The Grim Trilogy 01 - The Grim Company

by Scull, Luke

Barandas raised his own cup to his lips. The wine tasted sweet and fruity. He caught the serving maid staring at him and smiled back politely. There was something odd about her, he thought, but before he could think to say anything she had moved on.

  ‘None for me,’ said Halendorf, waving the girl away. ‘My damned gut can’t take it.’ The Chancellor also passed on the wine. Barandas suspected Ardling could drink his own piss and find it too sweet for his palate, though he had to admit a grudging admiration for the man’s determination to keep a clear head for figures.

  Tolvarus coughed suddenly and violently, interrupting the Supreme Augmentor’s musings. The Lord Justice wiped his mouth with the back of one hairy hand and cleared his throat. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘The wine must have gone down the wrong hole. Quite unpleasant—’

  His words were interrupted by another spasm of coughing. This one lasted for much longer. He bent over the table, heaving spittle over the polished darkwood.

  Timerus sneered at the struggling man. ‘Someone give him a slap on the back,’ he said with distaste.

  Barandas got to his feet to assist Tolvarus. He knew something was wrong as soon as he tried to place one foot in front of the other. The chamber seemed to rock around him. Paintings of long-dead magistrates leered down at him from the walls, wavering in and out of view like mischievous phantoms.

  He tried to focus, saw a sight that made his heart pound. He stumbled forwards. He could hear magistrates coughing the length of the table, but he paid them no mind, intent on reaching his destination.

  The Lord of Dorminia was clawing at his throat. His face had gone purple. The golden goblet he had been drinking from lay beneath his throne, its contents spilling out across the floor. Approaching him were the three serving maids, and in their hands they held silver daggers.

  Salazar tore a hand away from his neck long enough to gesture, and one of the girls exploded in a shower of blood and bone.

  The torches went out, plunging everything into darkness. Confused shouts and the sounds of violent retching reached Barandas’s ears over the heightened gasps of his own breathing.

  The torches flickered back to life.

  He was by his master’s side, his longsword flashing to sever the arm of the girl whose blade had been closing on Salazar’s chest. The limb tumbled away in a gush of blood, but the maid displayed no signs of slowing. With incredible speed, she reached around Barandas with her other arm. He gasped at the incredible strength in that grip. Her touch was like ice, and it crushed the life from him. His heart hammered as if it were about to explode…

  And then the strange woman was hurled away from him, slamming against the wall of the chamber with enough force to break her spine. She slid down to the marble floor.

  The remaining maid stared at him with strange colourless eyes. It was the girl who had served him his wine. She was unusually pale, the colour of milk. How had he not noticed that before?

  ‘You,’ she said, in a voice empty of emotion. ‘I saw you drink. You should be dead by now.’

  ‘What are you?’ Barandas demanded in response. He glanced to the side, where Salazar was now doubled over on the throne, still clutching at his throat.

  ‘Servants of the White Lady.’ The girl stared at him with no expression on her face, but her ghostly eyes seemed to see right inside him. ‘This man is a tyrant. He has murdered countless thousands.’ She paused. ‘You are not like him, nor these other men. Why do you defend them?’

  Barandas stared back, shocked at her perception. How did she know? There had been times when he had wanted to hang up his sword in despair at some of the acts he had committed in the name of the city and its Magelord – this city where children starved down in the Warrens while the elite, the rich and powerful, enjoyed lives of luxury. But what was the alternative? The world was a brutal place. Dorminia needed a strong ruler to protect it from the horrors unleashed by the wild magic that ravaged the land – as well as the predations of other Magelords.

  Salazar was that man. A man who had, as it happened, saved his life.

  ‘Duty,’ said Barandas. ‘This is my duty.’

  The pale woman nodded. ‘I understand duty.’ She raised the silver dagger she held in her sallow hand. ‘Let us both do our duty, then.’ She plunged forwards, the dagger slashing down towards his neck. She was incredibly fast, faster than any man Barandas had ever faced, almost inhumanly fast.

  But he was the Supreme Augmentor, and he was faster still.

  His longsword burst through the woman’s chest, lifting her off the floor. She gasped, dribbling dark blood all over her chin. The blood smelled rotten, as if it had putrefied inside her. He almost gagged as he tugged the sword free. The lifeless corpse of the strange woman slid to the ground.

  He immediately turned his attention to Salazar. The Magelord’s breaths came in tortured gasps, as if he were sucking in air through a reed. The Supreme Augmentor cast his gaze across the chamber, desperately seeking help.

  Most of the magistrates were dead. The body of Lord Justice Tolvarus flopped on his chair, a trail of drool running from his mouth to drip onto the terrified lap of Marshal Halendorf, who sat staring at the scene in horror.

  Chancellor Ardling had gone a lighter shade of grey but was otherwise breathing normally. Grand Magistrate Timerus was also alive, though he was shivering uncontrollably and appeared to have vomited most of his wine back over his robes.

  Barandas stared down at the Tyrant of Dorminia. A lump welled in his throat. He held the Magelord close, tears threatening to fall from his eyes.

  With great effort, Salazar looked up at him and tried to speak. Barandas leaned in close to hear his words. They came out as a faint whisper, but he nevertheless caught their meaning.

  ‘Fetch… the Halfmage…’

  No Easy Choices

  The Halfmage stared down at the book he was reading. The Last of the Crusades was a controversial work dealing with the conflict that came to define the Age of Strife, an extremely bloody period culminating in the cataclysmic Godswar. Armies had stormed across the northern continent. Kings and queens had fallen.

  Eremul felt his lips twist into a wry smile. The followers of the disparate faiths of the north had spent millennia at each other’s throats, yet somehow those ancient rivalries and vastly contrasting dogmas were thrust aside when the crusade against magic itself was declared.

  Hatred. Hatred and fear. The twin mortars that bind the bitterest of enemies more closely than shared notions of virtue or tradition unite the best of friends.

  The Congregation had been formed: a council of the ruling high priests and priestesses of the thirteen Prime divines. Their combined political and military strength had been immense and they had almost succeeded in cleansing magic from the land entirely. Of those who possessed the gift, none were spared. Parents had smothered their own children rather than see them burned alive on the Congregation’s fires. For all that he hated the Magelord, Eremul acknowledged that Salazar – together with Marius, a mage named Mithradates, and several other leading wizards of the age – had proved instrumental in organizing a resistance. They had saved many of those blessed with the gift of magic from the flames.

  He turned over the page. There, in all her ethereal glory, was an illustration of the White Lady. The high priestess of the Mother, the most widespread faith in the land, had also been a powerful wizard.

  Eremul snorted in amusement. What had the Congregation done? Why, they had embraced her. Principles were all well and good, unless holding to them ran counter to self-interest.

  Quite why the White Lady eventually underwent such a rapid change of heart was a mystery, but her betrayal of the Congregation gave the alliance of wizards the respite they needed to plot their assault on the heavens. The resulting Godswar had lasted an entire year. Only a handful of mages survived their odyssey to the celestial plane. Those that returned were no longer truly human. They had absorbed some of the essence of the gods and achieved immortality.

&nb
sp; The tyranny of the old, replaced by the tyranny of the new. Such is the way of the world. He was about to close the book when he saw the place in the middle where several pages had been torn out. A few specks of dried blood marked the ancient parchment.

  The author’s chronicle of certain details of Salazar’s role in the Godswar had displeased the Magelord. The Tyrant of Dorminia had ordered the unfortunate scribe put to death and the offending chapter removed. Even before the unpleasant events surrounding the Culling years passed, and the subsequent crackdown on freedom of expression that had seen the introduction of mindhawks into the skies, there were certain topics those in the Grey City did not talk about. Not if they valued their lives.

  There was a sudden knocking at his door. Eremul sighed. It seemed half of Dorminia was intent on paying him a visit these days.

  He wheeled his chair over, pulled the latch, and pushed open the door.

  ‘Oh, fuck,’ he muttered, as he stared into the hard eyes of four of the Watch’s finest.

  ‘Eremul Kaldrian?’ asked the officer in charge. The Halfmage’s heart hammered in his chest and a hundred thoughts whirled inside his head. They know. Shit, they know. I’m a dead man. I’m dead—

  ‘You’re coming with us.’ The Watchman’s eyes bore into his own. ‘There’s been an incident at the Obelisk.’

  Dorminia was in a state of chaos.

  Eremul gazed out at the commotion on the streets far below. The crowd was too far away for him to be able to make out individual faces, but he imagined the multifarious horde wore looks of fear, hope, and – in some cases – quiet satisfaction. By now most in the city were aware that the Tyrant of Dorminia had been the victim of an assassination attempt and that his very life hung in the balance.

  He enjoyed a fleeting moment of satisfaction himself. The magistrates who had survived the murder plot were no doubt wondering how news of the incident had slipped beyond the Obelisk’s walls. The truth was that the Halfmage had sent word to certain of his contacts as soon as he was able. If tidings of the Magelord’s perilous condition inspired the braver of Dorminia’s dissidents to push ahead with an insurrection, it would be yet another nail in Salazar’s metaphorical coffin.

  The more perceptive of the Magelord’s lackeys had their suspicions about the source of the leak, he knew. The Supreme Augmentor, the blond-haired warrior with the golden armour who looked like some prince from a children’s tale, he was a sharp one. The man’s blue eyes had cut into him like the edge of a steel blade.

  Which is exactly what will happen if Salazar dies.

  Eremul’s good humour suddenly evaporated. He was under no illusions about his fate if he failed to save the Tyrant of Dorminia from whatever unnatural poison coursed through his veins. There would be no consolatory pat on the back. No oh well, you did your best and never mind, it was a valiant effort. The Supreme Augmentor had been rather insistent on that point. If he failed, he would share the Magelord’s fate.

  And wouldn’t that be a tragedy.

  He remembered the sudden dread he had felt upon seeing the soldiers. He was certain they had learned of his meeting with the White Lady’s agents at the abandoned lighthouse. Such a perfidious act could not be explained away as the scheming of an informant. Anyone truly loyal to Salazar’s regime would have reported their presence to the Watch, not wheeled themselves back to the book depository for a good long piss followed by a lie-down.

  He could barely disguise his relief when the Watch had revealed the truth – but his hidden delight at Salazar’s condition was immediately tempered upon learning he was to be entrusted with the Magelord’s life.

  He glanced once more at his surroundings. He was inside a small guest room on the seventh and highest level of the Obelisk. The room was luxuriously adorned, with a four-poster bed covered in silk sheets and carved darkwood armoires that were worth more than most in the city earned in a year. And yet for all the luxury on display, the room was just as much a prison as the dungeons beneath the tower.

  The door was locked and magically warded. Two Augmentors waited outside. The windows were barred and enchanted so that the metal was immutable and heat-proof and safe from all the tricks a journeyman wizard might employ to escape.

  I suppose I should be flattered, he thought. The sad truth was that he barely even qualified as a journeyman. Even if he could somehow bypass the thick bars blocking the window, the only direction he would be going was two hundred feet directly down.

  At least there would only be half a corpse. Whoever was tasked with cleaning up my remains could probably knock off early. Every cloud has a silver lining.

  The lock on the door suddenly clicked and it swung inwards to reveal the Supreme Augmentor in all his golden glory. A pretty woman with hard eyes and a colossus of a man in black armour followed just behind him. Eremul squinted up at the shadowy figure.

  He must be seven feet tall. The largest man I have ever seen, if indeed he is a man. The helm covering the giant’s head made him look like some kind of demon from the old legends.

  The Supreme Augmentor gave him a cool look. Eremul frowned back. He was troubled by the fact he could see no magic on the blond-haired commandant. The giant’s armour was clearly enchanted, and the woman’s hairpin omitted a faint blue glow, but the leader of Salazar’s elite force of magically enhanced enforcers apparently walked around lacking the one thing that defined an Augmentor. It made no sense.

  ‘His lordship grows worse,’ said the blue-eyed commander. Concern was plain on his face. Concern… and sorrow? Is it possible this fool actually loves Salazar?

  Eremul drummed his fingers against the sides of his chair. ‘I will need more time to prepare.’

  The Supreme Augmentor grimaced. ‘Time is the one thing we do not have.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Lord Salazar carries the essence of the divine. What kind of poison can harm an immortal?’

  ‘That’s what I intend to find out,’ lied Eremul.

  The Supreme Augmentor fixed him with a hard stare. ‘I know what was done to you during the Culling. I trust you would not be stupid enough to bungle your administrations out of some sense of vengeance.’

  Eremul felt a prickle of fear. This one was perceptive.

  ‘Whatever your feelings towards Lord Salazar, his survival is vital. To Dorminia. To the north. Fail and you will suffer. I will take no pleasure in it – but I will do what is necessary.’

  Eremul couldn’t stop the sneer that crept onto his face. ‘Why, I desire nothing more than to see our esteemed ruler returned to full health. It wouldn’t do to have this glorious utopia he has created fall apart were he to perish.’

  The Supreme Augmentor’s gaze narrowed, and for a moment he wondered if he had pushed the man too far. The hard-eyed woman to his left shot him a venomous scowl and reached up to unclasp the glowing metal accessory in her hair. Across from her, the armour-plated monstrosity towering over them all flexed his huge metal gauntlets.

  Eremul sighed. He had already considered trying to fight his way out of this predicament. He decided he could kill one of the three before they reached him. Of course, that would give the other two ample time to kill him. Even if he somehow got lucky he would have six flights of stairs to contend with, followed by a dash through a courtyard packed with Crimson Watchmen. And truth be told, he was never much of a sprinter even when he had legs.

  The situation was hopeless. Either he saved the life of a tyrant whom he despised or else he would be begging for his own death before the week was out.

  The Supreme Augmentor held up a hand and shook his head, and his colleagues both relaxed. Eremul felt an odd sense of disappointment. Perhaps being killed by one of those two monsters would be easier than the choice he would soon need to make.

  ‘Enough talk,’ said the Supreme Augmentor. ‘This may be our last chance, Halfmage. Do whatever is within your power to save Lord Salazar. Garmond, see to his chair.’

  Eremul opened his mouth to protest as the massive Augmentor grabbed the han
dles fastened to the back of his seat, but after a moment he decided to suffer the indignity in silence. He might as well travel in comfort and enjoy the sights of the Obelisk on the way down to the Magelord.

  After all, it might be one of the last things he would ever see.

  *

  The dungeons were just as he remembered them.

  Thirteen years had passed since Salazar ordered the Culling. He had been in the Great Library on the third floor of the tower at the time, studying an old tome. The young Eremul had resolved to find out what he could about wild magic and the increasing number of abominations that were manifesting in the Trine. He recalled that he had been desperate to gain some unique insight and bring his research to Lord Salazar.

  So eager for a pat on the head. The recognition that I deserved a place among the Magelord’s apprentices in spite of my less-than-impressive powers. Ah, the naivety of youth.

  Instead he had looked up to find three Augmentors standing over him. They had ignored his questions and forced his arms behind his back. One of them, a grey-eyed, slender man, had placed a dagger at his throat. Eremul had felt the blade leaching away his magic, sucking him dry until he was an empty husk. He remembered the fear that had gripped him then.

  The three Augmentors had marched him down to the dungeons. What followed was still a blur, but he remembered the agony. Pain so terrible it made him vomit. The horrible feeling of weightlessness beneath his torso. He had looked down at what had been done to him and he had promptly fainted. He remembered praying for a release from the torment – for death.

  He had not died. For some inexplicable reason, they had kept him alive.

  Eremul glanced now at the slab he had been fastened to all those years ago. He fancied he could still see the scorch marks on the stone where the fire had been used to cauterize the stumps after his legs were cut from his body. They had been thrown on a huge fire, along with the corpse of every wizard that had perished during the Culling. No less than thirty bodies had turned the air black with smoke.

  Of all the wizards in Dorminia, Salazar had permitted Eremul alone to live. Had he divined that his one-time apprentice would serve some purpose in the years to come? The mages who had survived the Godswar had returned changed, possessed of immortality and other traits that made them something more than human. Perhaps a certain amount of prescience was one of those traits.