by Luke Scull
He finished his morning exercises and decided to take a walk around the perimeter of the camp. As he’d noted the previous day, most of the warriors were very young. He saw two boys in their mid-teens sparring and resisted the urge to wade in and show them the correct way to parry an overhead slash. It was too late to matter now, and chances were no one would be of a mind to listen to what he had to say anyway.
It was a funny thing, fame. Nothing made a man feel quite so important and welcome when it was the right sort of fame. Nothing made him feel quite so isolated and alone when it was the wrong sort – and sooner or later it always ended up being the wrong sort.
Killing only ever begets killing. Ain’t nothing good ever came of knowing how to use a sword to murder a man. Mhaira had told him that. She had wanted him to retire, to become a shepherd and shear sheep. Instead the Shaman had summoned him to Heartstone and the next thing he knew he was cutting throats. Got him even more fame than serving as a Warden for ten years, and a nice farmstead for his family out in the Green Reaching, but he lost everything that made him proud to call himself a man.
He wasn’t much for prayer – certainly not to the gods down in the Lowlands. A dead god seemed even less useful than an absent one. But he still believed in the spirits. A wise man, a veronyi, was leading a ritual over by a small formation of stones often used for such purposes. Kayne loped over to join them.
He knelt down and took a handful of earth in his battered hands, then sent a quick prayer to the spirits of earth to keep his wife safe until he could return to her. It’d been a few years and he was doubtless even uglier now than before he left, but he hoped she would welcome him back with open arms.
She will. Of course she will. Mhaira’s love was purer than anything he had ever known. But he needed to keep his promise to her. The promise he’d made the day they fled the Shaman and split, him attempting to lead the Brethren away while she made for the Borderland.
They caught her in the Devil’s Spine, or at least that was the lie they told me. In actual fact, Magnar had made a desperate deal with the Shaman to spare Mhaira, while her cousin Natalya took her place on the Magelord’s pyre. The Shaman used magic to alter Natalya’s appearance in order to fool Kayne into believing it was Mhaira who burned. To teach him a lesson, or so the Magelord had since claimed.
Kayne rose and dusted off his hands, a deep frown on his weathered brow. He was half of a mind to turn right around, burst back into Carn’s tent and take his revenge on the Shaman for all the wrongs the bastard had done him. That had been the plan before Krazka had stolen the throne and made a pact with a demon lord. Since then, Kayne’s priorities had changed and now he found himself once again on the same side as the Magelord of the High Fangs. He heaved a weary sigh. Alliances changed so swiftly up in the Fangs; all he could do was cling onto what to seemed the right thing at any given moment.
Kayne resumed his walk around the camp, but he was soon struggling for breath and had to stop. His chest hurt again and the familiar tingling sensation in his arm had returned. He was so damn exhausted he found himself bending over, hands on his knees, shaking and sweating despite the cold.
The hell is wrong with me? he thought furiously. He could’ve gone to seek out a healer and asked them that very question, but that might mean receiving an answer and he wasn’t sure he was ready to hear one just yet. He needed just a little longer, in any case. Just a little more time to rescue his son and find his wife. Then at least if his heart gave out it would give out full.
A man couldn’t ask for much more.
‘You’re the Sword of the North, aren’t you? Come, have a drink with me.’
Kayne slowly straightened, taking deep breaths. The tingling began to subside and he took a few halting steps towards the young fellow who had just hailed him. He was a handsome chap with a brown beard and short, curly hair. He was sitting by a campfire and warming a mug of mead over the flame, watching Kayne with a curious smile.
‘Nice to see one friendly face,’ the old warrior muttered. He settled down on a rock beside the fire and grimaced at the stiffness in his knees. ‘Some warriors snort jhaeld before a fight,’ he said. ‘Reckon mead’s always a safer bet.’ He accepted the offered mug and took a long sip.
The curly-haired fellow nodded. ‘They say that about you. That you never bothered with the fireplant.’
Kayne raised an eyebrow and wiped his beard with the back of one hand. ‘Who says what now? Jhaeld can lend a man courage, but not skill, and it impairs his judgement. In my experience a clear mind is worth more than hot-blooded fury. That ain’t to say there’s not a time and place for both, mind. Eh, who are you again?’
‘My name’s Shakes.’ The fellow held out a hand, which Kayne grasped. It trembled slightly in his grip, but Kayne was polite enough to pretend he hadn’t noticed.
‘Strange name. There a story behind it?’
‘Well now,’ the fellow said. He glanced down at the spear at his side and looked embarrassed. ‘That was the nickname my brothers gave me. I get the shakes in battle, you see. Can barely hold a weapon without accidentally stabbing the man next to me. Figured I wouldn’t make much of a warrior, so I decided to become a bard instead. Lend better warriors courage through my song.’
‘A bard, eh? You mean like the warrior-skalds of legend?’
‘Aye. Except I prefer to avoid fighting entirely if I can help it. I spent some time down in the Lowlands learning from the virtuosos of the Garden City. Only a few merchant caravans ever made the journey over the years. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity when it arose, though that’s one trip I never want to make twice.’
‘You can say that again,’ replied Kayne. ‘What are you working on now, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘I figure we have enough songs about Grazzt Greysteel and the heroes of the Golden Age. I intend to pen a new epic, one for the Age of Ruin. A saga to make future generations look back and wonder if perhaps it wasn’t all grimness and darkness after all. That there are and were some things worth fighting for.’
Kayne nodded. ‘Seems a noble enough goal. Got any subjects in mind?’
‘I want to write a song about your deeds.’
‘My deeds?’ Kayne spluttered. ‘I ain’t ever done much worthy of song. Not since I was young, anyway. The less said about the latter years the better, I reckon.’
Shakes stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘May I ask about your companion? They say the Wolf never leaves your side. Yet I don’t see him here.’
Kayne flinched as if struck. ‘Jerek is... we parted ways back in the ruins of Mal-Torrad. Don’t reckon we’ll see each other again. Probably for the best.’
If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you.
Kayne took another sip of the warm mead and grimaced. It was too sweet. Too sweet for the sudden bitter taste in his mouth.
Shakes didn’t appear to notice his discomfort. ‘Then let me ask about your relationship with the Shaman.’
‘We ain’t got no relationship.’
The bard stuck a hand in a pouch on his belt and rummaged around. He withdrew a quill, some ink and a sheet of parchment. ‘It is said you were once close. You were his chosen champion, they say. Why did he turn on you?’
Kayne shook his head. ‘It’s a long story.’
‘You can make it short. Or you can march alongside me and tell me everything. It might help take our minds off what awaits us at Heartstone.’
Kayne glanced at the parchment trembling in the bard’s hands. He blew out his cheeks, blinked his blue eyes and took another sip of mead. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I ain’t much of a storyteller, but I could use the company. It happened like this...’
*
The expression on his son’s face told him immediately that something was wrong.
The Sword of the North bowed slightly to Magnar, and then to the Shaman, who was watching him from behind the throne, massive arms folded grimly in front of his chest.
‘I came as soon as I receive
d the summons,’ he said uncertainly. ‘Your mother’s been unwell, son. It’s the sickness in her lungs. The sorceress you sent says she has something there, a growth of some kind. She says there ain’t no magic that can stop the body attacking itself.’ He glanced at the Shaman, looking for some kind of confirmation, but the glacial blue eyes of the Magelord of the High Fangs were narrowed in a fashion that cut that path of conversation off dead.
‘The Green Reaching has declared independence,’ the Shaman growled. The vein in his thick neck looked fit to burst. ‘Brandwyn had the note delivered by raven this morning. He disputes the new tax on the winter harvest. Decries it as unjust. This is my domain, yet he dares reject my terms?’
The scraping sound in the throne room was the Magelord’s teeth grinding together. Kayne met his son’s iron gaze, dread rising within him.
‘I told you we couldn’t trust Natalya, Father,’ Magnar said quietly. ‘She manipulates Brandwyn. You know she’s been sharing his bed since her husband Gared passed.’
Kayne shrugged helplessly. ‘What do you want me to do, son? Kill her? She’s your mother’s sister.’
‘She is a traitor!’ the Shaman boomed. ‘I have granted you too much leeway to deal with this situation as you deem fit, Sword of the North. You also, Magnar Kayne. I made you king. The youngest since I came to these lands. You disappoint me.’
Kayne swallowed hard, his mouth dry. Maybe he’d been too soft, allowed matters to get out of hand. Brandwyn declaring independence? That was madness! He remembered what happened the last time a Reaching had attempted to secede. He remembered Red Valley, the blood that had been spilled the day the West Reaching had surrendered.
‘I will make amends,’ Magnar said. ‘Father will travel to Beregund and execute Brandwyn.’
Kayne nodded slowly. ‘Aye, I can do that.’
‘And Aunt Natalya,’ Magnar added. Kayne’s gaze locked with his son’s, eyes of blue meeting those of grey, his mother’s eyes. He wanted to protest, but his son, the king, gave a tiny shake of his head.
‘And Natalya,’ Kayne said, in a strangled voice.
‘No.’ The Shaman pronounced the word like a hammer striking an anvil. ‘There will be no half-measures. Beregund must be put to the sword. Everyone in the town shall be executed.’
Icy claws seemed to pierce Kayne’s flesh. He shook his head furiously. ‘Why?’ he demanded. ‘There ain’t no justice in that. Punish those responsible, aye. But I ain’t hurting no more innocents.’
The Shaman’s voice dropped to a low rumble. His muscles tensed, rippled like there was liquid iron dancing beneath his bronze flesh. ‘Are you refusing me, Sword of the North?’
The younger Kayne spoke before the older could. There was a desperate edge to his voice that made his father flinch. ‘The Green Reaching is too important to allow rebellion to fester. Without the food it produces, the High Fangs will starve. Removing Brandwyn will only delay the problem. You have to see that, Father.’
‘No more innocents,’ Kayne growled.
The Shaman took a step towards him.
‘Wait,’ Magnar said, pleading with the Magelord, begging him. ‘Let my father have a day to think on all of this. You know he has friends in Beregund. This isn’t easy for him.’
The Shaman took a deep breath, visibly forced his rage under control. His massive chest swelled like a bellows. ‘Very well,’ he said grudgingly. ‘A single day. For loyal service rendered. But know this, Kayne: to defy me is to commit treason, and to commit treason is to die by my hand. None are above this law. Not even you.’
‘Krazka stands ready to move,’ Magnar added. There was shame in his grey eyes. ‘His army will join ours at the border of the Lake Reaching. I’m sorry, Father.’
Kayne turned away. ‘A day,’ he echoed. ‘You’ll receive my answer then.’
*
‘The answer was no?’
‘Aye, it was no. I rode straight back home to Mhaira and we fled the Green Reaching as soon as we could saddle another horse. Didn’t make it far before the Brethren caught up with us.’
Carn Bloodfist’s great host had finally come to a halt. Heartstone’s thick wooden walls were just ahead, the height of three men, teeming with archers on the battlements and, if Kayne knew that bastard Krazka, nastier surprises for the approaching army.
Shakes placed his quill, ink and parchment back in his pouch. He hadn’t stopped scribbling for the entire hour of their march. ‘This has the makings of an epic tale.’
‘I got the feeling it won’t have a happy ending.’
‘Perhaps not. But I’m rather fond of tragedy.’
There was the sound of snow crunching behind them and the two men turned. A warrior approached, trailed by a group of his comrades. Kayne’s heart sank when he saw that it was Finn, the angry Westerman with the birthmark on his cheek who had roughed him up the evening before. He shot Kayne a look of utter loathing. ‘The chieftain demands you join him at the van.’
Kayne’s eyes narrowed. ‘Carn wants me at his side? Strange place for a man he swore to kill.’
Finn spat. ‘Krazka’s sent his demons out to play. We need men with experience fighting fiends.’
At that, Kayne nodded. It’d been a while since he’d tested his sword against a demon. Though it wasn’t an experience he was eager to repeat, he had to admit he found a joy in killing fiends; he had never experienced killing men, save maybe that bastard Skarn.
Kayne bid farewell to Shakes, then set off to find Carn and his entourage. He’d only gone a few steps when someone tripped him from behind and for the second time in as many days he fell flat on his face, scraping his chin painfully on frozen snow. He looked up to see Finn glowering down at him. The young Westerman jabbed Kayne painfully in the ribs with a boot. Finn’s friends looked on with amusement.
‘I saw you clutching your chest back there, old man. I don’t know how you fooled the chieftain into believing you’re worth keeping around, but I see the truth. You’re a washed-up charlatan with nothing left except a reputation as false as a whore’s screams. Stay out of my way once the fighting starts or next time you won’t get up. That’s a promise.’ Having said his piece, Finn stormed off.
Kayne climbed slowly to his feet, waving away Shakes’ efforts to help. He spat out snow and shook his head ruefully. ‘I got the feeling that one don’t like me.’ A crowd of warriors had watched his humiliation from over by a small stand of trees. There was something disturbingly familiar about one of them, a broad-shouldered warrior with a hood pulled over his head. Kayne blinked and the man was gone, if indeed he had ever existed. Old age and bad eyes could play all sorts of tricks on the mind. As could nerves.
He squinted up at Heartstone’s walls, and then at the sun one final time. It was a good day to kill. A good day to die.
A Good Day To Die
✥
‘TO THE WALLS!’ Krazka screamed. The tide kept coming, a flood of men throwing up grappling hooks and ladders, desperate to scale the palisades with scant regard for the arrows and boiling oil raining down on them. Many died, but more kept taking their place.
It’s the demons, he realized. The supernatural fear that radiated from the demonkin had initially driven the first wave of attackers back towards the hills, only for the deserters to be swiftly thrust forward again by those marching behind them. With their countrymen blocking off their retreat, the panicked warriors had rushed headlong towards Heartstone with the kind of conviction a whole plant of jhaeld couldn’t instil.
Turns out fear and courage are two sides of the same coin when you spin it right.
Krazka was angry now. Spitting furious, in fact. The Herald had gone silent and Hrothgar’s men had failed to arrive as promised. Krazka had already sliced an ear off Hrothgar’s eldest and had it delivered by raven as a warning some weeks ago. It seemed the chieftain of the Blue Reaching had been unmoved. With no reinforcements forthcoming, Krazka resolved to remove the boy’s head when the opportunity arose. True, it would pu
t him in a poor bargaining position if there had simply been an unexpected delay, but he reckoned they were past that now. It would feel pretty fucking good, that was a fact. He’d be damned if he was going to endure the stresses of kingship without letting his hair down every once in a while.
He reached the western wall just as a terrified Westerman began hauling himself over, the metal claw of his grappling hook wedged firmly in the wall. Krazka cleaved the top half of the man’s skull off, then yanked the grappling hook free and choked another man with it, pulling the rope so tight around his neck the bastard’s face turned blue. He kicked that corpse from the battlement too, watched it tumble to the snowy ground below. Westermen were milling around down there, readying ladders for another foray.
‘Somebody bring me a cauldron,’ he bellowed. ‘I want those fuckers boiled alive.’
A group of defenders rushed to obey. As they were positioning the cauldron, however, one of the men slipped and it upended inside the palisade, raining bubbling oil down on the warriors below. Their screams did a grand job of unsettling everyone around them, and Krazka’s good eye narrowed in fury. He whipped out his hand-cannon, as the Herald had referred to it, and shot the clumsy son of a bitch square in the face. That didn’t really improve matters much, but at least there was now one less incompetent fuck around to make a mess of things.
‘Where’s Orgrim?’ he roared.
‘Here,’ came the answering bellow from Foehammer. The big chieftain of the East Reaching was down by the gate directing a last-ditch defence. Already the gates were hacked and splintered in a dozen places. Bagha was with him, making even Orgrim look small beside his colossal frame, the great war mace he carried splattered by the blood and pulverized brains of the Westermen he’d killed.
‘Why aren’t the demons holding them off?’ Krazka barked. He hadn’t expected his fiendish allies to be so ineffective, not after the carnage they’d wreaked the last time Carn’s army had come calling.
‘The demons met with unexpected resistance,’ answered a thin Lakeman who was leaning on the battlements. He was tossing daggers in the air and catching them by the hilt. Occasionally he would peer over the wall and heave one at the attackers down below. Krazka recognized him as Lenka, one of three brothers from his neck of the woods. All ruthless killers; the best kind.
