The Grim Trilogy 01 - The Grim Company

by Scull, Luke

  The spirits were also said to shelter the souls of the dead once they departed their mortal shells, until it was time to be reborn in a new form. It always amazed Yllandris that the men and women of the Lowlands held no such beliefs. She didn’t know how a people could survive without faith. Perhaps that was the secret of the Lowlanders’ love of gold – it was their religion, one they could see and feel and spend and pretend mattered. Until, inevitably, the moment arrived when it no longer did.

  She and Thurva finally reached the crowd gathered around the gates and pushed their way through to the front. The huge wooden structures were flung wide.

  A loud cheer erupted as King Magnar melted out of the early-morning mist, high and proud on his stallion. He had his war helm on and his visor pulled down to shield his eyes from the sun. He saw the gathered townsfolk and raised a hand in salute, provoking a fresh round of cheers. Yllandris felt her heart flutter. He is a king, truly.

  Behind Magnar rode the Six, his elite bodyguards. Their helms, too, covered their faces. As they emerged out of the mist she saw that their horses dragged an immense wooden sledge behind them. It was covered in a tarpaulin, pulled tight over a huge form. Another cheer went up as the sledge trundled into view.

  Following the Six were the drummers, who marched on foot, beating out that same relentless rhythm. Boom. Boom. Boom.

  ‘Move aside!’ commanded a haughty voice that could only belong to Shranree. The senior sister waddled up to Yllandris, her cheeks flushed and her oversized chest heaving from exertion. The other three members of the circle scurried along behind her. Shranree stared out at the approaching horsemen and clapped her hands together happily. ‘Finally! I was beginning to grow concerned. And it would seem our king has brought the body of the demon back with him.’

  Yllandris frowned. There was something bothering her, a sense that everything was not quite as it seemed. She had grown up learning to read her father’s face. The way he breathed. The way the muscles around his jaw twitched. The moment of discord – that one dreaded sign was all she had needed to seek refuge in her small room. To pull the blanket over her head and wait for the inevitable to pass.

  Was it the way the King sat his horse that troubled her? She narrowed her eyes against the sun’s glare.

  The first of Heartstone’s warriors trotted into view. He halted just as he emerged from the mist, while ahead the King and his small retinue of guards and drummers continued on towards the gate, towing the sledge behind them.

  Shranree suddenly leaned in close. ‘I expect our young king will desire some company shortly,’ she whispered. ‘Remember what we discussed. I would see our circle expanded. The damage wrought by that fiend would have been considerably less had I more sorceresses at my disposal.’

  ‘Yes, sister,’ replied Yllandris, still distracted. The shoulders are a shade too narrow, she thought. Perhaps the light was playing tricks on her eyes.

  The King cantered through the open gates and tugged on the reins, bringing his mount to a halt. The Six did the same and drew up beside him. The drummers stopped just outside the town, but the relentless throb of their beats continued unabated.

  Sudden dread seized Yllandris as she watched the King dismount and walk over to the sledge. The way he moved was too tense, his strides a fraction too short. Her eyes made their way up his legs to his backside, and one glance at that too-bony posterior was all she needed to confirm her suspicions.

  ‘Wait! This man is not the King—’

  The words died on her lips as whoever was behind Magnar’s helm drew his sword and thrust it through the tarpaulin, dragging it down the length of the sledge with a tearing sound that seemed to hang in the air. With his other hand, he grabbed hold of first one side of the split canvas and then the other, yanking them apart.

  Gasps and screams exploded from those close enough to see the sledge. Six headless corpses were piled on the platform, leaking black blood. The stench was nauseating.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ Shranree demanded, striding towards the false king. The impostor reached up to his helm, Magnar’s helm, and yanked it from his head.

  ‘The meaning?’ sneered Krazka, chieftain of the Lake Reaching, his dead eye weeping foul white mucus in the beaming sun. ‘I’m seizing this town and installing myself as the new king. Effective immediately.’

  ‘What have you done with King Magnar?’ Shranree thundered.

  The Butcher of Beregund grinned. ‘You’ll see soon enough. He’s alive – after a fashion. Now, I’m going to beckon to my men over yonder and they’re going to trot right in here. Any trouble and I’ll start killing folk where they stand.’

  ‘You will do no such thing,’ Shranree said. She raised her hands, muttered a few words… and then stared at her palms.

  Krazka tapped the blade of his brutal single-edged sword. ‘You ever heard of abyssium? Me neither, until recently. Got me some new friends up in the Spine, you see.’

  Shranree spun around and gestured desperately at Yllandris and the other sorceresses. Thurva immediately pointed a finger at Krazka. A flicker of lightning crackled at the tip of her outstretched digit only to sputter out harmlessly.

  Krazka sighed dramatically. Then he strolled over, grabbed the cross-eyed sorceress by the hair and slit her throat. Blood welled up around the wicked sword but he kept cutting, not stopping until the blade had severed the neck completely and the head came away in his hand. He tossed the grisly trophy on the ground where it rolled a couple of times and came to a halt, surprised eyes staring off in opposite directions.

  Yllandris stared dumbfounded. The crowd broke and townsfolk started to flee. Some of the hardier men went to their weapons. Krazka gestured to the fake Six, who drew their swords, and then he pointed to the horsemen who were even now approaching the gates.

  ‘I got me three hundred warriors from the Lake Reaching,’ the one-eyed killer shouted. ‘Any of you greybeards or cripples cause any trouble, I’ll cut your throats. Then I’ll find your wives and children and cut theirs, too.’

  ‘The Shaman will not stand for this!’ Shranree gasped, her voice quivering.

  Krazka grinned. ‘The Shaman will be dealt with. There’s older and nastier things than him.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘I reckon one of ’em is due any moment.’

  While Krazka had been speaking the drumming had been getting faster. Now it rose to a crescendo. Boom. Boom. Boom. There was a sudden ripple of wind and, like an unholy comet, the black-scaled horror plummeted down out of the clouds to land just outside of town. It unfolded like a monstrous black flower, rising up a good head and shoulders above the walls to gaze down with a trio of sinister eyes. The grievous wounds it had taken only a few short days ago had already healed.

  Yllandris heard her sisters turn and run, but she was rooted to the spot, too terrified to do anything but stand and stare.

  Krazka faced the towering demon. He appeared to be listening to something. He nodded, and then gestured at the fiend. ‘It calls itself the Herald,’ he said.

  ‘This… creature talks to you?’ asked Shranree, aghast.

  ‘It don’t speak. It forms words directly inside your skull,’ replied Krazka. ‘And it serves another, whose name it’s too afraid to even think. Aye, you heard that right. Anyways, the Herald leads those of its kind that’ve made it through. Most ain’t as bright as he is but that don’t matter, see, since killing is what it’s all about. The only way more of ’em can escape into our world is by sending souls in the opposite direction. So that’s what they do.’

  ‘And you… you are allied with this thing?’ There was a note of curiosity in Shranree’s voice now.

  ‘It made contact. Offered me a deal I couldn’t refuse. You don’t know how many men I had to murder to become chieftain of the largest Reaching in the High Fangs. I thought to myself, why stop there? The Lowlands, they’re a hundred times the size of this place. There’s a whole world to conquer, I figure.’

  ‘What will you do with us?’ Shranr
ee asked quietly.

  ‘I saw your work at Frosthold. Got to say, I was impressed. Make me a new circle. One big enough for all the sorceresses in the Reachings. Those that refuse to swear fealty…’ Krazka raised his sword and examined the glistening edge, still dripping with Thurva’s blood.

  Shranree stared at that deadly blade, as did Yllandris. Then the leader of the Heartstone circle straightened her robes and bowed to the chieftain. ‘I am yours.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Krazka leered at Yllandris with his lone eye. ‘And you?’

  And me? I… wanted to be Queen. To marry Magnar and have children and prove to Shranree that I am no child. You’re a butcher. A monster. You’re worse than the Shaman.

  Krazka’s leering eye began to narrow. His sword shifted a fraction.

  She gulped. ‘I… I will serve you.’

  ‘Good,’ grunted the chieftain-who-would-be-emperor. ‘Start by rounding up a few foundlings. They’re no use to me, but they’ll serve.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Yllandris, though deep down she knew.

  ‘Been a while since the Herald last killed. It needs to feed.’

  The Longest Night

  Eremul slumped in his chair, so tired he almost toppled forwards and down over the parapet to his doom. The stench of smoke filled his nostrils. Ash drifted through the air, carried on the light breeze that had sprung up some time after midnight. Clouds of dust clogged the sky, making it hard to tell how long remained until dawn.

  He stifled a yawn and tried to focus on the endless stretch of coast before him. The last salvo had been over an hour ago. He crossed his fingers and muttered a brief prayer to the Creator, hoping desperately that the attacks had ceased for the night. He was drained, physically and mentally, the wretched limits of his magic pushed to breaking point.

  The first wave of missiles from the ballistae had struck almost as soon as the sun went down. Massive bolts of iron sailed through the night air to crash into the wall below him with a concussive force that shook the entire gatehouse. The first projectile had made such a deafening noise when it struck that he almost pissed his robes. The wall had, however, withstood the ballistae. He remembered thinking the worst might be over. Then the trebuchets appeared.

  He glanced down below him to where piles of smouldering rubble glowed malevolently in the darkness. The Sumnians had launched stone and flaming tar at the city, creating a nightmare storm that obliterated everything it hit. The wall was breached in three separate places, the gate below him had caught fire, and several prominent buildings had been reduced to ruin.

  When he first learned of his assignment to the wall Eremul had fully intended to fake a noble offensive against the city’s liberators. He would send his magic wide of his apparent targets, loudly curse his misfortune while intentionally bungling his efforts to drive off the mercenaries. He abandoned that plan the moment a ton of rock missed the gatehouse by a few feet and massacred the poor sods living in the house across the street. From that point on he had evoked all the magic available to him and hurled it against the deadly siege engines as if his life depended on it. The effort had left him so exhausted he had puked up his guts.

  There was no hiding. The Halfmage had been the city’s sole means of defence. Dorminia had no siege weapons of its own, at least none capable of reaching the enemy. The militia had taken to the battlements and sent arrows down at the mercenaries, but that had proved to be a spectacularly stupid tactic. The Sumnians were well out of bowshot range and almost impossible to see against the night sky. The conscripted men abandoned their position after the first wave of missiles from the trebuchets crushed a score of them beneath a shattered section of wall.

  All in all, the first engagement had gone very much as anticipated. The invaders had weakened Dorminia’s fortifications while taking only minor casualties of their own. The real battle would begin on the morrow, when the light of day made the task of killing all the easier. The mercenary army would seek to infiltrate the breaches created by their trebuchets. Eremul had no intention of being around when that happened. He had his own part to play in the conflict, and the time had come to put the wheels in motion. Metaphorical and otherwise.

  Willing his tired arms into one last effort, he turned his chair around and entered the abused gatehouse. The floor was covered in rubble but the building was otherwise mostly intact. Once again Eremul silently thanked his luck. He had been fortunate to survive the night. The White Lady couldn’t have known her agent would be placed in such a precarious position. She would doubtless be aghast to learn how close her own forces had come to killing him and ruining the plot to assassinate Salazar.

  An officer of the Watch was surveying the damage. The man scratched at his bristling moustache, which perched like a mouse below a bulbous nose threaded with blue veins. Eremul pursed his lips. What’s your name again? Lieutenant Toram? Ah yes, one of the officers from out in the sticks. Ripe for a wizard’s manipulations, if my luck holds.

  ‘The enemy has withdrawn for the remainder of the night,’ he said. ‘I must return home and rest for a few hours or I shall be useless come tomorrow.’

  ‘I was told you were to remain here.’

  Eremul tried to suppress his irritation. ‘I would love to, but as you can see I am hardly a peak physical specimen. A wizard’s power only stretches so far. I need sleep.’

  Toram looked doubtful. ‘You can sleep here. I’ll wake you if the enemy attacks again.’

  ‘Look at me,’ said the Halfmage. ‘I’ve been sitting in this chair all night. My arse feels like it has been gnawed on by a pack of rabid dogs. I need my own bed. And a swig of something strong.’

  ‘A swig of something strong?’ the lieutenant repeated, slowly and carefully. His grey moustache twitched. Eremul was torn between the urge to gloat at his flawless intuition and the desire to vaporize the man where he stood for being such a dumbfuck. The Watch was so predictable.

  ‘Yes,’ he confirmed. ‘I will gladly share a drop with the soldier who escorts me to my abode. It’s near the harbour, a brisk walk from here.’

  Lieutenant Toram rubbed at his moustache one more time and then nodded. ‘I’ll see to it myself. It’s the least I can do, considering what a sterling job you’ve done defending the city.’

  The grizzled old officer took hold of Eremul’s chair by the handles and wheeled him to the edge of the steps leading down from the gatehouse. He lowered the chair one step at a time, each small thump sending fresh pain shooting through its occupant’s arse. The Halfmage gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the agony. The first part of the plan was progressing smoothly. He just hoped his contact was where he was supposed to be.

  They moved south at an impressive pace, Lieutenant Toram clearly eager to avoid any unwelcome questions from his superiors. Soldiers and militiamen were everywhere, putting out small fires and attempting to shore up gaps in the wall.

  Eremul stared around at the carnage. Houses had been flattened, the timber and plaster collapsing under the weight of tons of falling rock. Several sturdier buildings constructed from granite had been hit and still stood, though the roofs were shattered in parts. He saw an arm emerging from a pile of slag near one house, clutching at the air in a death grip. Nothing was visible of the arm’s owner save for a dark pool of blood oozing around the edge of the debris.

  They passed south through the Bazaar. One trebuchet load had landed almost dead centre in the market, reducing several stalls to splinters. No one appeared to have been harmed by that particular projectile, but a little further along Eremul spotted a sight to make his heart shrivel up in his chest. A group of orphans were dragging tiny bodies from the Warrens to the south-west of the Bazaar. Some of the corpses were so crushed and twisted they were beyond recognition.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked thickly as the officer wheeled his chair past the children.

  One of the orphans turned to stare at him. ‘It fell from the sky,’ he answered in a voice as dead as old bone. ‘We’re still p
ulling the bodies out of the rubble.’

  As they drew nearer the harbour, Toram spoke. ‘We send foundlings to the quarries up in Malbrec. No one misses them if they have an accident. It must be a right bloody nuisance, having all those little bastards underfoot.’

  Eremul said nothing. Instead he gripped the sides of his chair so hard he thought the wood might split beneath his fingers.

  A few minutes passed, and then the depository was in sight. The sky had lightened slightly, indicating that dawn was finally on the way. Eremul searched the murk around the building for any sign of his contact. There was no one.

  ‘I thought a wizard might live in a grander place than this,’ observed Toram as he wheeled him to the door of the depository. The lieutenant’s moustache shifted slightly as he wrinkled his mouth. ‘It smells like shit.’

  ‘I appreciate the compliment.’ Eremul reached into his robes and withdrew a small bronze key, unlocked the door and pushed it open. He was growing increasingly concerned. Where the hell is the White Lady’s agent? The letter said he would meet me here. Perhaps his contact had been discovered. If that was the case he was sure to be tortured for further information – and that meant Eremul himself was royally screwed.

  He wheeled himself into the depository. There was no light within, and it still smelled of damp from the recent flood. Toram followed him inside. ‘It’s as dark as a Sumnian’s arsehole in here. How about we get a flame going and see to that drink—’

  The officer was cut off abruptly as a shadow detached itself from the wall behind the door and grabbed him around the throat. ‘Don’t say a word,’ the mysterious figure whispered, somewhat melodramatically.

  Eremul squinted but was unable to make out the man’s features in the poor light. ‘I assume you are the agent sent by our mutual friend.’