by Luke Scull
The White Lady’s handmaiden met the Fade’s alien gaze with eyes as dead as old bone. ‘Immortality is not without its own drawbacks.’
‘Perhaps for those who have stolen it,’ replied Isaac. ‘Humans are born to die. Only the gods were meant to last forever. The gods – and the fehd.’
A few minutes later they set off again. They climbed barren hills skulking under the shadow of the gargantuan mountains in the distance, the land rising all the time. ‘The Devil’s Spine,’ mused Cole. He kicked a stone and it clattered down the side of the hill, making a fair racket. Jerek shot him a glare, but Cole ignored the bad-tempered warrior. ‘What’s a “Devil”, anyway?’
‘In the Time Before, the Devil was the embodiment of sin,’ Isaac said.
‘Was he real?’ Cole asked. He found Isaac a lot less annoying when the Fade wasn’t trying to impress everyone with his endless array of talents.
Isaac shrugged. ‘My ancestors considered him a metaphorical construction. Perhaps they simply needed more faith. Perhaps the Devil was behind the events that brought the end upon us.’
Jerek snorted at that. ‘A man takes responsibility for his own fuck-ups,’ the Wolf growled. ‘He don’t go around laying the blame on others.’
Isaac fell silent, apparently lost in thought.
As they were passing under a particularly high ridge, Sasha spotted something above them. ‘There’s a cave entrance up there,’ she said, pointing.
Jerek sniffed. ‘I can smell smoke,’ he rasped. ‘Some fucker’s cooking.’ They began to notice small objects on the ground. Cole reached down and scooped up what appeared to be a finger bone. There was death in the air; he could sense it.
‘Reckon we ought to check that out,’ the Wolf growled. He glanced around, searching for a way up to the cave entrance. The White Lady’s handmaiden suddenly leaped up onto the rock face and began scaling the nearly sheer wall. In moments she had reached the narrow ledge just before the cave. She ghosted inside, disappearing from sight.
Cole eyed the rock face speculatively. There were tiny gaps in the wall – enough to get a foothold, perhaps. He cracked his fingers and turned to the others. ‘I don’t know about you lot, but I’m in no mood to wait around,’ he said. Sasha shook her head but he ignored her. He braced himself and began to climb, using every inch of purchase on the wall to haul himself up. Around two-thirds of the way he thought his impulsiveness might have got the better of him, but as luck would have it he spotted a handhold just in time. He grabbed hold of it, almost slipping, and dragged himself over the ledge.
Then he stood there, breathing hard, and stared out over the foothills. He glanced down at the others, unable to keep the triumphant grin from his face. ‘Who’s next?’ he mouthed down at them. He doubted any of his remaining companions could manage the climb, except for Isaac.
‘Prick,’ Jerek muttered. The Wolf spat and set off for an alternative route, Kayne and the others following behind. Cole felt a little guilty at flaunting his youth and athleticism in front of the kindly old warrior, but he was tired of people underestimating him.
He turned and entered the cave. The smoke grew thicker as he padded silently through the winding tunnel. Suddenly a hand reached out and grasped his shoulder, and he almost jumped out of his skin. He had thought himself a master of the stealthy arts, but somehow he had wandered right by the Unborn without seeing the creature. She raised a porcelain finger to her bloodless lips and pointed at the spectacle ahead of them. It might have been Cole’s imagination, but he thought he glimpsed disquiet in her dead eyes.
Six robed and cowled figures were standing around a huge cauldron that rested upon a burning woodpile trailing thick smoke. The men were whispering in a strange tongue Cole did not recognize. As he crept closer, he saw that beyond the cauldron were several large cages packed with men, women and children. When he saw the human bones piled near the cauldron and the sickly sweet scent of burning flesh reached his nostrils, Cole suddenly understood exactly what the men – the cultists – were cooking. Fury filled him.
Cole charged at the nearest cultist and plunged Magebane into the man’s back. Feeling vitality flood him, he shoved the body away and it fell face-first into the cauldron. Boiling water splashed out, scalding Cole, but he ignored the pain and turned to the next cultist. The man’s hood slipped off to reveal an ancient face covered in grime, a filthy grey beard tangled with twigs and leaves. He muttered something and Cole was lifted into the air and flung backwards by an unseen force. He struck the floor painfully, staring at Magebane in disbelief. For some reason, the dagger had failed to protect him from the cultist’s magic.
There was a blur of white and the Unborn leaped upon the cultist’s back, wrenching his wrinkled head almost clean off as he twisted the man’s neck with a loud snap. That left four remaining cultists. Three began chanting in a strange language, while the fourth darted towards Cole, a pair of tongs glowing red in his age-spotted hands.
Cole kicked out, knocking the man’s legs out from under him. He planted his palms on the floor and sprang up, tossing Magebane through the air to strike another cultist dead in the throat. There was an ominous rumble and two massive figures suddenly detached from the cave wall – hulking giants made of stone.
The remaining cultists fell back behind their conjured guardians. Cole wrenched Magebane free of the neck of the man he’d just killed. The cultist’s life force flooded into him. The Reaver’s voice boomed in his skull. The world turned red.
Kill them. Kill them all, child.
The Reaver snarled and sprang at the monster blocking his path. It reached towards him, swinging its arm like a club, and he danced around it, brought Magebane scraping down its huge back in an explosion of stone that did little to slow the creature. The White Lady’s handmaiden leaped at the other giant, but she was swatted aside, striking the wall hard enough to snap one of her arms.
The Reaver attacked the stone giant with renewed fury, but it was like trying to fell a tree with a twig.
A loud bang echoed through the cave. Suddenly half the monster’s body crumbled beneath it. It sagged forward, swinging its arms wildly. The Reaver rolled under the giant’s clublike fists, setting his sights on the two cultists cowering at the rear of the cave. They were chanting, working another spell, but all the Reaver could focus on was the delicious sound of their hearts pumping blood around their bodies.
He drove the dagger into the stomach of one of the cultists, exalting in the flood of warmth that filled him. The other cultist finished chanting, and before the Reaver could reach the man he was restrained by some invisible force. He twisted left and right, trying to free himself, but he was held tight.
One of the stone giants fell apart, exploding into rubble. The other was slowly being dismantled by a tall immortal with a crystal sword and a bald, flint-eyed warrior wielding a pair of axes. The tiny part of his consciousness that was Cole knew them to be friends, or at least allies – but all the Reaver saw was fresh prey.
Kill. Kill them all.
A woman appeared, one hand outstretched. Lightning sizzled from her fingers and struck the final combatant, blowing a gaping hole in his chest. He collapsed, stone dead, and suddenly the Reaver was free.
He flowed towards the sorceress, shadows trailing in his wake. ‘Rana!’ shouted another woman in warning, her voice familiar. The sorceress turned and noticed him. She pointed, tried to work some spell, but the dagger grew warm in his palm and absorbed her magic.
The Reaver grinned savagely. He was death – and he would not be denied.
Suddenly the bald warrior with the twin axes was in his path. The Reaver snarled and stabbed out, faster than any man could hope to follow, aiming for the heart—
His dagger was somehow batted aside. That scarred face slammed into his, headbutting him full in the nose. He heard a crunching sound and reeled back, blood spraying everywhere. Strong arms grabbed him, locking his hands behind him. He hissed and kicked out and threw back his head in rag
e, but whomever had hold of him refused to be shaken off.
‘Easy, lad. I got you.’
A familiar face bled into view, dark eyes wide with concern. ‘Cole,’ she said desperately. ‘Cole, it’s me. What’s wrong with you?’
Sasha.
Hearing the name of the woman he loved brought Cole back to himself in an instant. He sagged in Brodar Kayne’s arms, guilt and shame flooding him.
Jerek stalked over to the sole surviving cultist, who was cowering on the floor. The Wolf bent down and pulled back the man’s hood. It was another old fellow, beard caked with mud, broken veins like tiny purple worms beneath the flesh of his bulbous nose. The Wolf hauled him up and dragged him over to the cauldron.
‘Why?’ Jerek snarled, gesturing at the prisoners trapped in the cages. They were half-naked and half-starved, faces staring out in abject terror.
‘The Voice in the Valley,’ the elderly man said, his voice as crackly as dried leaves. ‘It came to us. It whispered to us.’
‘These men are veronyi,’ Kayne said. ‘What the hell they doing cooking innocents?’ He released his grip on Cole and went to try the cages. They were locked.
‘Here,’ said Isaac. The Fade had recovered a large iron key from one of the fallen cultists. He tossed it at Kayne, who almost fumbled it, his hands trembling a little.
Sasha moved to comfort Cole, but he flinched away. This time it was Sasha’s turn to look wounded.
Please don’t touch me, Cole thought bitterly. I’m a monster.
Kayne unlocked the first of the cages and helped out a couple of children. ‘You’re safe now,’ he said gently. ‘What happened here?’
The eldest child pointed a shaking finger at the cultist Jerek was currently holding over the cauldron. The muscles in the Wolf’s arm were knotted with the strain. ‘The demons took us from our homes,’ he said, his voice trembling. ‘They brought us here. And then the wise men...’ He trailed off, the horror on his face telling its own story.
‘The Herald corrupted them,’ Isaac announced, staring at the corpses of the veronyi. ‘It made dark promises to these men in order to win them to its master’s cause. The sacrifice of these innocents helped open the door for more demons to cross over.’
‘What did it promise you?’ Rana asked the cultist, her voice grim.
‘Immortality,’ he quivered. ‘Eternal life. The greatest gift.’
Brodar Kayne turned to the cultist, blue eyes narrowed in fury. ‘Ain’t no gift worth more than a life of a child!’ he snarled.
‘To the Nameless, the sacrifice of a child carries more power than anything else,’ Isaac said. ‘It feeds upon possibility. Nowhere is potential greater than within a child.’ The Adjudicator’s expression grew troubled, as though his own words had just given him pause for thought.
The White Lady’s handmaiden ghosted over, her shattered arm hanging uselessly at her side. Her gaze fixed on the children. While the others busied themselves helping the prisoners, Cole stared at the Unborn. To his utter shock, something wet rolled down the handmaiden’s cheek and splashed onto the stone floor. A tear.
Jerek’s arm was shaking with exertion. The veronyi began to slip from his grasp. ‘Spare me!’ he wailed. ‘I’ll repent my sins! I can change, I promise—’
The Wolf forced the man’s head into the boiling water, ignoring his bubbling screams, the terrible smell of cooking flesh. ‘A promise from a cunt ain’t nothing but wasted air,’ he rasped. Then he took hold of the rest of the cultist’s body and heaved him into the cauldron.
‘What are we going to do with them?’ Sasha asked, nodding at the filthy prisoners huddling around the cages.
Isaac fixed them with his immortal gaze. ‘They cannot come with us,’ he said regretfully. ‘They would slow us down.’
‘They can’t stay here,’ Kayne said. ‘These poor things need taking somewhere safe. Ain’t nowhere safe in these lands, save maybe aboard the Seeker.’
‘I will take them there,’ said the Unborn.
‘You?’ said Sasha, surprised. ‘You’re the White Lady’s eyes and ears. Why involve yourself in the fates of these prisoners?’
The Unborn did not reply. Instead, the handmaiden began rounding up the prisoners. Just before they departed, the Unborn turned back to Sasha. ‘If Thanates returns, tell him... tell him I am waiting for him.’
*
The companions made their descent from the cave along a narrow platform that wound along the side of the ridge. Davarus Cole trudged along at the rear of the group, too ashamed to let anyone see him. Blood covered his leather jerkin, a reminder of the carnage he’d unleashed in the cave. His freshly broken nose was utter agony; every breath he took brought discomfort. He caught Rana glancing at him and saw her flinch.
He’d lost himself again; allowed the Reaver to overwhelm him and seize control. Were it not for Jerek, there was no telling whom he might have killed. Perhaps he would have murdered the sorceress. Brodar Kayne. Sasha.
His fingers brushed against Magebane’s jewelled hilt. It had failed to protect him against the veronyi – they did not use magic but rather summoned the spirits of earth, fire, air and water to do their bidding. He wondered if it might have been better if they’d finished him off before the others had intervened. Saved by Isaac; he truly had reached a new low.
He heard footsteps beside him and looked up. Brodar Kayne had fallen back to walk alongside him. ‘All right, lad?’ he asked affably.
‘Not really.’
Kayne nodded. ‘You lost it back there. I’ve seen warriors on jhaeld do the same – go crazy and start killing comrades until the fire leaves their blood and they’re left to ponder what they’ve done. I reckon you’re carrying some kind of curse. All that business with raising the dead.’
Cole had been in no mood to talk – but there was something about this old warrior’s manner that made him want to open up. ‘It’s the Reaver,’ he said. ‘The dead god within me. It urges me to kill, every second of every day. How can I live with that?’
Kayne thought for a moment. ‘You ever killed anyone you regret? That you was certain didn’t need killing?’
‘I don’t think so. I’ve killed when my life was under threat. But it didn’t feel good afterwards.’
‘It ain’t meant to,’ the old warrior replied. ‘When it starts to feel good, you know you’ve crossed a line and you can never come back.’
Cole glanced at the barbarian’s knee. ‘Is your leg troubling you?’ he asked. The old warrior was limping again.
‘Ain’t no trouble,’ Kayne replied, suddenly walking a little more stiffly. ‘You remember when I took your dagger off you for a time? You threw a mighty tantrum, as I recall.’
Cole did remember. Brodar Kayne had rescued him from a group of Crimson Watchmen and claimed Magebane as his prize. ‘I wish you’d never returned it to me,’ he said bitterly. ‘I hate this bloody weapon. It’s the reason for my curse. The reason for everything bad in my life.’
‘Then why not get rid of it?’ Kayne asked.
‘I can’t. Without it, I’m nothing. Just the son of a whore and a murderer.’
‘No one is ever born “just” anything. It’s what you make of yourself that counts.’
‘You don’t understand,’ Cole said. ‘Magebane made me who I am.’
‘It ain’t the weapon that makes the man,’ Brodar Kayne replied easily. ‘It’s the man that makes the weapon.’
Cole saw Rana staring in their direction again. The woman’s mouth twisted in distaste. Her contempt made Davarus Cole feel two feet tall – until he realized it wasn’t him her disapproval was aimed at, but rather the man beside him.
Shattered Things
✥
THE HALFMAGE WATCHED Monique sleeping, the gentle rise and fall of her chest the only movement within the dingy warehouse room. Mard was curled into a ball, staring at the wooden walls. He might have been sleeping or he might not; Eremul supposed it didn’t make much difference. The former dockworker
hadn’t spoken in days and the Halfmage suspected his mind had finally gone over the edge, never to return.
Ricker had somehow managed to get his hands on the vilest-smelling rum the Halfmage had ever encountered in his thirteen years spent living near the harbourside. He was utterly paralytic, sprawled out on the floor with the bottle still clutched tightly in his hand.
Strange how we cling onto even the emptiest of comforts. There had been a time when all Eremul had to cling onto was vengeance. Once he had finally claimed it, the Halfmage had come to understand how empty hatred truly was.
Sadly, that epiphany hadn’t stopped most of the city from hating his guts with a relish normally reserved for tax collectors and kiddie-fiddlers. He could hardly venture outside without being spat on or cursed at. Shit had been smeared across the door of the warehouse, and someone had tried to hurl a firebomb through a window the night before last. The explosive had turned out to be a dud, but it had hardened Eremul’s resolve.
He stared at Monique as she slept, his heart seeming as heavy as lead at the knowledge that this would be the last time he woke up beside her.
Love is sacrifice.
Eremul had spent many years pondering the nature of love – in the absence of practical experience, theoretical explorations were as far his mind and body had wandered. Love couldn’t solely be physical attraction, he reasoned. Something as ephemeral and shallow could not start and end wars, or make a man give his life for a woman he loved, or a woman starve herself so that her children may live.
No. Love is simply a willingness to reduce oneself in some way, for no other reason than the desire to elevate another.
The Halfmage reached down under his chair and removed a small wooden box affixed to the bottom of the seat. He reached into one of the deepest pockets of his robe and took out a small silver key, which he inserted into the lock. The box popped open.
He stared at the object within. It was a thin and utterly unremarkable sliver of wood, cut from an elm tree. The Halfmage withdrew it carefully from the box and gave it an experimental swish, taking care not to wake Monique. Twenty years ago it had been presented to the young Eremul by the wizard Poskarus – one of Salazar’s apprentices and a man who wouldn’t know the love of a good woman if he awoke to one straddling his withered old cock. Nevertheless, Poskarus had been a stickler for tradition, and foremost of those traditions in the elderly mage’s mind had been the presentation of a wand to new apprentices granted a position within the tower’s enclave.
