by Luke Scull
He went to check on Magnar. His son was sleeping on a pallet in the care of the healers. A sorceress placed a finger to her lips as he drew near, giving him a shake of her head, and so he quietly snuck away to find a horse. Just as he’d managed to convince someone to let him borrow their mare for a few hours Shakes approached. He already had his parchment and quill in hand. ‘Brodar Kayne,’ he greeted him eagerly. ‘I understand momentous events took place on Lake Dragur. The Shaman is dead. You must tell me everything.’
Kayne smiled. ‘Maybe later,’ he said, climbing up onto his borrowed horse and raising a hand in farewell. ‘I got more important things to do right now. I’m going to find my wife. I’m going to find Mhaira.’
Carhein
✥
There’s always light at the end of the tunnel, Garrett had told him once.
As Davarus Cole lay trussed up on the back of a wagon, like a corpse in one of the Collector carts in Dorminia, he wondered if that light might come in the form of a blazing fireball tossed by an angry Magelord, or perhaps a vast explosion courtesy of the Fade weapons he had heard rumour of. It sure as hell wasn’t going to be anything positive, he knew that much.
Someone must have poisoned his beer back at the tavern. He couldn’t remember drinking that excessively, though in truth he couldn’t recall much of anything at all.
The wagon bounced suddenly, causing his left knee to bang painfully against the side. ‘Shit,’ he hissed.
‘Quiet, child,’ commanded a voice. There was something familiar about it. Belatedly, and with growing anger, Cole realized that it belonged to the wagon-master who had offered up a warning about the Cult of the Nameless just before he’d stopped at the Farmboy’s Folly for a drink.
‘You,’ he spat. ‘You’re one of them. One of the Nameless cultists.’
The sack over Cole’s head was pulled off. Despite the dimness of the covered wagon, he had to blink tears from his eyes as they adjusted from hours spent in utter darkness. If the light leaking through the cracks in the canvas above was any indication, he’d been trussed up on the cart now for a night and half a day.
The cultist reached up and pulled down his hood. The ruddy face and heavy moustache beneath confirmed Cole’s suspicions. ‘Not merely one of them,’ replied the man, eyes glittering. ‘I am Nadap Naif. I am deputy leader of the south cell in Carhein.’
‘Did you plan this?’ Cole demanded. ‘Did you know I would stop at the tavern?’
‘On the contrary,’ sneered Nadap. ‘I wanted you well away from the area before night fell. I suspected a meddlesome foreigner like you would stick your nose where it wasn’t wanted – such as in the Folly on the night of the full moon.’
Cole took a quick look around. The hangover he still nursed caused his head to swim. Just behind Nadap was another cultist, also draped in black robes, hood pulled over his face. It was he who had spoken with Cole when he had first awoken. On the other side of the wagon bed, the serving wench – her name eluded Cole – was tied up, a sack pulled over her head. Still, those soft curves were unmistakable. He remembered warm hands on his body, hot breath on his neck...
‘You kidnapped the waitress from the Folly!’ he exclaimed.
‘The harlot was crying out for the embrace of the Nameless! Her wantonness was clearly a call for help. We found you with her in her room, the two of you passed out from drink. Unlike this girl, you will not be granted the opportunity to seek solace in the darkness.’
‘I won’t?’
‘No. You, child, you have been chosen.’
‘Chosen for what?’ Cole asked, though as the wagon clattered over a hole in the road and sent sharp pains up his arse, he had a sinking feeling he knew what was coming.
‘Death. Your sacrifice to the three-eyed demon will help hasten this world towards the blessed embrace of darkness.’
Cole heaved a deep sigh. A moment later he stifled a yawn. Nadap frowned. ‘Does the knowledge of your impending death bore you?’ The cultist reached into his robes and withdrew Magebane. He waved it before Cole’s nose. ‘Perhaps I will use this pretty dagger of yours to cut out your eyes.’
Cole settled back down, once again silently cursing his ill fortune. He was supposed to be delivering a message to the Rag King’s advisor. Every second he spent tied up on this wagon was time wasted. ‘Where are you taking me?’ he demanded.
‘We are almost at our destination. There you will see – assuming you wish to keep your eyes.’
Cole nodded meekly. Once again he tested his bonds. There was a jagged piece of metal sticking out of the wagon nearby; in days gone by he would already have been furtively working the rope against it, preparing to make a grab for Magebane just as soon as the fibres parted and his hands were free.
That was then, back when he’d thought himself a hero. Now he was more likely to get himself killed. And chances were he’d bungle things so badly he would probably get the girl killed as well.
Despair washed over him. The pleasant, earthy smell of the countryside slowly faded to be replaced by the stench of a big city and a voice called out at the front of the wagon, ‘We are almost at the west gate. Gag the prisoners.’
Nadap stuffed a filthy rag into Cole’s mouth and he wanted to puke. The cultist went to examine the girl, who was still sleeping, her ample chest rising and falling in an easy rhythm. He shrugged and turned to address the driver. ‘The Trineman is gagged. Charmaine will not be a problem.’
Charmaine? Cole stared at the Tarbonnese girl and wondered what had happened in her room in the tavern before whatever poison had been slipped into his drink had knocked him unconscious. Guilt surged up like a geyser. Had he taken her to bed? He thought of Sasha and how she would react to the news. True, they weren’t officially a couple, but her lack of male companions could only mean she was saving herself for him. Cole wished he’d had the willpower to return the gesture, but it felt wrong to deprive the world’s women of Davarus Cole. At least until he’d put a ring on Sasha’s finger.
He caught a faint meow and remembered that Midnight was stowed away in his backpack. The cultists hadn’t yet discovered the kitten, it seemed.
He heard voices outside the wagon. They were muffled and he was unable to make out what was being said. He tried to cry out for help, but the gag drowned his words and all that escaped was a moan. The wagon lurched forward again. Soon the murmur of the city reached his ears. A smorgasbord of smells made him simultaneously hungry and nauseous.
We’re in Carhein, he thought. The wagon abruptly stopped again and a trumpet sounded.
‘Soldiers,’ hissed the driver at the front of the wagon. ‘The Rag King sends more men south to war.’
There came the drumming of marching feet outside. Cole could hear the thumping of hundreds of heartbeats as the soldiers passed before the wagon. They soon receded into the distance and once again they began to move. Minutes passed and sweat beaded his brow. It was stifling within the confines of the wagon. Eventually the sour stench of shit reached his nostrils and Nadap moved to remove his gag. ‘We are here,’ he growled.
The girl, Charmaine, began to stir then, lifting her head groggily and staring around with wide eyes. She opened her mouth to say something but Cole met her gaze and shook his head.
The canvas covering the wagon was pulled back and grimy daylight flooded his vision. They were in a narrow alley crowded by discarded rubbish and the turbid overflow from a blocked sewer. The wagon blocked his view of the city beyond the alley, but Cole was reasonably certain they were in one of the poorer parts of Tarbonne’s capital; the slums, in all likelihood.
One of the cultists untied his ankles and grabbed his arms, while the other took hold of Charmaine and hauled her up. Nadap rapped out a complex sequence on the nearby door of a building so dilapidated it looked fit to collapse. Moments later the door swung open and Cole was pushed through into the darkened interior of the cultists’ hideout. He was led through a nearly pitch-black corridor. They turned a corner and the
n approached another door, beneath which bled a sinister green light. He could sense death in the air; it permeated every inch of the wooden floor and walls surrounding him. Behind him, Cole heard Charmaine sobbing.
The door creaked open and the two captors were shoved into a large room lit by a brazier burning brightly in each corner. The cultists were burning a strange substance to lend the flames their green radiance, and the sulphurous smell made Cole’s eyes water.
‘You return,’ whispered a cowled figure sitting cross-legged on the floor in the centre of the room. ‘You brought the girl. And an unexpected guest.’ The cultist climbed slowly to his feet. He pulled down his hood, and Cole recoiled slightly at the visage that greeted him.
The old man had cut out his own eyes, judging by the jagged scars surrounding the empty sockets in his face. In the centre of his forehead, a huge incision in his flesh revealed bone beneath. The cut was shaped like an eye; the effect of the self-mutilation was unsettling.
‘Yes, Dreamer,’ answered Nadap. ‘A sacrifice to the Nameless. A Dorminian.’
‘A foreigner?’ said the one called Dreamer. He smiled, revealing brown teeth. His breath was rancid. ‘Convenient. The city guard will not be searching for him.’
‘What do you want with me?’ cried Charmaine. The girl was pale with terror. Cole tested his restraints again, but there was no chance of slipping his bonds – the rope was knotted tight around his wrists.
‘Ask not what we want with you, child – but rather what we can do for you.’
‘You can let me go, you sick fucker!’ the serving girl screamed, much to Cole’s shock. Charmaine had shifted from afraid to spitting furious in an instant.
Dreamer placed a wrinkled hand on her cheek. She spat and tried to twist away but Nadap, the false teamster, held her firm. ‘There is a turmoil within you, girl. A hurt you seek to salve by whoring yourself indiscriminately to every man who lays eyes upon you.’
Cole wanted to protest at the ‘indiscriminately’, and especially the ‘every man’, but the glimmer of steel at Dreamer’s waist and the evil look that flashed across the face of Nadap as the cultist stared at him quashed that desire like a turd caught under a wagon wheel. He understood now the peril he was in.
‘You lost someone close to you,’ Dreamer continued. ‘Your sister. She was one of those who disappeared just before the Rag King won the throne. I know your pain, child. My own son perished in the wars. But then the three-eyed demon came to me in my dreams and spoke of the Nameless.’
If there was one thing a fanatic could be relied upon to do, it was expound in detail about whatever bloodthirsty cause got them out of bed in the morning, whenever the opportunity presented itself. Cole figured the best way to buy time to come up with a plan was to keep the man talking. ‘The three-eyed demon spoke to you,’ he repeated, trying to instil some measure of awe into his voice. ‘Why you?’
‘Not just me. There are other Dreamers throughout the Shattered Realms. We speak for those who are lost. Those who have nothing, made homeless and destitute by the civil wars that have torn this kingdom apart. The Nameless offers us succour. Solace in oblivion.’
Cole stared around furtively, searching for anything he might be able to use to free his hands. Nadap still had Magebane stashed somewhere under his robes, but there was no chance of getting hold of it with his wrists bound and the other cultists sticking to him like scabs to a wound.
‘The Nameless ushers forth a new age,’ the Dreamer continued, warming to his subject. ‘There will be no more inequality when the Nameless walks among us. No longer shall the rich lord it over the poor. No longer shall sons and daughters die in pointless wars, or disappear in the middle of the night, never to return.’
‘You’re mad,’ spat Charmaine.
Dreamer chuckled. ‘A certain amount of madness is the first step towards salvation. It is time you learned this particular lesson. Nadap, unlock the Contemplation Chamber.’
The other cultist took a key off a hook hanging on the wall beside a door and opened it, taking a step to the side. The body of a man tumbled out, emaciated to the point of starvation.
‘Alas, the last occupant of the Chamber resisted deliverance,’ said Dreamer. ‘He refused to pluck out his eyes and see the truth as I have done. Now the only truth he will ever know is the finality of death.’
Cole stared in horror at the Contemplation ‘Chamber’. In actuality it was little more than a cupboard, with hardly room enough to stand. The inside of the door was gouged and scratched and covered in rust-coloured stains; Cole’s horror grew when he saw the ruined stumps of the dead man’s fingers. The prisoner had tried to claw his way through the door before he perished from lack of food, water or both.
‘Put the girl in there,’ Dreamer ordered. Charmaine immediately began to scream and struggle as Nadap dragged her towards the nightmarish cell. Cole stared at the body, Dreamer’s words echoing in his skull.
Now the only truth he will ever know is the finality of death.
Suddenly he had an idea.
‘Rise,’ he whispered. ‘Rise and attack these men.’
The corpse began to shift, unleashing a ragged moan just as Cole’s head connected with the face of the cultist behind him. The man fell away with a howl and Cole made a dash for the nearest brazier. He placed his bound wrists over the flame, gritted his teeth stoically and prepared to accept the agony. It was only pain, and flesh would heal. If he could just hold the rope there long enough for it to burn through—
‘Shit,’ he hissed, jerking his hands away involuntarily. ‘That’s hot.’
The prisoner he’d raised from the dead lunged at Dreamer, sinking its inhumanly strong jaws into his neck and tearing out his thin throat in a gout of blood. Charmaine brought her hands together and elbowed the wagon driver in the stomach, spinning away to stand beside Cole. That left Nadap, who stared wide-eyed at the corpse chewing on the head of his fellow cultist and then turned and fled.
*
Cole stumbled out of the building, Charmaine behind him, the two cultists hot on their heels. He slowed when he saw the line of pink-plumed guardsmen waiting before the wagon. Nadap was sprawled dead on the ground, three quarrels sticking out of his back.
‘Stop where you are!’ barked the apparent captain of the guards. ‘Put your hands where I can see them, dogs!’
Cole wasn’t in much of a mood to oblige, what with two murderous fanatics right behind them, but it was either that or suffer the same fate as Nadap. He skidded to a halt and raised his bound hands before him. A second later, Charmaine followed suit.
‘Now get down on your knees—’
The guard captain was interrupted as the fanatics barged through the door, both brandishing wide knives. Cole flinched, expecting a blade in the back at any second – but there was only a tiny delay before the click of many crossbows filled the air, and the cultists hit the ground in a one-two of dull thuds.
‘Are there are any more of them inside?’ the captain demanded.
Cole shrugged helplessly. ‘I don’t think so.’
The captain turned and spat. ‘Rabid dogs. I’m tempted to put this whole section of slums to the torch. Flush them out like the rats they are!’
‘I found the contraband, sir,’ said a female guard. She stepped out from the behind the wagon, a small, dark, furry bundle in her arms.
‘Midnight,’ Cole whispered. He’d forgotten about the kitten.
‘You are familiar with this vermin?’ barked the captain.
‘She’s not vermin!’ Cole replied, trying not to let his temper get the better of him. ‘She’s my cat.’
The guard captain’s hand shot out and slapped Cole painfully across the face. Shocked, he had to resist the urge to pluck the man’s rapier from his belt and drive it through his pulsating throat. It wasn’t just shocked outrage behind that desire – it was hunger. The Reaver hadn’t fed in many days. ‘Your arrogance offends me, Trinesman! Are you not aware that such animals are banned
from Carhein? Fortunately for you the cat escaped the wagon and one of my officers followed it to this hideout. Are you not familiar with the story of the Rag King?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Cole replied, as diffidently as he could manage in the circumstances. ‘I didn’t have much time to ask questions before I was drugged and bundled off in the back of a wagon.’
The guard captain turned to Charmaine. ‘Is this true? Were you drugged by these cultists?’
The Tarbonnese girl shook her head. ‘I think we just had too much to drink. This Dorminian passed out.’
‘Well, that’s bullshit,’ Cole muttered. The captain scowled at him and he swallowed his anger, forcing himself to remember the reason why he had come to this country. ‘I need to deliver a message to the king’s advisor,’ Cole replied. ‘It’s of the utmost importance. I’ve wasted enough time here already.’
‘Pass me the message and I will be the judge of its importance.’
Cole sighed in annoyance. ‘It’s in my backpack,’ he said, gesturing at the wagon.
‘Captain,’ said a guardsman. He straightened up from inspecting Nadap’s body and Cole saw that he held Magebane in his hand, its soft radiance casting a bluish sheen on his ratty features. ‘Look at this.’
‘That’s mine,’ Cole said, trying to keep his voice casual.
The captain retrieved the dagger from his colleague and examined it with wide eyes. ‘This is magic. Why would a boy like you own a weapon like this?’
‘I’m not a boy!’ Cole said hotly. He forced himself to calm down. ‘It was passed down to me by my father. Its power works only for me.’
Magebane’s magic will only work for those possessing the blood of a true hero. Another of Garrett’s lies. The blood of a murderous, Magelord-kissing Augmentor was the real truth.
‘Prove it,’ demanded the captain.
‘I can’t. Not unless you know any wizards nearby,’ Cole replied.
‘Only Zatore.’
‘Yes,’ Cole exclaimed. ‘Zatore. The king’s advisor. That’s what I’ve been trying to say. I need to bring a message to Zatore.’
