The Grim Trilogy 01 - The Grim Company

by Scull, Luke

The hills were heaving with dark shapes, and they were getting closer. The ageing Highlander stood there for a time, at first confused, then concerned, and finally unable to believe what he was seeing.

  A horde of savage animals was descending upon the battlefield. It could only mean one thing.

  The Brethren. Brodar Kayne’s scarred hands gripped the hilt of his greatsword so tightly the blood drained from his fingers.

  The Shaman’s here.

  He pounded across the battlefield, paying no heed to the pain in his knees. Panicked shouts were already echoing from ahead of him: Sumnian voices shouting foul curses or screaming for aid. In moments the Brethren were among them, falling upon the mercenaries in a snarling, slavering avalanche of fur that showed no mercy.

  Stunned by the arrival of these unlikely allies and fearful for their own lives, the city’s defenders initially fell back. When it became clear the animals were attacking the invaders, they grew bold and waded back into the battle.

  As quickly as that, the city’s liberators were once again on the back foot.

  Kayne scanned the field wildly as he ran. His heart would have sunk if it hadn’t been threatening to burst out of his chest. Everywhere he looked Sumnians were under assault by the menagerie that had suddenly appeared among them. They were hardened warriors, some of the finest soldiers in the world, but the Brethren were unknown to them. They had no idea what they faced.

  To the right of him, near the city wall, three Sumnians stabbed at a bear with sword and spear while a trio of huge transcended wolves padded silently up behind them. The animals pounced, each set of massive jaws locking around a southerner’s throat and dragging him to the ground before crushing his windpipe.

  They think they’re fighting animals, Kayne thought grimly. But the Brethren aren’t animals. They’re beasts with the intelligence of a man and the Shaman’s will behind ’em. If there was one thing he’d learned in all the years spent fighting alongside the Brethren, it was that twelve inches of steel was rarely a match for razor fangs capable of crushing bone and armour – or claws sharp enough to cut through leather and flesh as easily as parchment.

  A huge elk suddenly reared up before him, blood dripping from its right antler. The Transcended intended to crush him, but he rolled to the left and sliced sideways with his greatsword. He felt the blade connect, cut through muscle and bone. The elk made a high-pitched whining noise and crashed over onto its side.

  Kayne was back up and running immediately. Roars, howls and shrieks filled the air. He leaped over the savaged bodies of dead mercenaries, ducked as a great eagle swooped overhead and then launched itself at him, talons clawing at his face. It screeched suddenly and tried to wheel away, a crossbow bolt protruding from its tawny feathered breast. It rose above the battlefield, careered wildly a few times, and then tumbled back down to earth, twitching spasmodically.

  There was a commotion twenty yards to the right of him. He glanced over and saw the southerner who’d fired the crossbow desperately trying to reload as a monstrous grizzly closed on him, trailing gore from its gigantic jaws. With a swipe of one clubbing paw it tore open the soldier’s chest, sending droplets of blood splattering across the faces of the Sumnians behind him. The bear unleashed a mighty roar and reared up on its hind legs, ten feet of savage bulk and deadly claws driven by insatiable bloodlust.

  Gaern. Kayne finally recognized the Transcended. There were many bears among the Brethren, but none were as huge as the great old grizzly about to fall upon the unfortunate mercenaries.

  There was the flash of something golden emerging from the cowering southerners, and suddenly Gaern roared in agony, a colossal spear buried deep in his hide. The Sumnians parted and General Zahn strode forwards, both hands clutching the shaft of the spear, driving Gaern back. Half a ton of furious bear snarled and writhed, tried desperately to free itself, but Zahn had him pinned. His men quickly recovered from their shock and raised their weapons, falling upon the helpless Transcended in a flurry of chopping swords and axes.

  Kayne looked away, feeling an odd sense of sadness. He’d known Gaern before the warrior transcended. He’d been a solid sort. Even after his transformation, Gaern had fought alongside him a few times – as recently as the abomination attack on Glistig in the East Reaching a scarce four years back.

  He shook his head angrily. That was in the past. The Brethren had chased him and the Wolf all over the High Fangs for the best part of two years.

  Kayne gritted his teeth and began running once more, his eyes narrowed on the spot where the hills began rising five hundred yards ahead of him. The hulking presence of the Magelord was unmistakable even from this distance, even with his bad eyes.

  The Shaman had not bothered to keep any of the Brethren back to guard him. Neither had he shifted shape in order to watch safely from the clouds high above, or assumed his most favoured form, that of a great woolly mammoth, a near unstoppable creature. That wasn’t the Magelord’s style. Whatever else a man might say about him, the Shaman was no coward.

  Even as he watched, the Shaman plucked a spear out of the air and snapped it between his arms with a mighty grunt. Kayne glanced at the two Sumnians facing off against him and knew instantly they were dead men. There was nothing he could do about it. Chances were he’d be joining them soon enough.

  He had no idea what the Shaman was doing in the Trine, or why he had unleashed the Brethren against the city’s liberators. Being honest, he didn’t much care.

  He had a score to settle.

  Panting, filthy, covered in sweat, he arrived just as the Shaman was finishing off the two mercenaries. They’d lasted a good deal longer than he expected they would. Both men now flopped uselessly on the mud, necks broken and swords shattered. He slowed to a walk, breathing deeply, his gaze locked on the immortal he had once served. The immortal he had considered a friend.

  The Shaman finally noticed him. His glacial blue eyes widened slightly in surprise. ‘Kayne,’ he stated in his low, rumbling voice. His muscles seemed to tense. ‘You’re a long way from the High Fangs.’

  Brodar Kayne stared at the man who had kept him locked in a cage like an animal for a year. The man who had had his wife burned alive while he watched on helplessly.

  ‘I ain’t the only one,’ he growled. He leaned on his greatsword, staring around at the chaos. The Sumnians were desperately trying to regroup, but they were fighting a losing battle. ‘You here for me?’ he asked.

  The Shaman snorted. ‘Your question is telling. I see your imprisonment did not change you.’

  ‘I’m old and stubborn.’

  The Magelord’s square jaw twitched. ‘I sent Borun to hunt you down.’

  Kayne shrugged. ‘He found me.’

  The Shaman scowled in response, and then stared up at the sky. ‘The ruler of this city came to me and requested my aid,’ he said eventually. ‘I could not refuse him. I owe him a great debt.’

  Brodar Kayne fingered the hilt of his greatsword. ‘Know a bit about debts myself,’ he said, his breath coming harder as he readied himself for what was coming. ‘You and me, I reckon we’ve got one that needs settling just about now.’

  He lifted his greatsword, turned it slightly so that the red sun behind him reflected off the blade and into the face of the Shaman. It was a small gesture, probably wouldn’t matter a damn to the eventual outcome, but he would take any advantage he could get.

  He was down and rolling away before the Magelord had left the ground. A second later the Shaman landed in the precise spot he had been standing, his fists hammering down with enough force to send mud and turf exploding out in all directions. He rose, shaking dirt from his fists. ‘I gave you everything,’ he growled.

  ‘Got yourself a strange definition of everything,’ Kayne replied. He took a step towards the Shaman. ‘I was your tool, and that’s the truth of it. A tool you grew tired of.’

  ‘A tool that is no longer useful must be discarded. Or reforged.’

  ‘You destroyed my life.�
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  The Shaman’s eyes narrowed suddenly and Kayne heard someone approaching from behind.

  It was the Wolf. He looked worse than hell, his face a bloody ruin and his breathing laboured. Still, he limped over to stand beside Kayne and faced the Shaman with no more fear than he had ever shown any man alive. ‘Need help with this prick?’ he growled, raising his axes.

  Kayne could have embraced Jerek at that moment, or at least given him a manly pat on the shoulder. Instead he made do with a nod. ‘I reckon so,’ he said. With the Wolf beside him, he figured his chances had gone from near impossible to merely highly unlikely.

  The Shaman’s teeth were grinding together. ‘This dog still follows you around? So be it. I will kill you both.’

  Kayne gave Jerek another nod. His friend grunted, began circling to the Magelord’s left as he circled around to the right. The Shaman glared first at one man and then the other, his prodigious muscles bulging out like knotted steel.

  ‘Come at me,’ Kayne whispered. He fully expected to die, but he was done running. It ended now.

  Suddenly the Shaman cocked his head to one side, his great shaggy mane tumbling over a shoulder as wide as a blacksmith’s anvil. He appeared to be listening to something only he could hear. Both Highlanders crouched low, weapons raised, expecting some terrible magic to be unleashed. Instead the hulking Magelord unleashed a roar of utter rage that seemed to shake the very earth around them. ‘I must return to the High Fangs,’ he growled savagely. ‘Heartstone is in grave peril.’

  ‘You ain’t going anywhere,’ Kayne replied.

  The Shaman clenched his fists, his bare chest heaving. ‘You care not for the fate of your son?’

  ‘Magnar let his mother burn.’

  The Magelord stared at him, his mouth working silently. ‘It was not Mhaira on the pyre,’ he said at last.

  Brodar Kayne could not have been more shocked if the Shaman had struck him full in the face. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Magnar bargained for his mother’s life. She was escorted to the furthest reaches of my domain and told never to return. Her cousin took her place on the pyre.’

  ‘I saw her die!’ His hands were shaking now.

  ‘Magic,’ the Shaman grunted in response. ‘It was my intention to deliver you a harsh lesson. Nothing more.’

  ‘You’re lying.’ Even as he said the words, he knew they weren’t true. The Shaman did not lie.

  ‘I was wroth. You betrayed me, Kayne. You knew the price of treason.’ The Shaman’s voice grew a fraction softer. There was something strange in his eyes, something he had never before seen in all the years he had served as the Sword of the North. ‘Despite your betrayal, I still held some measure of respect for you. You were to be given another chance. An allowance I have never afforded any other man.’

  Kayne’s vision had begun to blur and he realized there were tears in his eyes. All the pain he’d kept locked away for the last two years threatened to burst out of him then and there. Mhaira’s alive. Mhaira’s alive.

  The Shaman sighed heavily. The words seemed to crawl from him, as if he was unsure whether or not he wanted to speak them. ‘I once watched a woman I loved die on a pyre. I would not have let you suffer the same. Even after your betrayal.’

  With a sudden grunt, the master of the High Fangs threw his arms into the air and then began to shimmer. The outline of his body flickered, and then he began to shrink, growing smaller and smaller until he was a dark speck at the centre of a ball of blinding energy. Kayne watched, unmoving, barely seeing. He had witnessed the Magelord shift many times before.

  The magic finally dissipated to reveal a large black raven. The Shaman took off into the air and circled the battlefield a few times. With a final caw, he soared off towards the north, leaving the two Highlanders standing alone.

  Brodar Kayne sunk to his knees, the greatsword slipping from his trembling palms. Jerek watched silently. A few moments passed. The numbness began to recede.

  Mhaira’s alive.

  Finally it sank in. He looked up to meet the Wolf’s eyes. ‘Mhaira’s alive!’ he croaked.

  Jerek nodded in reply. ‘Aye,’ he said simply. ‘Mhaira’s alive.’

  Before either man could say anything more, the ground beneath them began to vibrate. Kayne turned his head to see the Brethren thundering past, stampeding towards the Demonfire Hills in the direction their master had flown. Back towards the High Fangs, where ghosts he thought buried had just risen from the dead.

  Sasha came stumbling over. She looked like a ghost herself, all covered in blood and ash, her pretty hair singed and blackened and her eyes telling the story of the horrors she’d witnessed. ‘Zolta’s men breached the east gate an hour ago,’ she said, in between gasps for breath. ‘They’ve taken the city. Someone gave the order for the militia to stand down. The Watch has surrendered.’

  ‘Salazar?’ Kayne managed to ask, though he reckoned he already knew the answer, and at that moment he wasn’t much for caring either way.

  ‘Dead,’ replied Sasha. ‘General Zolta confirmed it. He saw the body. What’s left of it.’

  There was a short silence while the news sunk in. It was Jerek who eventually spoke.

  ‘Well, fuck me,’ he said. ‘The boy’s a hero after all.’

  The Truth

  He dashed through the Obelisk, his heart racing, his mind focused on one thing only.

  He had to find Garrett.

  He slid down the sloping heap of debris on his arse, scraping his hands badly. He didn’t care. Taking the stairs leading down to the gallery three at a time, he leaped over the Augmentor’s butchered corpse and almost slipped on the slick marble. He regained his balance and ran on, praying that no guards appeared to disrupt his headlong flight from the tower.

  Even the Stasiseum couldn’t slow Cole’s progress, though there was glass all over the floor and he saw that two of the displays had been smashed. The savage green-skinned humanoid and the huge, alien-looking egg were gone, vanished into thin air. As he sped through the chamber he heard the patter of blood dripping from the priest suspended in the central display. A hurried glance at the robed figure confirmed he was dead.

  The library passed in a blur and then he was speeding down the passageway outside the Grand Council Chamber. Just as he was nearing the huge double doors he heard the sounds of voices drifting through the doorway. The left door began to rattle and then it creaked open, only to jam against the body of the Watchman sprawled there. Cole silently thanked his luck and sprinted towards the stairs down to the first floor, ignoring the corpse wedged in the corner of the stairwell.

  The entrance hall was empty except for the Halfmage, who was biting into a plum. He glanced up in surprise, wiping juice from his chin with the corner of one billowing sleeve. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Salazar’s dead,’ he said as he barged past the wizard, causing him to fumble the plum. It splattered to the floor, leaving a red mess.

  ‘He’s what? Where are you going? What about me?’

  ‘There’s something I need to do,’ Cole shouted back. ‘Let the city know. Salazar is dead.’

  He glanced down at the bag hanging at his belt. Tick tock tick tock. Every pulse of the device sent fresh waves of dread washing through him. He gritted his teeth and ran on.

  The light was fading by the time he arrived at the hidden entrance to the temple of the Mother. He pulled the snaking vines of ivy aside, noting with growing dread that they hadn’t been disturbed in a while. He was about to squeeze through the narrow gap when he heard the sound of many footsteps moving in tandem. They seemed to be heading in his direction. He hesitated, and then edged back along the side of the temple’s crumbling walls and peered out down the Trade Way.

  A huge column of Sumnian mercenaries was marching towards the Hook. At the head of the small army was the fattest man Cole had ever seen. His ankles were as thick as most men’s thighs, and his four chins bounced up and down with every waddling step
he took. Behind the whale of a man, soldiers laughed and cast avaricious glances to the north, where the estates of wealthy nobles rose above the sequestering walls. Some made obscene gestures while others stared with wolfish grins.

  Cole ducked back behind the temple. It looked like an entire company of Sumnian mercenaries had breached the east gate without seeing a lick of action. Maybe the defenders learned of Salazar’s death and laid down their weapons, he thought. He should have felt some pride at that, but he couldn’t. Not with the tick tock tick crawling in his ears like a burrowing insect. Not with the strange heavy feeling in his chest.

  Taking a deep breath, Cole pushed himself through the aperture at the rear of the temple and padded down the short passageway until he reached the steps leading up, just as he had nearly six weeks ago. He had been bruised and bleeding then, late for Garrett’s summons because of his own foolishness. Even so, as he slowly climbed the stairs up to the sanctuary, he would have given anything to return to that more innocent time.

  When he saw that the door had been torn off its hinges, he finally knew.

  The bodies had been piled in the nave and then torched.

  Cole stumbled over to the blackened remains of the pyre and stood there numbly. Through blurring eyes, he took in the dark stains on the floor, the red smears covering the walls.

  He reached down and grasped a tattered fragment of blue fabric. A hint of gold embroidery was visible at the edge. It was the jerkin Garrett had been wearing at the Shard meeting. The night he had stormed off, throwing the pendant his foster father had given him into the fire that had burned in this very spot.

  He crouched down, desperately sifting through the ash and charred bones, growing more and more frantic as he failed to find what he was searching for.

  The pendant wasn’t there.

  With a sudden, uncontrollable sob, he collapsed onto the filthy floor, crawling backwards until his back pressed up against a pillar.

  And then he cried, and he did not stop crying until his chest was sore and his eyes were raw and there were no more tears to give.

  I’m sorry, Garrett. Sorry for walking out. Sorry for being too arrogant to listen when you tried to put me on the right path.