Dead Man's Steel

by Luke Scull

  ‘This will be the part where you elaborate,’ Krazka said, when Lenka failed to add anything more. ‘If I wanted a juggler, I’d hire one.’

  Lenka shrugged. He had a languid manner, gave the impression there wasn’t anything in the world important enough to demand more than half his attention at any given time. ‘Most men shit their pants at the thought of fighting a demon, but there’s a few out there that seem to have it down to an art. One’s a big bastard with a magic sword, looks like. Screams whenever it strikes flesh.’

  Krazka scowled. ‘That’ll be the Bloodfist himself. Got one of these tiny metal shots with his name on it. Be hard to miss with a forehead like his.’ Suddenly there was a whooshing noise followed by an explosion of heat. The walls shook and fresh screams cut through the morning air.

  ‘Breach!’ someone yelled. ‘Magic!’

  Krazka cursed. ‘Someone fetch Rana,’ he barked. He raced down the battlements towards the melee that was taking place just inside the newly opened gap in the wall. Flames licked the jagged edge of the opening and several bodies smouldered on the ground nearby, caught up in the fireball that had blasted a hole in the palisade. A dozen defenders were facing off against a similar number of Westermen. The latter looked to be getting the upper hand as the Butcher King arrived and so he drew his single-edged sword, his demonsteel blade, and spun into battle. He flowed like a dancer, twisting and turning, cleaving off limbs before pivoting around and dashing back to finish off his opponents. One bald fucker with a mace tried to crush his head with a wild swing; Krazka leaned back and watched it swing harmlessly wide, then stepped inside the arc of the man’s clumsy effort and casually placed his hand-cannon against the fool’s skull. An instant later his brains were painting the shocked faces of the Westermen to either side of him. Krazka wasted no time in cutting them down while they gawked.

  In less than a minute it was over. The bodies of the Westermen littered the snow in a spreading pool of crimson, Krazka standing casually at the centre, beads of blood dribbling from his sword onto the snow. A sudden gust of wind howled through the gap, clearing the smoke beyond and sending his fur cloak fluttering behind him. His good eye narrowed. On a slight rise just beyond the town’s walls was the sorceress, her hands raised in the act of casting another spell. The Butcher King grinned and stalked towards her.

  Before the woman could notice him, something dark and vaguely feline materialized out of the air behind her. She jerked suddenly, her arms flopping uselessly by her sides, her magic disrupted. A barbed tongue burst from her stomach, tasting the air. Then it slowly withdrew, leaving the unfortunate woman staring down at the blood and viscera now pumping from her gut. A moment later the blink demon pounced, rending the sorceress apart with its razor claws.

  There was a flutter of movement behind him and Krazka turned. It was Rana, the leader of his own sorceresses. Her face was pale; she looked like she might retch. ‘Let that be a lesson,’ Krazka said, gesturing at the pile of human flesh that had so recently been a living woman. The blink demon had already departed in search of new prey. ‘Always watch your back.’

  Rana swallowed. Either spit or vomit, it was hard to say. Like most women, Krazka thought, she had a weak stomach. But when she finally gathered herself enough to speak, it was her words that somehow left a knot in Krazka’s gut. ‘Brandwyn’s forces have arrived at the south gates. They have sorceresses with them. And there is something else, my king. The Sword of the North is here.’

  *

  Brodar Kayne had seen some carnage in his time, but the initial assault on Heartstone was as bloody as anything he could remember. His countrymen weren’t much for tactics, and with the demonkin waiting for them on the approach to town the fighting erupted into chaos almost instantly. This wasn’t like the carefully planned assault on Dorminia back in the summer: this was wild butchery.

  Carn’s men numbered ten thousand strong, fully twice the number Heartstone had within its walls. But if the siege of the Grey City had taught Kayne anything it was that defending a city was a hell of a lot easier than attacking it. Fact was, the Sumnian army that took Dorminia would’ve made easy work of Heartstone. The army of the West Reaching had none of the great siege engines the dark-skinned people of the south had brought to bear. It was a sobering realization – that for all his people’s renowned ferocity they were hopelessly behind the times.

  It ain’t familiarity that breeds contempt, Kayne reckoned. It’s progress.

  His thoughts were interrupted as a fleeing Westerman clattered into him. Kayne barely kept his feet before grabbing the man by the jerkin and spinning him around. His eyes were mad with terror and Kayne knew the demon-fear had him in its thrall. Nothing he could say or do would quell the fellow’s terror and so he offered him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and let go of his jerkin. The warrior sped off, so manic with fear that he almost immediately collided with a stray boulder and knocked himself cold.

  Moments later Kayne saw the source of the Westerman’s terror. Two demonkin were moving, gibbering, towards the group of warriors Kayne had attached himself to. Their elongated arms flailed around their squat and hairless bodies and their shapeless faces yawned wide to reveal needle-like teeth. They had no eyes: demonkin were blind. Still, their ability to sniff out warm blood was like nothing natural. As Kayne watched they each bore a warrior to the ground, their teeth biting down, chewing through bone as if it were paper.

  He fell upon them, his greatsword slashing down. He heard leathery hide split, felt their skeletons buckle beneath the force of his blows. Demons didn’t die nearly as easy as men and they continued to snap at him, claws raking at his flesh, their razor nails carrying the demon-rot: a terrible sickness that caused a man’s skin to blacken and fall off. He winced as he felt their dagger-like fingers scrape along his leather vest, seeking the softness beneath.

  With a grunt he crushed the skull of the remaining demonkin and then stood there gasping for air, ichor dribbling off his greatsword to fall steaming to the snow. He glanced towards Heartstone’s walls, saw the first wave of warriors trying desperately to scale the palisades as arrows rained down. Demons patrolled the town’s perimeter, locked in battle with groups of Westermen brave enough to stand their ground. An ear-piercing shriek cut through the cacophony of battle and Kayne saw the towering figure of Carn Bloodfist wading his way through a group of demonkin. The chieftain cleaved left and right with his magical sword, Oathkeeper. Where it bit into flesh the demons seemed to explode, body parts raining down everywhere, the enchanted rune-etched steel emitting a high-pitched whine as though it were screaming for vengeance.

  ‘Keep up, old man,’ grated a voice beside him and Finn sped past, his comrades in tow, making their way towards Carn. A group of warriors had formed a shield wall around their great chieftain. Kayne made to join them, but then stopped dead in his tracks as a nightmare materialized right in front of him.

  The blink demon melted out of thin air, bloody drool slobbering from its oversized mouth. There were clumps of hair still stuck in its claws – a woman’s, by the look of it.

  It had a been a blink demon that had massacred Kayne’s village as a child. Killed his brother Dannard while Kayne cowered in fear. The tricky, catlike demons had earned a prized place of hatred in his weary old heart.

  The demon’s tongue shot out, probing towards Kayne, who raised a hand. The tongue wrapped around his wrist and the old warrior gritted his teeth as the serrated edge began slicing into his flesh, but he didn’t slow, didn’t deviate from what he knew he had to do. When you made a choice to do something in a fight to the death, you did it right and you did it quickly. Hesitation had killed more men than the plague.

  He levelled his greatsword in his free hand and then stabbed straight ahead, driving the tip into the fiend’s sole central eye. The steel pierced the surface and went in a good few inches before the demon realized what was happening and tried to use its tongue to tug Kayne towards it. Rather than try to resist he drove forward ins
tead, using the creature’s own momentum, shoving his sword deep into the demon’s flank and giving it a cruel twist. It tried to fade away, to escape somewhere where it didn’t have three feet of iron lodged in its body, but by then it was too late. It died thrashing and screeching, Kayne trying his best to avoid getting mauled by the demon’s claws as it perished right there on the snow.

  Once the demon had finally stopped twitching, Kayne unwound the fiend’s tongue from his wrist and examined the damage. It was bleeding heavily, hints of bone exposed in parts. He tried flexing it, noted with relief that his hand still seemed to be working. Pain was just pain. Pain he could tolerate, though there’d been times when he thought death might’ve been preferable. Fact was, a greatsword wasn’t much use with only one working hand.

  He half stumbled and half ran towards Carn and the others at the wall. The city’s attackers were finally breaking through the western gate. Eldritch energies lit the morning sky to the south, where Krazka’s circle and the handful of sorceresses Brandwyn had brought with him from Southaven were engaged in a magical duel.

  Carn noticed Kayne’s arrival. The chieftain’s cavernous voice boomed above the din. ‘Krazka’s demons are routed. Now the battle truly begins. They say you’ve taken the lives of more men than winter itself, Sword of the North. Now is the time to keep your promise.’ The chieftain of the West Reaching pointed at the top of the wall, where Kayne’s failing eyes could make out a gibbet hanging near the gate. His heart, already hammering after his struggle with the blink demon, felt like it would explode.

  It was the wicker cage he knew so well. The cage in which he had spent a year of his life. The cage in which he had been told Magnar had spent the last few weeks.

  It was empty.

  *

  ‘Escort the boy out of the east gate,’ Krazka ordered. ‘Don’t be gentle, but don’t kill him. Not yet. Got a feeling he might be a useful bargaining chip if needed.’

  Lenka and his two brothers leered at Magnar Kayne, and Krazka felt a hint of envy. No one had leered quite as well as he had before the Shaman had fucked up half his face. He wondered what had become of their erstwhile Magelord. Feeding the worms, hopefully. The Butcher King might just go down as the first mortal to slay a god-killer, and wouldn’t that feat look mighty fine in the telling of his legend?

  ‘Will do, boss,’ said Lenka. His brothers grinned, their lips bright red against their pale skin. Krazka had heard they liked to drink the blood of their slain enemies. They reminded him a little of Ryder, before old dogface had disappeared down in the Greenwild weeks ago. The three brothers were terrible men, the worst of men: perfect henchmen, in Krazka’s estimation. Good men tended to let their consciences get in the way of what needed to be done. Besides, loyalty was something that existed only in fantasy. Fear ruled the hearts of men and women alike: fear and greed. Give ’em enough of both and you have them in the palm of your hand.

  Magnar stirred in Lenka’s grip. The deposed king of the High Fangs was wasting away. His skin was covered in sores and he had numerous scars where Krazka had cut chunks out of him. Even so, Magnar had proved tougher than he looked; most men barely survived a week in a wicker cage. He gave the prisoner a kick in the ribs to rouse him, though the young Kayne was so weak he hardly made a sound. ‘Heard a rumour your pa is here,’ Krazka said cheerfully. ‘Don’t expect any grand rescue. Today is a day for burying legends.’

  And birthing new ones. Aye, when we move on the Lowlands the world will know the name of Krazka One-Eye. From the furthest reaches of the High Fangs down to the Sun Lands of the black men. Always wanted to see a black man in the flesh.

  There were renewed shouts from the west gate, followed by a sudden increase in the sounds of clashing steel and men dying. Orgrim Foehammer hurried over. Behind him was Rana, as well as a sorceress Krazka thought might be named Polga or something equally provincial.

  ‘They’ve broken through,’ the chieftain of the East Reaching growled. ‘We’re outnumbered.’

  Krazka sighed and examined his reflection in the mirror-like blade of his demonsteel sword. ‘How badly?’

  ‘Two to one.’

  Krazka turned to Rana. ‘Reckon you can spare a few sisters?’

  Rana looked skittish. She always looked skittish, Krazka noted. It annoyed him. She was a woman, not a fucking horse. ‘We can perhaps spare one or two, but if Brandwyn has any sorceresses in reserve—’

  ‘Send three of your best here. Tell them to wait until the fighting has intensified near the western gate. Then burn everything.’

  Rana blinked. ‘Burn everything?’

  Krazka tilted his head and cupped a hand to his ear. ‘There an echo somewhere? Aye, everything. Burn the western gate and everyone around it to ash.’

  ‘You can’t do that,’ Polga spluttered. She was a middle-aged woman of unremarkable appearance. Could be someone’s mother or grandmother, except sorceresses were forbidden to marry. Krazka sometimes amused himself by wondering how they satisfied themselves in the absence of a man. Right now he had the sudden urge to see how this sorceress liked two and a half feet of steel shoved up her arse. ‘Why’s that?’ he asked, his voice a dangerous whisper.

  ‘You’ll kill the town’s defenders,’ she replied slowly. As if speaking to a child.

  The world began to turn red. Krazka scowled at Orgrim. ‘How badly we outnumbered?’ he asked again.

  ‘Two to one,’ repeated Orgrim.

  ‘Well then, we’ll kill twice as many of them as our own. That’s how you win wars.’

  ‘You can’t,’ repeated Polga. ‘I won’t do it.’

  Krazka raised an eyebrow and turned to Rana. ‘What d’you say? You gonna refuse your rightful king?’

  The leader of Heartstone’s circle stood there stupidly, mouth flapping like a fish out of water. ‘Here,’ Krazka said. ‘Let me help you make up your mind.’ Three steps were all it took for him to reach Polga. Three seconds were all it took for her unremarkable face to strike the snowy ground after he cut her head off. Blood fountained out of the corpse, covering the shocked Rana head to toe before the body crumpled to the snow.

  A moment later the Butcher King’s sword was at the neck of his most senior sorceress. ‘Choose,’ he said evenly. ‘Obey or die. Them’s the only two options. What’ll it be?’

  Rana’s face was as white as a ghost’s. ‘Obey,’ she squeaked.

  Krazka nodded. ‘You tell the other sorceresses what I just told you. Anyone who argues will end up like Polga here: meat for the crows.’ He turned to Lenka. ‘Once my predecessor is safely away from the fighting I want you and your brothers back at the west gate. Wait till the magical assault is finished and then pick off any survivors. Move fast and kill quick.’

  Lenka raised a lazy eyebrow. ‘Sounds dangerous. What’s in it for us?’

  Krazka grinned. He liked the man’s backbone. To a point. ‘Double the share that was promised once Carn is routed. A realm to share between the three of you after we conquer the Lowlands. Me not cutting off your ugly heads right here and now.’

  Lenka exchanged a look with his older brothers. ‘Done,’ he said.

  Fear and greed, Krazka thought. Fear and greed. Every time.

  *

  Kayne charged shoulder to shoulder with the Westermen through the breach, greatsword held aloft. Bodies littered the ground around him. Nearby, a blackened mass of flesh still steamed from the boiling oil that had been poured over the town’s attackers by the defenders on the battlements. Their charge carved right through the initial wave of defenders, Carn’s magical sword leading the way, slicing down men left, right and centre. Kayne leaped a corpse, sighted his target and prepared to cleave the man’s head off. At the last second the man – more accurately, Kayne saw, a boy – turned and saw his death approaching. His eyes filled with terror.

  Kayne’s sword swept low, flat of the blade leading, and knocked the boy’s legs out from under him. He stared down at the youngster, greatsword suddenly trembling in his
hands.

  ‘The fuck you doing old man?’ said a familiar voice. Kayne barely heard it. He was held fast by the fear in this boy’s eyes. Unable to deliver the killing blow.

  ‘He’s lost his courage, Finn.’

  ‘Out of the way, I’ll take care of it.’

  Kayne was pushed to the side and then Finn took his spot, his own sword preparing to finish off the fallen lad. ‘What did I say you were?’ Finn sneered, lining up his blow. ‘A washed-up charlatan.’

  Before even he knew what he was doing Kayne spun Finn around. A right hook dropped the Westerman where he stood. Finn’s friends rushed in and Kayne disarmed two of them before the third had even joined the fray. All around them the fighting was raging, but he was oblivious to it. He couldn’t explain why it was so important to him to stop them killing this boy. All he knew was that he would die before he let that happen.

  ‘Kayne.’ It was Carn Bloodfist. The chieftain of the West Reaching waded out of the carnage like death itself, Oathkeeper streaming crimson droplets. ‘You disappoint me.’

  ‘These are our people. Our countrymen.’ Kayne’s voice was thick with grief. ‘They fight because they’re scared. We butcher them like animals then we ain’t no better than monsters. Than demons.’

  Carn’s dark eyes narrowed beneath his large brow. ‘You were not lying when you said you had lost your appetite for killing.’

  ‘I’ll kill when I have to. Just not like this.’

  Carn shrugged his great shoulders. ‘I will spare this one – but only this one. I will not risk our victory for sentiment. Not from you, Sword of the North.’

  Kayne nodded. Carn would keep his word. Strange though it was, if Kayne had to trust any man to do what he said he was going to do, his sworn nemesis staring across at him just then would be near top of the list. There was something comforting in that; in men saying a thing and then actually doing a thing. Even if that thing was seeing him dead.