The Grim Company tgt-1

by Luke Scull

  ‘You crazy idiots,’ Soeman said, once they were back in the hold. ‘You almost got yourselves killed.’ He coughed and spat blood onto the soiled planking beneath them.

  Three-Finger shrugged. ‘Death by drowning don’t seem so bad. I can think of nastier ways to go.’ He had an evil look in his eyes that made Cole uncomfortable.

  ‘Ain’t nothing worse than the Swell,’ the old sailor, Jack, spat. He made a warding sign in the air with his left hand. ‘I want to stare death in the face. Not be swallowed up by the sea when I least expect it.’

  Three-Finger raised his mutilated hand and scratched at his scabrous cheek. ‘Most of us haven’t got any sailing experience. Know what that tells me? They mean to use us for all the dangerous shit — stuff no sane man would do. We won’t make it out of here, none of us.’

  Cole cleared his throat noisily to get their attention. He’d had an idea. It was crazy and dangerous and some might even say foolish, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

  When hard decisions need to be made, hard men step up to take them. He had read that in a book once, and it had struck a chord.

  ‘Once we’ve reached the spot where we’re to begin mining, what happens?’ he asked softly.

  Soeman answered. ‘Red Bounty will drop anchor. We’ll board her and begin unloading the equipment. It will be heavy work.’

  Cole dropped his voice to a whisper so that only Soeman, Three-Finger and Jack could hear. ‘What if we create a diversion on the Bounty? Soeman could sabotage a piece of equipment and draw the attention of the Watch. If we can empty the Redemption of soldiers, we could sneak back aboard this ship and steal it before they realize what’s happening.’

  Three-Finger grinned, flashing yellow teeth. ‘And what about her crew? You think the four of us can handle a dozen men? You’re deluded.’

  ‘Not just the four of us,’ Cole replied. ‘I can convince some of the others to join us. The sailors on board this ship are poorly armed. They’re no warriors. On the other hand,’ he said, waving an arm at the shadowy figures scattered about the hold, ‘most of us here know how to fight. Am I right, Three-Finger?’

  ‘Aye, I’m a surgeon with a shank,’ the convict replied. ‘And there’s plenty more killers among us. But we’re unarmed. We’ll be cut to shreds.’

  Cole just about stopped short of tapping his head knowingly. He had them right where he wanted them. ‘The mining equipment is sure to include objects that can be used as weapons. Picks and hammers, that sort of thing. While the Watch are distracted, we’ll arm the other captives, board this ship and force the Redemption to sail before those aboard Red Bounty know we’re gone.’

  It was old Jack’s turn to speak. ‘I can captain this ship, that I can. Red Bounty won’t stand a chance of catching us. But where would we go?’

  Cole shrugged. ‘Anywhere, so long as it’s away from Dorminia.’

  Soeman shook his head slowly. ‘This is madness. We’re better off working the Swell and hoping for a pardon from the magistrates. I have a family to think about.’

  Coward, Cole wanted to hiss at him, but he forced a look of compassion onto his face. ‘I understand your fears, Soeman,’ he said gently. ‘But do you think your family would want you to die out here alone in a freak accident? Or swallowed up by the Swell? No. They would want you to die fighting.’

  He had a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘Besides, you’re sick. You’ve contracted something bad, Soeman. You can’t risk exposing your family to whatever disease it is you have. Better for them to discover that their beloved husband and father spent his final days a free man, sailing the sea alongside boon companions like the storied heroes of old.’

  The engineer sagged. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I’ll make my family proud of me. Maybe… maybe we can send some gold home to my wife. Just so she doesn’t have to work the streets any more.’ His voice had turned hopeful.

  Cole smiled. ‘Of course we will,’ he said. If we have anything left to spare. Organizing a rebel army isn’t going to be cheap. ‘I need to share my plan with the others,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait until this evening when it’s dark and I can move freely above decks.’

  ‘I’m with you, lad,’ said Jack. ‘I’ve wanted my own ship for years. Hah, I got caught trying to steal a pretty little schooner from the harbour. Turns out it belonged to a powerful magistrate. I was up for hanging until the Redemption called.’

  ‘Count me in too,’ said Three-Finger. ‘I’ll die with a weapon in hand if I’m going to die at all.’ The convict rubbed at his ravaged face again. ‘You still haven’t introduced yourself, kid. Or explained how it is you think you can convince a bunch of criminals to work together and pull off the escape of the century.’

  Cole squared his shoulders and gave each of the three men a weighty stare, aches and pains forgotten in the sudden rush of pride. At last he was getting the respect he deserved! He could already see the amazement on Garrett’s face when he unveiled the full depth of his brilliance in years to come.

  ‘My name’s Davarus Cole,’ he said. ‘As for the exact details of how I’m planning to pull this off, you don’t need to worry yourselves. I have a lifetime’s experience with this kind of thing. You see…’ He paused momentarily for effect. ‘… this is what I do.’

  The Ultimate Lesson

  Yllandris had thought she understood what it was to endure the deepest cold. The last couple of days had taught her otherwise.

  She squinted, trying to make out the town a scant few hundred yards ahead of the war party. The blizzard that had buffeted them for the last few hours persisted stubbornly, slowing their advance and piling on the misery that had blighted the march since it began.

  ‘Fucking spirits be damned,’ Krazka spat, wiping frost from his beard with the back of his hand. His dead eye had frozen over and gleamed malevolently from his cruel face.

  Standing beside the bloodthirsty chieftain of the Lake Reaching was Orgrim Foehammer. The grizzled old campaigner hefted his infamous great maul and scowled at the small army of Highlanders bustling behind them.

  The war party numbered around five hundred men. The two Reachings provided the bulk of the force, with a further century of Heartstone’s finest warriors supplied courtesy of King Magnar. Somewhere in the swirling snow up ahead the menagerie of beasts that was the Brethren lay in wait. They would swarm out of the mist the moment hostilities with Frosthold began, a deadly whirlwind of claw and fang rending all before them.

  The war party had lost seven men on the trek northwards. A mountain bear had burst out from an unseen hollow and killed the first, shaking him like a leaf until his arm tore away at the shoulder. The huge predator had begun disembowelling the screaming warrior before the first of half a dozen spears had buried themselves in its hide.

  Two more Highlanders had plummeted to their deaths after a gust of wind stole them from the side of a ridge. Another three died of hypothermia.

  The last man simply disappeared overnight. None of his fellows could recall his departure. That incident was the most troubling of all, as Wulgreth had originally hailed from the North Reaching before swearing loyalty to King Magnar. If he had deserted to warn Frosthold of their coming, the invasion of the town would prove all the more difficult.

  And difficult it was likely to be. The capital of the North Reaching was home to almost three thousand Highlanders, a full quarter of them men of fighting age. However, that wasn’t what bothered Yllandris most. Frosthold’s circle was both large and powerful. Even with her sisters and the circles of the two Reachings beside her, the young sorceress felt a hint of trepidation.

  Fifteen sorceresses against eight. The High Fangs will not have witnessed such a contest in many years.

  ‘Pay attention, sister,’ snapped Shranree. The woman’s plump red cheeks were accentuated by the freezing cold so that she resembled an oversized apple buried within a bundle of furs. Yllandris only just suppressed a snort of amusement. Old Agatha shot her a withering glance,
a bead of frozen snot hanging from the end of her ridiculous nose.

  Yllandris couldn’t stand either of the two sorceresses, but they were the most senior members of her circle and she was bound to obey them. Not for long, she thought. A queen acquiesces to no one. Then she remembered the Shaman and the way Magnar had kowtowed before him, and her momentary satisfaction wilted and died.

  ‘We will accompany the warriors at the head of the force,’ Shranree announced, her voice muffled by her hood. ‘Our allies from the Lake and East Reachings will focus their power on nullifying the threat from the enemy circle. We,’ she added, looking at each of the six women in turn, ‘will rain fire down upon the town. Our task is to force the men, women and children from their huts so our warriors may cut them down.’

  Yllandris felt a moment of unease. ‘I don’t see how the murder of children accomplishes anything. What part do they have in the rebellion?’

  Old Agatha tutted softly. ‘Do you know nothing of our history, girl? Bad seed must be culled lest it corrupt the entire herd.’

  Shranree nodded, her flabby jowls wobbling. ‘The children of traitors inevitably grow to adulthood with the same poison festering in their hearts. They must die.’

  ‘You were too young and inexperienced to play a part in the razing of Beregund,’ added Old Agatha. ‘Now you have the opportunity to prove yourself. Failure could cost the entire circle.’

  Yllandris glared at the old crone. ‘I won’t let you down.’

  Shranree gave her a patronizing smile. ‘I trust you won’t. Now, the men are preparing to advance. We should join them.’

  Yllandris wiped snowflakes from her face, pulled her wolfskin cloak tighter around her body, and followed her sisters as they made their way over to the warriors.

  The light was dying. The snow continued to fall.

  Like Heartstone, Frosthold perched on the edge of a great lake. However, unlike the capital and the surrounding Reachings that made up the region known as the Heartlands, this far north spring had yet to gain any kind of foothold. The North Reaching was frozen and would remain that way for all but a couple of months of summer.

  Yllandris watched her breath mist in the frigid night air as she and the other sorceresses approached the high wooden gates. She saw no sentries on duty, but a couple of shapeless bundles gathered snow near the gatepost to the left of her. It seemed the Brethren had already begun their silent work.

  Krazka glared at the gates with his good eye. He turned to Shranree, who was waddling along beside him and Orgrim Foehammer at the head of the war party. ‘Blow the fucking gates off,’ he barked. ‘Let them know we’re here.’

  ‘I reckon they already know,’ Orgrim replied. There was a flicker of light behind the gate, and then the sounds of boots crunching on snow.

  Everyone readied their weapons. Yllandris reached down deep inside, evoking the power that throbbed within her veins and teasing it to the tips of her fingers. She saw her sisters doing the same.

  There was the sound of a bar being raised. Very slowly, the gates creaked open…

  To reveal four ragged figures: a man, a woman and two girls. Yllandris narrowed her eyes. She seemed to recall seeing the man before.

  Mehmon.

  It was indeed the chieftain of the North Reaching — but he was no longer the imposing figure she remembered from his audiences with the King in months gone by. He had been a proud warrior then, his long beard streaked with grey but his back broad and unbowed.

  Now he was a broken old man. He hobbled towards them, his beard turned to white and his frail body robbed of the girth that had made him such a feared warrior even in his twilight years.

  After a moment of confusion had passed, Krazka held up a gloved hand. ‘Mehmon? Is that you? You look like something my hounds shat out.’

  The chieftain of the North Reaching halted. He stared across at his counterpart, his expression empty of hope. ‘Krazka… I didn’t expect you here.’

  The Butcher of Beregund grinned, a predator’s smile completely devoid of humour. ‘This is quite the little reunion. I’d like to say you’re looking well, but that would be a barefaced lie, wouldn’t it? These your wife and girls?’ He nodded at the women shivering behind Mehmon. Each held a torch, revealing them to be emaciated.

  Krazka gave a dramatic tut. ‘The poor lambs shouldn’t be out here. A girl could catch her death on a night like this.’

  Orgrim frowned. ‘I ain’t got no quarrel with you, Mehmon. Fought alongside you in many a battle. Got a lot of respect for the warrior you once was, back in the day. But you know why we’re here.’

  Mehmon turned to the leader of the East Reaching and raised his hands in a pleading gesture. ‘Foehammer, I ain’t doing this by choice. You got to believe me. We ain’t got a scrap of food between us. Our larders have been empty the past six months. My people are starving.’

  The big chieftain looked uncomfortable. ‘These ain’t easy times for any of us, Mehmon. We got demons and all sorts pouring down from the Spine. More with every passing season. My own Reaching has taken the brunt of it. That doesn’t excuse our obligations to Heartstone. It never has.’

  Mehmon shook his head. ‘Listen to me, Foehammer! I taxed my villages until they had nothing left to give me but their blood. Even that’s turned to dust. Frosthold’s about the only settlement left for a hundred miles. And we’re on the brink. We’re fucked.’

  Orgrim stared at the ground and then squinted up at the sky. He seemed about to speak, but the sound of scraping steel drew everyone’s attention.

  ‘You bleat like a sheep, old man. You call yourself a chieftain? You’ve grown weak with age, and that’s the fact of it. Just like the Sword of the North, who was too damn proud to step down when the fire went out.’

  Krazka had his sword in his hand, a wide, single-edged blade that was said to have cut more throats than an executioner’s axe. His dead, frozen eye glinted evilly in the quivering torchlight. ‘You know something, Mehmon? I fucked his wife and now I’m gonna fuck you. Except this time I’ll do it with steel.’

  Mehmon’s wife and daughters were trembling, sending shadows dancing all over the snow. Yllandris felt her breath quicken and then her own body began to shake. She bit down on her lip, silently cursing her weakness. This hadn’t happened in years, not since she was a child, when her father used to come home and she had smelled the mead on his breath and knew her mother would be searching around for lost teeth on the morrow.

  You’re not that girl any more. You are Yllandris, a sorceress of the Heartstone circle. Soon you will be Queen of the High Fangs.

  Those thoughts calmed her. She felt her breathing slow and her body relax.

  Mehmon looked at Orgrim in desperation. The Foehammer’s jaw was clenched and his teeth ground together, but he said nothing.

  Krazka spat on the snow. ‘Draw your sword, Mehmon. Show some backbone before your wife and girls, at least. You wouldn’t want them to die knowing their old man was a coward.’

  In reply, the haggard chieftain of the North Reaching snarled and pulled his broadsword free from the scabbard at his side.

  Yllandris watched, transfixed. Mehmon had been a warrior of great renown back in his day, but that day had long passed. Krazka, on the other hand, was possibly the most infamous killer in the High Fangs, a warrior with nerves of ice who had climbed a mountain of skulls to claim his position as chieftain of the nation’s most powerful Reaching. Unlike Orgrim Foehammer, whose muscle had turned to fat over the years, the Butcher of Beregund carried not a pound of excess weight on his athletic frame. This was only going to end one way.

  Mehmon lunged forwards, but he slipped and his charge became a stumble. Krazka sidestepped him effortlessly, then spun around and planted a boot on his arse to send him crashing face-first into the snow.

  ‘On your feet, Mehmon,’ Krazka said. ‘I ain’t done with you yet.’

  The rebel chieftain of the North Reaching tried to push himself up, but his arms gave way and he co
llapsed again.

  Yllandris glanced across at Orgrim Foehammer, who was staring off into the distance. Contempt filled her. Coward, she thought.

  Krazka placed one hand on his chin and assumed a position of mock consideration as Mehmon struggled to rise. ‘I reckon you need a bit of encouragement,’ he said. He stalked over to Mehmon’s wife, yanked her head back and ran his sword along her neck before she had time to gasp. A bloody smile blossomed on her throat and she sank to the ground with a soft gurgle. The two girls began screaming.

  Mehmon made a noise like a strangled animal. This time, full of maddened fury, he managed to scrabble to his feet. Krazka dodged his first wild swing, caught the second on his own blade and then turned it aside. With frightening speed, his cleaver-like sword came whistling down and severed his opponent’s hand.

  Krazka stepped back, a satisfied smile on his face. ‘Well now, looks like you’re just about done-’ he began, but then he stopped and rocked forwards suddenly. There was a slight tearing sound.

  One of Mehmon’s daughters clutched a small wood knife in her trembling hand. Yllandris could see the hole in Krazka’s magnificent white cloak where the knife had ripped the pelt. Apart from the damage to his prized mantle, the Butcher of Beregund appeared unhurt. He was, however, incredibly angry.

  ‘You bitch,’ he growled. ‘I’ve had this cloak for years. Killed a Highland cat for it with nothing but a hunting knife. It was that beast what took my eye. And now you’ve put a hole in it.’

  ‘Run,’ Mehmon croaked. He was on his knees, staring dully at the bloody stump at the end of his arm. His daughters heard him and made a break for it. Krazka watched them flee. Then he turned back to the fallen chieftain.

  ‘I might have been persuaded to grant you a swift death,’ he said. ‘That ain’t happening now. You’re coming back to Heartstone. It’s the flames for you.’