by Luke Scull
‘The Fade,’ Cole agreed. ‘Do you think your king will send aid? I hear Tarbonne has the largest army in the Shattered Realms.’ He stiffened as one of Zatore’s fingers stroked the back of his neck. He met the eyes of the captain of the guards – Eric? – and was struck by how vacant they seemed.
‘It has the most divided army,’ Zatore purred. ‘The duke yet holds out in the south and a third of Tarbonne’s men-at-arms swear fealty to his banner. But you are a charismatic man, Davarus Cole. Perhaps you can yet convince the king it is in his best interests to commit soldiers to the north, if the letter from your mistress does not have the desired effect.’
‘She’s not my mistress,’ Cole said. He relaxed a little. He was charismatic, that was the truth. Perhaps it wasn’t so surprising Zatore was smitten with him. She wouldn’t be the first older woman he’d had that effect on. Her hand continued to caress his neck, working its way to the front. Suddenly the king’s advisor froze, one finger hooked beneath the golden key hanging under his shirt.
‘What is this?’ she asked, her voice changing from sultry to sharp in an instant.
‘Just a gift from one of my many lovers,’ Cole said, thinking to make the lie as convincing as possible.
‘This was Wolgred’s,’ she hissed.
Wolgred. The Wanderer. The mage who attacked me aboard the Caress! How does Zatore know of him?
Cole twisted to stare up at the king’s advisor. Her eyes were narrowed in fury. For the first time he noticed their slight reddish tinge and dread filled him. He remembered Wolgred’s eyes burning like rubies in the assassin’s skull.
He sprang out of the chair, making a dash for the captain of the guard across the chamber, desperate to get his hands on Magebane before Zatore could work her magic against him. But he’d only gone three strides when his legs suddenly refused to respond. Every one of his muscles seized up. No matter how he struggled, he couldn’t twitch even a solitary finger.
Utter panic gripped him then, as tightly as Zatore’s magic.
Zatore moved to stand before him, the words of the spell she had just cast to paralyse his body dying on her lips.
‘Everything in order, milady?’ Eric called out from his post by the door. For a moment Cole dared hope the man might help him – but that hope was quickly dashed.
‘Quite perfect, thank you. Would you go and fetch us more wine? I should like a few minutes alone with our guest.’
‘But, Lady Zatore, that is against protocol—’
The king’s advisor raised a finger and pointed. ‘Go,’ she commanded, and her brown eyes seemed to flash crimson for the briefest of moments.
‘Yes, milady,’ the guard replied emotionlessly. He turned and departed without another word and Cole knew that he too was under Zatore’s spell.
I’m going to die. Without Magebane he was just a man, and not a particularly smart or skilled one. If the look on Zatore’s face was any indication, it wouldn’t be a quick or easy death.
‘I don’t know how you came by this,’ the king’s advisor said, examining the golden key with a deep frown. Cole could smell the cloying sweetness of her perfume but it masked something else – a hint of something charnel, rotten. ‘I must assume Wolgred is dead. He would not free the gholam only to carelessly relinquish the key. The master would skin him alive.’
Cole fought Zatore’s magic with every shred of willpower he possessed, but it was hopeless. It was an effort even to blink. The realization that he would never see Sasha again brought tears to his eyes and they rolled down his cheeks unchecked; a final, pathetic show of weakness.
‘Did the White Lady send you here to assassinate me?’ Zatore mused, knowing he couldn’t respond. ‘Or does she truly believe the king would weaken his own army merely to delay her destruction? The Ancients cannot be stopped by men with swords and arrows or even a Magelord with the stolen power of the gods.’
The king’s advisor moved closer to Cole. Her lips parted, and her eyes burned with hunger. Not the wanton desire of lust; no, this was a ravenous, obscene hunger that sickened him. ‘When Eric returns, I will tell him you were an assassin sent by the duke’s men,’ Zatore whispered. ‘I would devour your blood here and now, but to magically manipulate the Companions undetected is a delicate task and explaining your desiccated remains to that grey-haired bitch might expose me. I will drink you later.’
Drink me? Cole managed to widen his eyes ever so slightly in horror.
Zatore turned and walked across to the table. ‘The White Lady’s message is ready,’ she said. ‘Let us see what my erstwhile mistress has to say. Before I dispose of this document and haul you before the king.’ As Cole watched transfixed, Zatore lifted the scroll. ‘The fehd?’ she muttered, reading from the document. ‘That is their true name? The coming of the Ancients was predicted by the Master, though none of his apprentices know the full scope of his designs. There has never been a more brilliant man. It is my privilege to serve, and to learn. One day I will stand at his side for eternity.’
Cole wanted to close his eyes. To block out the sight of the woman who only minutes ago had been distracting him with all kinds of shameless thoughts.
‘“You were a faithful and talented apprentice.” How generous of her to say so! Yet the White Lady could never give me what I wanted. Eternal beauty. Eternal life. All that blood magic offers. Wait – there is more: “I know, Zatore. I know. Consider this my gift to you.” What gift? What does that cunt know—’
The parchment suddenly glowed a brilliant silver, so bright that Cole’s eyes wept fresh tears, blinding him for a moment.
When his vision cleared, Zatore was shaking like a leaf caught in a gale. She gasped and then her body began to contort grotesquely, limbs cracking, bones snapping in a hideous dance as the silvery glow rose from the parchment and enveloped her. First her arms fractured like dry twigs. Then her legs split, white bone poking through ruptured skin. Finally her spine snapped and she jerked horribly, like a marionette twitching to the strings of a ruthless puppeteer. With a blood-curdling shriek Zatore crumpled to the floor.
Cole was suddenly free to move, the magic that had frozen him in place shattered like the skeleton of the woman just opposite. He hurried over to the table, trying not to vomit at the sight of the shapeless mass of flesh that had moments ago been a living woman. He grabbed his backpack, quickly checked inside to make sure Midnight was fine, and then made a dash for the door.
To hell with the White Lady’s message. I’m getting the fuck out of here. If he could just remember the way out of the palace—
The door to Zatore’s chambers opened and the captain of the guard, Eric, barged straight into Cole. In his surprise the guard dropped the bottle of wine he’d been holding and it shattered into a thousand shards of glass, the produce of Carhein’s finest vineyards splashing all over Cole, who managed to keep his feet. The guard’s eyes widened when he saw the corpse of the king’s advisor. He reached for the sword at his hip. ‘Murder!’ he screamed. ‘Guards, to arms!’
Cole glanced wildly around, but there was nowhere to run except straight at the helmed figure blocking the door. He charged and caught the man with a boot straight to the face. Eric crashed to the floor and Cole was beside him in an instant, prying Magebane from the guard captain’s belt. It came free in a whisper of steel and immediately a blue glow sprang up around the blade.
Cole leaped the fallen guard and plunged into the corridor beyond.
A trio of guardsmen came sprinting towards him, spears raised. Cole backed away but felt an arm grab him from behind. It was Eric, the man’s nose a bloody mess. Desperate and out of options, Cole spun and drove Magebane into the guard captain’s neck. Warmth filled him as Eric’s life was leached away, transferred by the dagger into his own body. It felt terribly wrong. Terribly wrong, and yet rapturously good.
The first of the spearmen lunged and Cole twisted, his reflexes razor-sharp, his movements effortlessly fluid compared with the lumbering guard. Magebane stabbed
out again, opening the man’s throat. More strength surged into Cole’s body.
Yes, boomed a voice from somewhere deep inside. Kill them. Kill them all, child.
The two remaining guards tried to catch him in a pincer movement but he was unstoppable now, a killing machine. A crazed grin split his face and he batted aside one spear, stabbed out and heard a gasp as warm blood washed over his hand. He sensed movement behind him but it was laughably ponderous, like the guard was moving through tar. The Reaver opened the remaining guard’s face and then stabbed him through the heart before his scream could even escape his ruined lips.
A chorus of heartbeats thundered in his ears. He twisted to see more guardsmen sprinting towards him. He didn’t count them. There was no need.
He kicked off the wall and reversed momentum, stabbing one in the side of the neck and dropping him like a stone. He leaped again and somehow he was running along the wall, the thrusting spears of the guards around him like stalks of corn swaying lazily in the wind while he was the scythe, irresistible and unstoppable. In moments they were all dead. Inside he was raging fury but outside he was shadow, a darkness stalking through the corridor, smiling savagely, leaving only bodies in his wake.
The Reaver flowed into a large rectangular chamber; the throne room judging from the high-backed chair on the dais. It was occupied by a man covered by a patchwork cloak stitched from hundreds of scraps of cloth of all shades and colours. He wore a silver crown atop his head. The king, said a tiny and desperate voice. Stop! But it was drowned out by that relentless refrain.
Kill them all. Kill them all, child.
A half-dozen guards formed a protective wall before the throne, crossbows raised. He heard a series of clicks and saw the bolts flying towards him, twisting in the air.
The Reaver willed the shadows cloaking him to intercept the projectiles. Tendrils of darkness flowed outwards, plucked the bolts from the air, sent them clattering uselessly to the floor. Then he was upon the guards, stabbing and slashing, crimson droplets raining down all around him.
I am death.
‘Lady Steel!’ shouted a barrel-chested warrior just to the left of the king. He carried a monstrous shield protectively before him. To the king’s right, a lean woman with long grey hair and dressed in full plate armour raised her longsword in salute. Together the pair strode from the dais. They reached the Reaver just as he finished off the final guard, a fountain of red spray exploding from the man’s torn throat.
He sprang at them, his dagger trailing scarlet beads. They would all perish here, fuel for the infernal hunger raging within him.
Somehow the shield-bearer blocked his attacks. The iron-haired woman took a step forward and launched a furious series of slashes and the Reaver was driven back, the edge of his steel striking sparks off her armour but failing to penetrate to the sweet flesh beneath.
He snarled and spat and fought with redoubled fury. Time and again the male managed to raise his shield just in time to turn aside an otherwise fatal blow, while the woman with the iron hair fought with supreme skill, dodging away from Magebane and riposting with such precision that, somehow, he found himself being driven back.
The fury began to fade, the edge of madness slowly receding as the Reaver fought these masters of sword and shield. The king merely watched from his throne, unmoving, chin resting on one scarred hand.
The Reaver grunted as the iron-haired warrior scored a small nick on his arm. The sudden shock of pain cut through the red haze and like the first green shoots of spring poking through the earth after a long winter, Cole’s consciousness forced itself out. The supernatural rage driving him faltered and the big shield-bearer knocked him backwards with a fierce shove. Cole was forced to scramble away, blood dampening the spot where the woman’s dancing sword had cut him.
‘Wait,’ he managed to rasp, dodging the arcing blade of the woman – Lady Steel? – and raising his hands before him in a placating gesture. ‘I need to speak with the king.’
‘Demon,’ growled the grim warrior with the great shield. ‘You will get no closer to him! The Companions have defeated worse than you.’
‘I’m not a demon,’ Cole said desperately. The shield pummelled him again and he staggered, almost tripping over the body of one of the guards he had killed. ‘The White Lady sent me to deliver a message to Zatore,’ he said in a mad rush. ‘She was some kind of blood mage. I think she was controlling the king. I didn’t mean to kill the guards.’
‘Enough,’ the shield-bearer spat. ‘Don’t think your lies will save you now, assassin.’
Lady Steel said nothing, though one grey eyebrow rose slightly.
‘I swear, I’m telling the truth—’
The shield struck Cole painfully on the head, cutting him off mid-sentence.
‘Hold,’ said a gravelly voice that carried effortlessly from the throne. ‘Let him speak with me.’
Uttering a string of curses, the shield-bearer stepped back and glowered at Cole. Lady Steel sheathed her sword, though her eyes didn’t leave him for a moment.
Cole rubbed at his bruised skull and lowered Magebane. The blade was dripping red and as he gazed around at the carnage in the throne room, a sick feeling rose in his stomach.
I did this. All these guards, dead. All because of me.
‘You will surrender your weapon before approaching the king,’ growled the shield-bearer. Cole licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry, and did as the man commanded, handing over Magebane, trying not to look at the blood-smeared hilt. He approached the throne. There was a squelching sound and he realized his boots were wet; soaked through with blood. The nausea rose again and he swallowed it down.
The Rag King watched him. As Cole drew closer he saw the man’s face was as patchwork as his cloak, a hundred scars criss-crossing it from chin to brow. ‘Zatore is dead?’ the king asked, once Cole was standing before him.
‘Yes,’ Cole, replied. ‘Her death was...’ he was going to say horrific, but everything that had occurred since Zatore’s chambers had been horrific. ‘Colourful,’ he finished lamely.
‘You killed her?’
Cole shook his head. ‘The White Lady gave me a message to give to Zatore, who triggered some kind of spell. A trap placed on the scroll. It shattered her. Broke every bone in her body.’
‘Where is this message now?’ the king asked softly.
‘In Zatore’s chambers. On her table.’
The Rag King nodded at the shield-bearer, who scowled at Cole before striding out of the room, presumably to retrieve the note.
The king looked at Cole. ‘What are you?’ he asked curiously.
A killer. A murderer. ‘I’m... just a man.’
‘The thing that entered this throne room and killed my guards was no man. It took two of the Companions to hold you off. Are you a mage?’
Cole shook his head. ‘No. I...’
What am I? A whore-spawn bastard. A child of murder and an heir to murder. A monster.
‘I’m cursed,’ Cole finally managed.
The Rag King’s eyes narrowed. They were different colours, Cole noticed: one blue, one green. The myriad scars on his face seemed to dance as he scowled. ‘I know a little about curses myself.’
‘They’re all dead! He murdered them all! Even Eric.’ The thundering voice of the big warrior announced his return before he stormed through the doors. He made straight for Cole, huge shield clutched in one hand, battleaxe in the other, violent intent written all over his face.
The Rag King raised a hand and Lady Steel moved to intercept him. ‘Easy, Jax. We are no longer on the road. I alone pass judgement in this hall. Do you have the White Lady’s message?’
‘Here,’ growled Jax, shoving it at the silent swordswoman blocking his path. She took the proffered parchment and brought it to the king, who began to read, his mismatched eyes scanning the document. ‘The Magelord of Thelassa wants my help? She should know I have scant men to spare. Not for any cause, least of all to combat mysterious boge
ymen from across the sea. What is this? “I know, Zatore. I know. Consider this my gift to you”.’ The Rag King chuckled suddenly. ‘I believe the last line was addressed directly to me. It appears the White Lady’s gift came in the form of an execution – hence freeing me of the machinations of my duplicitous advisor. I confess to not feeling myself as of late. Now I know why.’ The king sighed and placed the parchment down. ‘Sir Meredith warned me about Zatore. He was wrong in ways too many to list, but in this matter it appears he was correct.’
Cole had no idea who Sir Meredith was – but if the man was as formidable as the king’s other former companions here in the throne room, he could count himself lucky that Sir Meredith was not among those present. Lady Steel was watching him with an intensity that could have boiled ants. The woman didn’t seem to blink.
‘The people of the Trine need your soldiers,’ he said, thinking it best to get to the heart of the matter before the rising sickness in his gut ended with him humiliating himself. ‘Dorminia has already fallen.’
The Rag King leaned back slightly on his throne and folded his hands on his lap. They too were massively scarred. ‘Forgetting the fact that you have just slaughtered a score of my guards, how does this concern Tarbonne?’
‘They wish to destroy all mankind,’ Cole said, trying not to glance at the bodies littering the hall behind him. ‘Once they’ve conquered the Trine they’ll move south. The Fade wield weapons beyond our understanding. If Thelassa falls, no one is safe.’
‘I have no soldiers to spare. The war with the duke demands every fighter I can muster.’
‘You can convince the other realms to send aid,’ Cole argued. ‘This is bigger than a conflict between men. This is a battle for survival. The Fade don’t care who sits on the throne in Tarbonne or any other kingdom. If we don’t work together, everything we know will be dust.’
