by Luke Scull
He realized he was spraying spittle and raised a hand to wipe his mouth clean.
Melissan stared at him with an unreadable expression. Then she turned and took the elevation chamber back down without a word. Saverian watched her go. He turned back to the window. He narrowed his eyes and then drove a fist through the glass.
‘I am General Saverian,’ he whispered, forcing his fury under control. ‘I killed the elf king in single combat. I drove the wyrms from this continent. I broke the grim company that defeated the Herald. I always win.’
He stood there, staring out over the city. Black clouds gathered and a fierce wind picked up, buffeting him, sending his cloak dancing behind him. A flash lit the sky. There was a great rumble of thunder and moments later the first drops of rain struck the glass to either side of the broken window. The gathering storm mirrored the storm raging within him.
I am the shield that defends our people from harm. I am the sword that has vanquished every threat for five thousand years.
The elevation chamber chimed again. He heard the doors slide open but did not bother to turn. If Melissan were so displeased by his earlier outburst, she could approach and make her feelings known. He gave no quarter to anyone; not even his own betrothed.
Something landed on the rain-swept floor beside him. He stared down at it.
It was the head of Asharoth, the guard on duty.
Saverian spun. A burly figure stepped out of the elevation chamber. A flash of lightning outside lit the room for an instant, revealing a bald head dripping with rain, fire-scarred jaw clenched in utter determination. Dark eyes promising death.
The grim warrior stalked towards him, a bloody axe clutched in each hand.
‘You should be dead,’ Saverian growled. ‘I shot you a half-dozen times.’
The human known as the Wolf was covered in wounds that had yet to completely heal. Somehow he had made it through the enclave and inside the Obelisk, killing an experienced fehd officer along the way.
‘You seek to challenge me?’ the general grated as the warrior did not slow his advance. ‘You are no immortal! You are no wizard! You are not even god-touched. You are just a man. A dead man walking.’
The human didn’t reply. Did not waver. He kept on coming, the expression on his scarred face so intense that Saverian felt a flicker of unease. He considered drawing his hand-cannon – but the raging storm within him demanded something more.
His crystal sword whispered from its sheath.
The rain was pounding down now, the beating of it against the glass drowning out the ragged breathing of the bald warrior and Saverian’s own measured breaths. He had witnessed this human fight back at the palace. This ‘Wolf’ was good, remarkably so – better than any mortal had a right to be.
But he was the general.
The warrior sprang, unleashed a flurry of slashes that would have ended many Fade soldiers, perhaps even an Adjudicator. Saverian blocked them all, driven back only slightly by the sheer fury of the berserker’s assault. He launched a counter-attack, felt his sword cut flesh, felt warm blood on his face as it sprayed out from a deep gash in his opponent’s arm.
The man known as the Wolf didn’t falter. Instead he punched out with an axe, caught Saverian in the mouth with the haft. The general staggered back and the human warrior rushed him, headbutting him in the face, shattering his nose before Saverian hurled him away. The commander stood there in shock, tasting his own blood as his opponent climbed back to his feet.
The Wolf was relentless. He stormed straight back in, right axe swinging, an overhand slash followed by a low slash from his left axe. He pivoted and launched a reverse strike with his right axe and Saverian parried all these attempts, but the Wolf immediately launched into another combination even more intricate than the last and this time one of his axes glanced off Saverian’s chest. The general’s armour held – but he felt a rib crack beneath the force of the blow.
The bald-headed warrior was bleeding profusely from several wounds. Saverian spat out crimson and narrowed his gaze on this remarkable human. ‘Who are you truly?’ he demanded. ‘Tell me so that I may add your name to the list of foes I have vanquished.’
‘A cunt talks about what’s he’s gonna do,’ the grim warrior replied. ‘A man does it.’
Saverian sneered. ‘A man dies. Just like everything else that is mortal. But I am no mortal.’
He dove forward, leading with the tip of his crystal sword, the same killing blow that had ended the blue-eyed warrior who called himself the Sword of the North. He moved faster than any human, faster than anything living or dead. He was the general, and for five thousand years his sword had vanquished every threat against his people.
He felt his sword enter the human’s stomach. Heard the man’s sharp intake of breath, the clatter of his axes striking the floor. ‘Now you know how your friend felt in his final moments,’ Saverian said. ‘Die now. Die like he died.’
He pushed, attempting to drive the sword deeper into the warrior’s body, expecting to feel it burst through his back at any moment.
It would not budge.
Saverian glanced down. Saw the Wolf’s hands around the blade, his biceps straining with the effort of holding it back.
The general felt hot breath on his skin and looked up just as the warrior’s teeth closed around his cheek. The Wolf jerked his head viciously back and half of Saverian’s face seemed to tear away. He screamed, stumbled back, his crystal sword pulled away from his grip.
He felt the blood pouring down his neck, the empty space in his cheek where flesh ought to be. He blinked the tears from his obsidian eyes just in time to see the weapon – his weapon – bursting through his chest. It punched through his silver armour like paper, sharper than any steel, sharper than anything that could be found in the earth. This time it was Saverian’s turn to gasp, blood filling his mouth, bubbling out.
The Wolf snarled crimson drool, began to push him backwards by the hilt of the sword in his shaking hands. Backwards, towards the gap in the broken glass.
‘You should be dead,’ Saverian tried to say, bloody spittle spraying all over his chin.
He tried to slide the weapon out of him like his opponent had, to tear the blade free of his body – but he could not. All he could do was focus on that pitiless stare. Eyes like flint, refusing to dim despite the countless wounds covering his body.
With a mighty grunt, the Wolf flung him backwards and then Saverian felt himself falling, shards of glass raining down around him, his own sword sticking out of his chest like an exclamation point. As he fell, he watched the dwindling warrior sink to one knee on the tower’s edge, seconds from toppling over the precipice himself.
He would never know if his killer did indeed fall. His final thought was that none of this should have been possible. For five thousand years he had been the shield that had kept his people safe. For five thousand years he had been the sword that had overcome all threats.
Yet as the ground rushed up to meet him, a single inevitable truth echoed in his mind. All things die...
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Acknowledgements
About Luke Scull
About The Grim Company Series
An Invitation from the Publisher
Acknowledgements
FIRST AND FOREMOST I offer my sincere thanks to my agent, Rob Dinsdale, who kept this ship afloat despite my best efforts to capsize it on more than one occasion. This one’s for you.
To my publishers, I extend my gratitude for their patience during the writing of this trilogy. A special thank you goes out to Mathilda Imlah, who first took a chance on the manuscript, as well as Jess Wade and Chris Lotts, who fought so hard on my behalf on the other side of the Pond.
A thank you once again to Mike Brooks, who provided invaluable feedback in his no-nonsense style. Thanks also to Mark Lawrence for advice and words of encouragement at a particularly challenging
time.
To my readers, I am filled with gratitude that, with all the fine books out there, you chose to invest your time (and quite possibly money) in my little world! I hope to return to it one day.
Finally, to Yesica: I’m sorry, for everything.
About Luke Scull
LUKE SCULL was born in Bristol and lives in Warminster. Luke also designs computer roleplaying games and has worked on several acclaimed titles for Ossian Studios and Bioware.
Luke’s first novel, The Grim Company, was shortlisted for the David Gemmell Morningstar Award, 2014.
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About The Grim Company Series
It is a time of darkness. The last magic of the dead gods is on the wane. Demons and half-formed monsters plague the land as the final barriers between the realms begin to fail. The jealous Magelords of three great cities sit in their towers of stone and brood over the scant power that remains...
It is not a time of heroes. Their songs are long forgotten, their deeds go unwritten.
But, even now, some few still nurse a spark of hope, an unlikely fellowship, united against the tyranny of their immortal overlords.
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First published in the UK in 2016 by Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Luke Scull, 2016
The moral right of Luke Scull to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Hardback ISBN 9781781851593
Ebook ISBN 9781781851623
Jacket imagery: Larry Rostant
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