by Luke Scull
The forewoman looked as though she was about to launch a tirade until she noticed the Unborn lurking nearby. She blanched and quickly returned to her work. Cole shook his head, remembering how women used to flock to him in the good old days, eager to share a smile and sometimes a bed. Not now. Not with him disfigured by a badly healed nose and scars from his various escapades. He was a monster, inside and out. No better than these Unborn. Except at least they were still relatively attractive, in a corpsey kind of way.
A corpsey kind of way... What does that even mean? He shook his head, disgusted with himself, and almost tripped over a crack in the street he had failed to notice, lost as he was in his thoughts.
‘You should concentrate on where you are going,’ said the nearest of the Unborn.
‘That’s easy for you to say. Some of us have actual worries to distract us.’ Cole’s eyes focused on the handmaiden. He remembered something Thanates had told him about; the sight of Captain Priam and his Whitecloaks lurching around Newharvest as though they were drunk, or drugged, or both. ‘You feed on the living,’ he said accusingly. ‘You drink their blood. Don’t you?’
‘It is necessary in order for us to exist.’
‘Then you shouldn’t exist. You’re abominations! And not the abominations created by wild magic. You’re a worse kind.’
The Unborn tilted her head slightly, watched him with those strange, colourless eyes. When she eventually spoke Cole was shocked to hear the slightest tremble of emotion in her voice; as faint as the ripple caused by the wings of the smallest insect passing over a stream. ‘We know what we are, brother. The child inside us – the child we all once were – is not entirely gone. It knows what it is we do.’
Cole passed the remainder of the journey to the harbour in a horrified silence.
The White Lady was waiting at the docks when Cole and his escort finally arrived. The entire harbour was lit by the silvery glow of the magical barrier Cole and Sasha had first spied from atop the Tower of Stars. It surrounded the city’s port as far as the eye could see: a faintly glimmering, translucent wall. Thelassa’s fleet was arranged in a defensive line opposite the barrier. The navy looked formidable in the ghostly light; like a spectral armada descended from the heavens themselves.
‘Davarus Cole,’ the Magelord greeted him. ‘I trust you are prepared. You will sail aboard the Caress.’ The Magelord gestured to a small caravel Cole knew well: it was the same ship he and his small group of companions had used to escape Salazar’s justice in the weeks before the assault on Dorminia. That seemed like a lifetime ago, but in fact by Cole’s reckoning it had barely been four months. He looked up at the flag flying from the mainmast, saw the outstretched palm of a woman cradling seven towers. The meaning was clear: this was the White Lady’s city, built in her image and fostered by her immortal grace. It seemed impossible anything could threaten her here – and yet the single bead of sweat that rolled down the Magelord’s brow, the slight tremble of her lips, proclaimed the severity of what she now faced.
‘Seek out Zatore in the palace,’ the Magelord continued. ‘She was once my apprentice and now advises the Rag King. Deliver her my message. Tell her the need is great. She alone can convince the king to send every soldier Tarbonne can muster, and those of other Realms over which he holds some influence. I will lower my barrier to allow the passing of the ship that will carry you south.’
‘Why me?’ Cole dared ask, finally giving voice to the question that had been nagging at him all day.
The Magelord raised a perfect eyebrow. ‘I believe you are a catalyst for events that will shape the world. A marker in the Creator’s grand design. What mages refer to as “the Pattern”. Put simply, you are chosen.’
‘Chosen?’ Cole echoed. He once had believed himself chosen, destined for great things. Lately, though, it seemed all he had been chosen for was endless bad fortune.
‘No more questions. My handmaidens are needed elsewhere, and so you will sail with a human crew. Your friend, Sasha, convinced me to place one of your “associates” among those on board. Do not make me regret my beneficence.’
Cole was led onto the caravel. He took one final look at Thelassa as he walked across the bridge connecting to the deck. He could see the palace in the distance, framed by soaring spires, like fingers reaching for the stars. The city was indeed beautiful. Despite the horrors of Sanctuary that lurked far below, despite the Unborn, despite its enigmatic and possibly crazed ruler and her monumental crimes, Thelassa was a city of mostly contented men and women. Cole had once thought of the world as black and white, composed of good and evil, heroes and villains. Now he realized that no one man or woman could lay sole claim to either extreme. Life was complicated and filled with shades of grey.
He stepped onto the deck – and was immediately swept up into a giant hug that lifted him right off the wooden boards and left his feet dangling. The happy moaning sounds and overripe stench that washed over him could only belong to one man. Cole finally prised his head away from the big hairy chest and stared up into the grinning face of his friend Dull Ed. The huge halfwit released his bear-like grip and Cole dropped to the deck, wincing at the pain in his chest.
Between Ed’s crushing hugs and being pinned under a door, my bruises will be blacker than a Sumnian come tomorrow.
‘Ghost!’ exclaimed Ed, in his ponderous voice. It was his nickname for Cole from their time together at the Blight, and in a strange way he rather liked it. He doubted Ed would have remembered his real name in any case.
‘Midnight’s here,’ Ed said happily.
‘Who’s Midnight?’ Cole asked. He stared around at the small caravel’s crew. There were a dozen of them, men and women in equal number. The captain gave him a welcoming nod. The man who appeared to be her first mate busied himself checking the sails. It was probably a trick of the light, a reflection of a fire in one of the houses nearer the docks, but the first mate’s gaze seemed to burn red for the briefest of moments. Something small and furry skittered across the deck and Cole leaped back in surprise.
‘That’s Midnight!’ Dull Ed exclaimed with delight. ‘I brought her with me in case she gets lonely. Her brothers and sisters died, just like mummy cat.’ Ed’s face grew sad.
Cole remembered finding Ed nursing the corpse of a burned-up cat the night of their return to the City of Towers. One of the ex-prisoners from Newharvest, Smokes, had senselessly set the cat on fire during the riots. Ed had rescued her kittens just before Cole showed up. He stared at Midnight, now curled up in Ed’s big hands, and felt a stirring of sympathy for the animal. Just like Cole, she had no family. She was alone. ‘I promise you I’ll help take care of her,’ he said, and gave his friend a pat on the shoulder. ‘But right now we should get some rest. I’m looking forward to sleeping in a real bed for a change.’ It was a sorry state of affairs when a cramped cabin bed aboard a caravel was a welcome comfort, but anything beat sleeping on the hard stone roof of the Tower of Stars in the middle of winter.
As Cole went to investigate his accommodation for the journey south, he had the uncomfortable sensation someone, or something, was watching him.
*
He was spinning again. Spinning through the darkness, his arms and legs locked in place. Even attempting to move his facial muscles was a torturous struggle that seemed to last an eternity. He knew it was a dream; he had endured this same nightmare many times. It did nothing to lessen the terror he felt.
He could smell the rancid breath. It enveloped him like a disease, a pestilence. He knew what awaited him at the end of this journey. It was always the same. He didn’t want to open his eyes, didn’t want to see that dreadful visage again. But he had no choice. He opened his eyes.
The skull-planet filled his vision. The maw gaped, teeth like mountains yellowed with the decay of millennia. He saw the god’s own eyes then – like twin moons, putrid, the colour of curdled milk. They glowed evilly, a green radiance that filled him with nausea.
And then the god spoke
.
‘Child.’ The voice seemed to echo from an impossible distance. It filled his ears, as deep as the deepest abyss, so powerful it seemed to reach beyond space and time. ‘You resist me.’
‘I don’t want to be a killer,’ he tried to say, but his mouth might as well have been stuffed full of rocks.
‘You are a killer, child. Death is what you are. My chosen implement. The one who shall open the door to my return. To the return of all of us. Prove yourself worthy, child.’
Cole tried to scream, to shout for help, but his moans sounded pathetically weak. No one could hear him. No one would come to his aid.
He was almost inside the cavernous maw now. The Reaver’s hot breath burned like a furnace. But then in an instant it was snuffed out, and the gargantuan disembodied skull disappeared, leaving only blackness and its final words drifting out of the ether.
‘Prove yourself...’
*
Cole’s eyes snapped open. His heart was hammering. He lay paralysed for a moment, trying to distance himself from his terror, reminding himself it had all been a dream. Slowly the familiar sensations returned to him. The smell of oiled wood. The slightly musty odour of his mattress. The sound of seawater lapping against the hull. His eyes began to adjust and he made out the faint outline of the door to his cabin. It was slightly ajar, which struck him as strange. He remembered closing it and pulling the latch—
There was a dark blur and he jumped, almost banging his head against the ceiling above. A warm bundle of fur rubbed against him and a soft meow caressed his ears. He grinned ruefully, cursing himself for a fool. Once upon a time he would boast that he possessed nerves of steel. Now he was scared of a kitten. He could hear its heartbeat, soft and rapid. He closed his eyes again and took a deep breath, praying that this time his sleep would be free of the nightmarish visions.
Then he heard the other heartbeat.
This one was human, and getting nearer. It was extremely soft, as if whomever it belonged to had mastered the calming techniques the Darkson had taught Cole during his training in Sanctuary. An assassin, then.
He reached out, felt the cold hilt of Magebane beside his bed. The captain had returned the weapon to him shortly before their departure.
The shadowy outline of a man ghosted through the door. Cole remained perfectly still, faking sleep, waiting for the moment.
Two pinpricks of red stared at him through the darkness. The intruder whispered something unintelligible and they flared a brighter red.
Cole gasped as Magebane grew hot in his fingers, absorbing the hostile magic that had just been directed at him. He dived from the bed, heard a curse from his would-be killer, who turned and fled back through the door. Not just an assassin. A mage also.
Cole was up and after the man in an instant, naked feet pounding across the cold floorboards. The door leading up to the deck was wide open, letting in starlight from the night sky above. Cole hurtled up the stairs, dived into a roll and came out on the deck with Magebane held before him, preparing for an attack.
The deck appeared to be deserted. Where the helmsman ought to be there was only a dark smear. The ship’s wheel creaked gently of its own accord. Cole’s eyes narrowed. There was something dripping from it. He heard a creak—
Cole somersaulted away at the very last moment as the assassin dropped from the rigging above, landing with catlike grace in the spot he’d been standing. The figure straightened. In his hands he clutched a long, leaf-bladed spear he had procured from somewhere. His gaze burned even brighter now – like two red rubies caught in a fire. Around his neck glittered a golden key.
‘Lord Marius sends his regards,’ said the assassin. His voice was velvet-soft. ‘The master didn’t mention that you wielded abyssium. It does not agree with the laws of our own world. Simply put, it breaks magic. But that is of no consequence. I have had three hundred years to learn many other ways to kill.’
‘Who are you?’ Cole asked. ‘Where are the crew?’
‘I am called Wolgred, also the Wanderer by my peers. Those crew who were sleeping are still in their beds. Those who were not...’ The assassin gestured with his spear at the dark smears on the deck. ‘The blood calling is never sated for long, alas. One learns to drink when the opportunity arises.’
Cole took a deep breath and tried to focus himself the way the Darkson had taught him. As he stared at this Wolgred, he knew he was over-matched. This assassin was not just a masterful fighter; he was some kind of demonic wizard possessed of powers Cole had never encountered. He considered hurling Magebane and hoping for the best, but without the magical resistance the dagger provided he would be dead in an instant, turned into yet another smear on the deck.
Cole’s indecision was resolved for him. Wolgred leaped at him, impossibly high, his leaf-bladed spear angling downwards. Cole rolled out of the way just in time and dived behind a crate, almost crashing into the body of one of the crew, which was crumpled in a heap. Cole placed a hand on the corpse. It was warm. ‘Rise,’ he whispered. ‘Rise up and help me.’
With an unintelligible moan, the corpse began to climb to its feet. Wolgred’s soft laughter reached Cole from the opposite side of the crate.
‘You think a zombie holds any fear for one such as I? You’ll need to do much better than that, boy.’
‘I’m not a boy,’ Cole hissed. He tensed, then sprang over the crate, aiming a kick at the assassin’s head. He’d hoped the corpse he had just raised would distract the assassin enough for the attack to connect, but instead the haft of Wolgred’s spear batted aside his foot. The butt of the spear rose and thwacked him in the stomach and then he was knocked back against the crate, Magebane slipping from his grip to clatter to the deck several feet away.
Wolgred levelled his spear. ‘I confess I am disappointed,’ the assassin said. ‘The master indicated you might prove a more formidable adversary. I will deliver him your shrivelled heart after I have emptied you.’
Wolgred pulled back his spear. Something tiny darted past the mage, but all Cole could focus on was that deadly leaf blade poised to skewer him.
‘Midnight! Come back!’ Suddenly Ed was barrelling towards Wolgred. Cole glimpsed Midnight scampering away and racing up the mast, but the halfwit was unable to change course. He slammed right into Wolgred, whose spear plunged into the halfwit’s stomach and went straight on through, bursting out of Ed’s back. The big man stood dumbfounded as Wolgred tried to pull his weapon free.
Cole’s fingers closed around Magebane. He lined up the dagger and threw it.
It struck the assassin in the chest and sank deep. Wolgred fell to his knees and almost immediately the assassin’s flesh began to wrinkle. He screamed and dropped his spear, grasping desperately at the ruby hilt sticking out of his chest. There was a moaning sound and the corpse Cole had brought back from the dead stumbled into the assassin, bit down hard on Wolgred’s shoulder and then dragged him to the deck.
Cole ignored the sounds of tearing flesh and Wolgred’s screams. Instead he rushed over to Ed, who was still staring at the spear impaling him, red drool hanging from his chin. ‘G-ghost,’ he stuttered. ‘I’m cold...’
‘It’s okay, Ed. I’m here.’ Cole choked back tears as his friend sagged in his arms, his wet breathing becoming weak and laboured. Once, Cole had been able to heal Derkin’s mortally wounded mother by channelling the life force of a man he had killed into her body. He lacked any such stolen vitality to channel now. He looked at Wolgred, but the assassin was a husk, whatever magic had kept him alive for three centuries stolen by Magebane, returning his body to its natural state. The dead crewman Cole had raised loitered uselessly nearby.
‘I’m sorry, Ed,’ Cole sobbed, his voice cracking. His friend’s eyes were beginning to glaze over. That hated presence within Cole, the voice of the Reaver, urged him to retrieve Magebane and consume Ed’s life force before it fled completely, but he ignored it. Instead he laid his friend down on the deck and knelt beside him.
Ed’s eye
s fluttered open. ‘Midnight?’ he asked, his voice paper-thin.
‘She’s here, Ed. She’s here. I’ll look after her like I said I would. I promise you.’
Ed smiled. And then his friend’s eyes closed for the last time.
Cole remained there for a while, his own eyes squeezed tightly shut, hot tears running down his cheeks. Finally he rose and walked over to Wolgred’s withered corpse. He bent down and placed a hand on Magebane’s hilt. The dagger came free of the assassin’s desiccated chest with a dry snap.
He drove his boot into Wolgred’s fleshless face as hard as he could. He felt bone crack and he stomped again, crushing the assassin’s skull, grinding it down until all that remained was the golden key he had worn around his neck. Cole picked it up and stuffed it into a pocket, then sat down on the deck and stared up at the stars. Shouting began to erupt on the deck as the rest of the crew, woken by the noise, came to investigate, but he ignored their questions. Yet another person close to him was dead, and all he could hear were the Reaver’s words echoing endlessly around his skull.
Death is what you are.
A Good Day For Killing
✥
THE DAWN BROKE bright and blood-red.
Brodar Kayne stared up at the sun and blinked away the sleep that gummed his eyes half shut. He was aching all over: from the long ride north from the Green Reaching, from the shitty sleep on uncomfortable ground, from the beating he’d received from Finn and his friends. Even his brief encounter with Carn had resulted in him pulling a muscle in his leg. He stretched it out painfully, then climbed to his feet and took stock of the camp. All around him, men were preparing to march. Within an hour they would reach Heartstone’s walls.
He grabbed a bowl of steaming hot stew from a mess pot and wolfed it down. The day promised to be clear but ball-shrinkingly cold. In Kayne’s experience, a good day for killing.
