lunging at anyone who came near it, even its master. It had a festering wound on its hindquarters that was a sure sign of a run-in with something wild; that, and its erratic, aggressive behavior had been enough to seal its doom. These thralls reminded Spirk of that dog, only he didn’t think his Da could put ‘em down. Not with the world’s longest sword.
Spirk gripped his mace. Well, it was the army’s mace, but they’d lent it to him, along with a medium-sized shield that strapped to his arm and everything. Bash told him “Stay behind your shield and just smash, smash, smash with that mace. You’ll be fine.” Spirk hoped so, but he feared he might be smashing ‘til he was an old, old man. He stole a glance left and right, to see how his mates were faring. Janks wore a look of grim determination that Spirk very much admired and attempted to mimic. On him, though, it looked more like his privates were itching. Bash was grinning like a bloodthirsty wolf, whereas Rem had a look a grave concern. Kittins’ face was frighteningly devoid of expression, except for his eyes, which were very, very scary. The A’Shea – whose name Spirk had never learned – was huddled down in her robes, and the twins were, of course, off working with the rest of the archers. Spirk wondered how things were going for D’Kem and whether or not he’d see the old Shaper again.
*****
The End-of-All-Things had switched tactics, forcing D’Kem and the rest of the Queen’s Shapers to follow suit. The mad sorcerer abandoned the notion of trading Shaper-for-Shaper and had launched, instead, an all-out effort to eliminate the Queen’s archers, which threatened to divide D’Kem’s focus: he now needed to protect the bowmen, but he was also aware that, preoccupied as they were, the End’s magicians would be less prepared for an attack.
A sinister, supernatural cloud formed over the archers, none of whom missed its arrival or doubted its provenance. As their fears increased and their courage waned, sergeants demanded order, while themselves looking to higher-ups for further instruction.
D’Kem nudged the man next to him. “I think I can handle this thing, if the rest of you will do something to slow the assault on the ground.”
The other man curled his lip in contempt. “I hardly think…”
“We do not have time to argue. Attack the enemy, or join them!” D’Kem raged in the man’s face.
A black, tar-like substance began dripping from the sky above the archers. When it fell on men, they gasped and shouted in panic, which quickly became terror, as their armor dissolved and the flesh fell from their disintegrating bones.
“Attack the enemy!” D’Kem commanded his colleague again, before turning his attentions to the noxious cloud. Stretching his arms high and wide, D’Kem recited a spell in a language the other Shaper had never heard before. Unfamiliar though it was, he could not question its power. A strange shrieking noise whistled through the air in every direction, and the End’s cloud began to collapse in on itself.
Humbled and frightened, the other Shaper rushed to his nearest neighbors and began formulating a plan to attack the thralls.
Above, the cloud continued to shrink, its rain, to taper off. The cries of the wounded and dying below, however, showed no signs of letting up. Despite the cold, sweat streamed down D’Kem’s face and into his beard, so taxing was the effort he’d undertaken. His arms trembled, his knees buckled. And the cloud grew smaller.
Far away, the moaning of the thralls intensified.
“What did you decide to do?” D’Kem yelled over to the other Shapers.
The man he’d reprimanded earlier responded, “We raised the water table to the surface, Shaper.”
D’Kem grimaced at the cloud another moment or two and then laughed. “I like the way you think!” he exclaimed. Raising the water table would soften the ground. The countless feet stomping across it would soon turn it to mud. In no time, the End’s army would be wallowing in a quagmire.
With a tremendous effort, D’Kem reduced the End’s poisonous cloud to a dense black ball, perhaps three feet in diameter. Carefully, he lowered it to the ground. He might’ve yelled out that everyone should stay away from it, but that was clearly unnecessary. The Queen’s troops regarded it with undisguised horror.
“What are you going to do with that, my lord?” the other Shaper asked.
“Obsequiousness suits you no better than arrogance. Call me D’Kem” the older man answered. “As for that thing,” he said, pointed to the sphere, “I think we should load it into a trebuchet and send it back where it came from.”
The other Shaper smiled. And I like the way you think, he wanted to say.
*****
Unholy. The black shit was unholy, and that was all anyone ever needed to know about it. Janks had watched it raining onto the bowmen and some of the pikemen and could not have been more relieved that it hadn’t reached his particular trench. “All praise to Mahnus and Alheria” he whispered to himself, though he’d never before said such a thing. The unholy black shit had stopped falling, uphill. Downhill, the first wave of thralls was almost upon him. Without warning, Bash let out a terrifying war cry, making Janks’ heart pound an ominous tattoo in his chest. He decided he’d best yell, too, and let out a throat-rending scream. Not one to be left out, Spirk chimed in with a rather pathetic yelp. Rem alone remained silent.
Too soon, the thralls – a wall of shrieking, snarling fury – were upon them.
A ragged woman who had obviously once been quite fat threw herself at Janks and clawed at his eyes, while attempting to clamp her thighs around his chest. The stench she gave off just about toppled him, but he buried his axe in the base of her neck on her left side and plunged his knife into the copious folds of loose flesh at her midriff. The damage didn’t seem to slow her in the slightest. She scrambled for better purchase and tried biting Janks’ face. Withdrawing his blade, he brought it across the woman’s right forearm on the backslash. Her hand flopped useless to the side. When she turned, confused, to look at it, Janks smashed her in the face with his axe and pushed her aside. That’s one, he thought.
That was the last solo thrall he would see.
*****
The battlefield had become a swamp. Impossibly, water leached up through the soil, where countless feet churned everything to mud in seconds. The crowd around his horse thickened, as well, because the thralls in front of him were no longer able to run up the slope, whilst the ones behind kept pushing forward. Had he not been mounted, Long suspected he might’ve been uncontrollably claustrophobic. He’d long since lost sight of Yendor; with everything else going on around him, he simply didn’t have the time or energy to worry about his friend.
Long witnessed the arrival of the End’s cloud and its aftermath with morbid fascination, in the same way it is difficult to look away from an execution. Yet, he was heartened by the response of the Queen’s Shapers. Somehow, they’d managed to neutralize – transmute was a better word, an alchemist’s word – the End’s weapon until it fell from the sky in a small, black clump. He’d thought that was the last of it until he heard cheering from the Queen’s army. Looking
up, he saw the black stone streaking towards the heart of the End’s host. Without thought, he forced his mount forward, desperate to create as much space as possible between himself and the stone’s impact. Surging ahead, his horse smashed thralls out of his way left, right and downwards. Long didn’t care. All that mattered was getting as far from the black –
He didn’t hear it land, exactly, but he did hear the resultant hue and cry from thralls and mercenaries caught in its splash – a much different sound than that produced by the Queen’s men. Long assumed it was because the thralls were less aware, so their cries held less horror in them and more sadness. It was a mournful noise, is what it was. Except for the mercenaries, who screamed in a more-familiar hysteria. Inappropriate though it was, Long found himself smiling as he imagined the End’s reaction to being bombarded with his own evil.
*****
“Push the attack!” the-End-of-All-Things snarled at General Omeyo. “If we fought for a thousand years, they would still be unable to match our numbers. We shall bury them in bodies.”
Omeyo bowed his head and left without saying a word. It was a risky choice, but he knew his master’s moods and knew, too, that the End was preoccupied as he’d never been in the general’s experience.
To suggest that the End was vexed would be an understatement. His host was like an endless herd of Bospai, thundering across the plains. The Queen’s forces were the stinging flies that harried them every step of the way: no threat, really, but highly annoying – especially the nameless Shaper. No matter. The End would deal with him sooner or later, as he’d dealt with all other threats to his designs. An unexpected voice roused him from his musings.
“Master?”
General Deda. About the last man he’d expected to see. “You have failed, then?” The End asked with more than a trace of irritation in his voice.
The man actually looked offended. “No, master. I would have thought…I mean, have you not heard the news from Lunessfor?”
The End swept an arm across the meadow. “You may have noticed I’m a little busy at the moment,” he said sardonically. “What news?”
Naturally, Wims had rehearsed his report, but it came out awkwardly all the same. “Well, I, er, eliminated several of the Queen’s inner circle…her closest advisors…as you instructed.”
“And why do I feel you’re lying to me?” the End asked with obvious menace in his voice.
Wims’ hand shot out, opened. “Here’s one of her rings, master. I’m sure you can tell it’s genuine.”
The End extended two fingers and lifted the ring as if it were something unsavory. Then, he brought it closer with both hands, staring at it intently. After several seconds, a cold smile came to his lips. “You are indeed a clever man, General Deda. I would fain hear the story of how you came by this.” He paused. “Unfortunately, it will have to wait. I will not rest or meet with my commanders again until we’ve broken the enemy’s front. Go and refresh yourself, General, and then report to General Omeyo. And take this with you,” he added, tossing the ring back to Wims. “It stinks of rancid hag’s flesh.”
Wims had no great love for Omeyo, or anyone, really, but he was relieved to have escaped his master’s presence so easily. He’d expected the End-of-All-Things to see through his lies and incinerate him on the spot. That he had not simultaneously pleased and troubled Wims. He was grateful to remain among the living, surely, but couldn’t shake the feeling something was deeply, seriously amiss. Nothing for it, but a mug of wine, he supposed and headed off towards the mess.
The End watched his man leave with equal disquiet. The ring was genuine, of that he had no doubt. And experience had taught him Wims was a determined and resourceful killer. The timing and manner of his return, though, were highly suspicious. Were it not for that bastard Shaper on the Queen’s side, the End would gladly have spent more time interrogating Deda. As things stood, the Shaper was clearly the greater and more persistent threat. Anders needed to find a way to negate him as soon as possible.
*****
Several pairs of strong hands yanked him violently from the trench and dragged him backwards. Janks could not have been more thankful. The place had become an abattoir. He’d been chest-deep in blood, offal and other body parts with no hope of extricating himself.
“If anyone’s gonna kill you, mate, it’ll be me. Not these damned bewitched peasants,” he heard Corporal Kittins say.
The next voice belonged to Bash. “Come off it, Corporal. We ain’t got time for fighting ‘mongst ourselves. Let’s take care ‘o them as wanna eat us first and then settle with each other.”
Kittins grunted. “Let’s get back to the next trench before they overrun us. And, look you,” he snarled at Janks, “keep yourself behind the trench, not in it!
Janks lurched to his feet. Gods, he stank. He was drenched through with every kind of fluid a human body can produce; his arms and legs ached like the countless hells, and everything was sticky with blood, much of it his own, he didn’t doubt. He took a second to look downhill. “What’s going on in the middle, there? Looks like everything’s turned to swamp.”
“I figure that’s the only thing slowing ‘em down,” Bash said. “That, and we fired their black poison back at ‘em and it’s eatin’ a huge hole in their forces.”
Kittins laughed. “Serves ‘em right, the bastards. Let ‘em all go down in that stew.”
Somebody shoved a wineskin in Janks’ face, which mercifully turned out to be full of water. Was there anything better in the whole, wide world? He took seven or eight swallows and reluctantly passed it back to the closest man, Rem. Good old Rem. Who knew actors could be such upright fellows?
Janks looked again at the enemy’s struggles. That quagmire was the only reason he and his mates were getting this little breather. Otherwise, they’d see thrall after thrall ‘til the end of time. Or the End-of-All-Things. And somewhere down in that mess was Janks’ best friend, Long Pete. And Mardine, o’ course. Hard to believe the gods were benevolent when they placed old mates in such terrible circumstances.
Major Bailis came by. It didn’t look like he’d seen any fighting, yet. “Proud of you men!” he declared. “I’ve never seen the like of this enemy, but you’ve given that soulless wizard more than he bargained for!”
Words. Janks inspected his weapons, tried to work the cramps out of his arms and legs. His axe and long knife were the only things keeping him alive today. Assuming he stayed alive. Somewhere behind the clouds, the sun was nearing eleven o’clock, which seemed impossible.
*****
It had taken a while – too long, really – but the End had finally managed to nullify the effects of his own nasty magic, which the enemy had thrown back in his face. The black slime gradually evaporated, and the hole in the center of the End’s army was quickly filled by thralls pushed forward by angry mercenaries and generals. Slowly, too, the ground was firming up as it froze in the winter’s chill. The Queen’s men had had their moment, to be sure, and good for them. But Long’s fiendish master would not be denied.
Long cast about for his unit, searching for thralls he might recognize, and spied some familiar (if vacant) faces a hundred yards or so to the northeast. He’d lost a few to the black ooze it seemed, but with luck the End would never know he had bolted. And now, what? The entire line he’d been a part of would likely reach the enemy’s first trench within the quarter hour; arrows, spears, pikes and sharpened stakes aside, it would be tooth and nail, sword and mace within minutes. Mahnus and Alheria have mercy.
Overcast though it was, the sky was brightening. The liquid nature of time in a battle never ceased to amaze Long; sometimes a heartbeat lasted an hour, sometimes a day went by in a breath. And it didn’t seem to depend upon which side had the advantage. Time was fickle: it did – or did not – as it pleased. Was it possible this fight could last a day? Long Pete would never have said so before this very moment. Now? He had no idea.
Back with his own thralls, Long half-heartedly cr
acked his whip (more for appearances than desire) and resumed steering his “troops” towards the hill. Somehow, he’d acquired bits and pieces of other units, probably demolished by the End’s black ooze. It made little difference: they were going to the same end, anyway.
*****
D’Kem had a ferocious headache, unquestionably a gift from his rival, the End-of-All-Things. The man had been battering at the old Shaper’s defenses all morning, but it pleased D’Kem to know he occupied so much of the End’s attention. He shuddered to think what the sorcerer might accomplish without him in the way. Not that he personally feared the End-of-All-Things. There was a time when D’Kem wanted nothing more than oblivion, but oblivion had not obliged. Now, the Shaper saw a world of things – human and otherwise – that did not deserve the fate the End-of-All-Things had planned. At the same time, D’Kem was intrigued. How was it possible he’d lived so long – several lifespans – and never encountered this enemy before? Who or what was the sorcerer? Whence came his power, and what did he hope to accomplish through the annihilation of all life? What would be left to him, in the event he succeeded?
Steel, Blood & Fire (Immortal Treachery Book 1) Page 41
