by Scull, Luke
‘Get out of here, boy. Before we kill you.’
Cole stared at the three men, and then backed away. This wasn’t his business. He was done being a hero, whatever that word even meant. He ran down the street, towards the exit of the district. Other dark-skinned warriors were plundering homes to either side of him. He ignored them, carried on running.
A whooping chuckle rang out to his left, immediately grabbing his attention.
It was General Zolta, his gross profile resembling a miniature hill in the poor light. The obese mercenary captain and four of his men were standing in a small square dotted with a few cedars. They had a handful of nobles pinned against the trunks and were poking them with their spears, laughing uproariously. What was it Zolta had said? My soldiers have you to thank for the bounty that awaits us this night!
Cole gritted his teeth and ran on. They’re just nobles. They never gave a damn for anyone else. They’re just nobles…
He was almost at the exit now. An estate burned just to the right of him, roaring and crackling as it was consumed by flame. He was sprinting by the blaze when a sudden scream slowed him a fraction. He glanced over and saw a woman being dragged by her hair face-first over the paved veranda. The mercenary grinning over her had a table leg in one hand.
The woman screamed again; her terrified sobs pounded inside Cole’s head like a hammer. Keep running. It’s none of your business. You’re no hero.
The gate was just ahead. The woman cried out one more time, a pitiful sound. His feet suddenly felt like concrete.
You’re no hero.
A loud thud reached his ears. The mercenary had begun to bludgeon the stricken noblewoman with the table leg.
Davarus Cole’s heart thundered, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He slowed to a walk, and then to a complete halt. Finally he turned and stared at the mercenary.
‘Leave her alone.’
‘What?’ The Sumnian stared at him in puzzlement. ‘She’s my prize. I can do what I please.’ He raised his club again.
‘I said leave her alone.’
There was anger on the mercenary’s face now. ‘You want her? I don’t share with maggots. But why fight over a woman? Neither of us will have her.’ He gripped the makeshift club with both hands and raised it over the woman’s head.
Cole’s hand was a blur.
The mercenary stared down at the hilt which suddenly quivered from his throat. He gurgled once and then toppled forwards, dead before he hit the ground.
Walking over to retrieve Magebane, Cole was relieved to see the noblewoman was not badly hurt. ‘Can you move?’ he asked. She stirred and then nodded. ‘Take my hand.’ He reached down. After a moment she grasped his arm and he pulled her gently to her feet.
He stared, taken aback by the woman’s beauty. Her eyes were the deepest jade, her hair like spun gold. And around her neck…
‘Where did you get that?’ he gasped.
‘What?’ The woman was distraught. She looked down at the pendant hanging just above her breasts. ‘My husband gave it to me,’ she said.
‘Where is your husband?’
‘He’s… dead.’ Her voice cracked on the word.
Cole closed his eyes for a moment. His grip tightened on Magebane. He raised the glowing dagger – and then placed it back in its sheath. ‘Come with me. I’ll get you out of here.’
A few minutes later they were safely clear of the Noble Quarter and on their way down the Tyrant’s Road towards the Hook. ‘Do you have somewhere to go?’ he asked.
‘I… I have a cousin who lives nearby.’
‘Head straight there.’
She offered him her stumbling thanks and hurried away. Cole watched her go and then resumed his journey back down to the Hook. He needed to find Sasha.
‘Davarus Cole.’
That voice was unmistakable. ‘Master!’ he exclaimed, hurrying over to the Darkson. The Shamaathan was standing on the side of the road. ‘What are you doing here?’
The master assassin appeared troubled. ‘Waiting for you.’
‘Really? Is there something I can help you with? I – I’ve realized that I still have a lot to learn.’
The Darkson looked away, refusing to meet his eyes. ‘I wanted to give you something.’
Cole nodded eagerly. ‘Of course, master. What is it?’
‘This.’
The first thing that registered was the regret in his mentor’s voice.
The second was the white-hot agony in his gut.
Cole stared down at the wicked curved dagger emerging from his stomach. The Darkson jerked the blade free and he staggered, his hands desperately trying to keep the blood from gushing out. It was futile. Warm, sticky liquid ran down his fingers, splattering onto the road below. ‘But… why?’ he managed to gasp.
‘The White Lady does not like loose ends. Or potential threats. Brianna died in battle, leaving you as the only piece left to be removed. I am sorry.’
Cole didn’t reply. He reeled away, horrified at the volume of blood pouring from his body. He was growing weaker by the second. He stumbled off the road, one arm reaching out blindly, seeking something to support himself on. After what seemed like an eternity his bloody palm pressed up against a wall. It was the side of a building. He staggered back against it and sank slowly to the ground.
He was starting to feel numb. It was almost a pleasant sensation. It reminded him of when he was young, when he and Sasha would compete to see who could remain submerged in an ice bath the longest. He smiled suddenly. She usually won, but it had been good practice. Good practice for the day he would be a hero.
His eyes closed.
A familiar face was waiting for Eremul when he finally arrived back at the depository.
‘Isaac!’ he spluttered, almost slipping out of his seat in shock. His manservant was as inscrutable as ever, but there was something deeply unsettling about the way he looked in the dim light. It was as if he were seeing Isaac’s face for the first time. It seemed… incomplete, as though a skilled artist had captured an uncanny likeness of his subject but missed out a few essential details.
‘Hello, master.’ The manservant’s voice was more melodic than he remembered. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’
‘Who are you?’ Eremul demanded. He glanced left and right, but the streets were dead. Those inclined to celebrate the city’s dubious liberation must have made their way to the centre or to one of the taverns a little to the north. They were completely alone.
‘I don’t suppose you would believe me if I told you I am your trusty manservant.’
‘I had a trusty manservant? I could have sworn he was a bumbling buffoon.’
Isaac smiled faintly. ‘This is why I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye. Your species may have been found wanting, but there are some among you who are not without merit. A part of me will be sad when you are all gone.’
‘When we are all gone?’ What is he talking about? ‘Enough games, Isaac,’ he said, growing annoyed. ‘I know about the harbourmaster. I know about the Crow. Who are you, really?’ He paused for a moment, staring at that troubling visage. ‘What are you?’
‘You may call me… an Adjudicator.’
‘An Adjudicator?’
‘I have spent four years among your kind. Evaluating you. I have made my decision, and so now I return to my homeland to begin the preparations. As to what I am…’
Eremul blinked, astonished by what he was seeing. It wasn’t so much that Isaac was changing appearance as his brain was beginning to fill in the details it had somehow omitted before now.
Humanoid. Ivory skin. Slender, almost delicate limbs. Eyes as black as midnight… Sudden terror gripped him. He had never been subjected to a regard as utterly ruinous as that obsidian stare. Even Salazar had not unmanned him so effortlessly. The being behind that appalling scrutiny was so ancient even a Magelord’s lifespan was but a flicker of a candle in comparison.
Eremul felt warm wetness trickling over the stumps of his legs. He had pis
sed himself.
Isaac, or the thing that had called itself Isaac, seemed not to notice. It raised one slender hand and said, almost sadly, ‘Enjoy what time you have remaining, Eremul Kaldrian. Regrettably, no exceptions can be made in the coming crusade. Not even for you.’
He took a single step forwards – and disappeared. He fell away into nothingness.
Eremul sat motionless for a time. He glanced down at his soiled robes. Then he wheeled himself down to the docks, too terrified to even think about going back inside the depository alone. He sat there, staring out over the harbour, the sound of the lapping water below helping to calm his shredded nerves.
Movement caught his eye. He stared down at the dark water, mumbled an incantation to summon a globe of light and illuminate what it was. He saw, and his breath caught in his throat, and then he began to shake.
A moment later he held it in his hands. The creature was thinner than he remembered, barely more than a skeleton – and yet somehow, miraculously, it still breathed. How is it possible? I fumbled you into the harbour over three weeks ago!
The dog opened its eyes a fraction. It yelped pathetically, tried to lean forward and lick his face with its parched tongue.
Eremul held the pathetic creature close to him, as tightly as he could without harming it. You’re my little miracle, he thought, ridiculously happy. He turned his chair around and started off back to the depository, eager to get some food and water into the animal. The worst is over. It is time for us both to heal. Together.
He’d even thought of a name. It had come to him just then, out of the blue, and it felt so right that he could imagine no other being quite so fitting.
Tyro.
Brodar Kayne counted out the large golden coins. Twenty-five, just as he had been promised. He pulled the drawstring tight and hefted the pouch in his hand. It felt solid and heavy, like a job well done.
‘I trust you are satisfied,’ said the White Lady’s servant. It was a statement, not a question. He nodded.
‘Shame about Brianna,’ he ventured. ‘She was a fine figure of a lady. Er, speaking respectfully, of course.’
The pale lady didn’t deign to respond. He sighed and stared back towards the city. Sasha had left them a short while ago, saying she wanted to find Cole and check he was all right. He had mentioned he might not be here when she got back. In any case, he reckoned the two youngsters would manage fine without him around.
The fact was he’d already stayed for longer than he wanted. There was just one more thing that needed to be done.
The Wolf was sitting by himself on a small hill overlooking the city. Bodies were still being collected from the battlefield, hundreds of them, gathered in great heaps to be buried in or around Dorminia, depending on whether or not a corpse could be identified. A lot of them couldn’t, and that was the trouble with magic. As far as he was concerned, if you were going to take the decision to kill another man you had better be able to look him in the eye. It kept you honest. It kept you human.
Magelords and their ilk, they did things differently. And it was because of the likes of Salazar and the White Lady that five thousand fresh graves would need to be dug.
Jerek gave him a nod as he approached. The Wolf was in a bad state, his face a battered mass and several ribs broken, to say nothing of the other wounds he’d suffered over the last couple of months. Kayne had never seen him so beaten up, but the last thing he was going to do was offer Jerek any kind of sympathy. He might as well pour oil on a fire.
‘Here,’ he said, tossing over the bag of coins. ‘It’s yours. My half.’
His old friend glanced at the gold but didn’t say a word.
‘I’m leaving,’ he continued. ‘Heading north. Aye, back to the High Fangs. Mhaira’s still alive. I got no other choice.’
The Wolf stared straight ahead, his face as inscrutable as stone.
‘We went through hell getting this far. I couldn’t ask anyone to make that journey again, back the other way. I wouldn’t let ’em if they offered.’
No reply.
‘Call me a bloody old fool, I ain’t going to argue. I know I won’t be coming back. But some things a man just has to do. With fifty gold spires, I figure you can live well in one of the Free Cities.’
Jerek glanced at the bag of coins again. His silence was deafening.
‘Anyway. I know you ain’t much for tearful farewells and such. I don’t reckon either of us is. So I guess I ought to just say thank you. For everything.’
A single muscle twitched in Jerek’s cheek.
‘Right then. I’ll be going. Look after yourself, Wolf.’
He turned and ambled back down the hill. He supposed he could have waited until morning, but there was no time like the present.
He made it to twenty paces before the pouch struck him in the back. Golden coins exploded out everywhere, rolling all over the grass.
‘Fucking unbelievable. Two years travelling together. Fighting together. Almost dying together. And you reckon you can pull this kind of shit now? That ain’t fair, Kayne, and you know it.’
He turned. ‘Look, this ain’t your battle—’
‘Like fuck it ain’t. I got no more love for the Shaman than you do.’ Jerek was tugging at his beard, his face an angry snarl. ‘Did you hear him? Bastard called me a dog. I ain’t having that. I just ain’t having it. Someone needs to teach that prick a lesson.’
The rant went on for a good couple of minutes. Kayne waited until his friend had tired himself out and then nodded slowly. ‘Well. It sounds like you’ve made up your mind.’ He paused for a moment and scratched at his jaw. ‘But, uh, if you’re set on coming with me, I could use a hand gathering up this gold. Might come in handy in the Badlands and maybe beyond.’
Together the two began collecting the fallen coins. One had rolled some distance away. Kayne saw a young militiaman furtively reach down and pick it up while pretending to check his boots. He met the fellow’s eyes and gave him a look of calculated menace. The youngster blanched and bent down to replace the coin on the ground, but stopped as Kayne held up a hand, grinned and then gestured at him to take it. Enough women and children had lost husbands and fathers in the short conflict between the two cities. He reckoned a man was due a break.
The two Highlanders stashed the last of the gold and hefted their backpacks. Then they set off towards the north, to begin the first stage of an epic journey few had ever attempted and fewer still had ever survived.
Anyone party to the odd couple’s passing, such as a certain nameless soldier still musing over his good fortune, would have noted the ghost of a smile on the face of the older warrior.
In contrast, his companion wore a permanent scowl that, nonetheless, could not entirely mask the spring in his step…
Acknowledgements
This novel couldn’t have been published without the help and support of the individuals listed below. I would like to extend my sincere thanks to each and every one of you.
First and foremost my agent, Robert Dinsdale, who took me on when the story was less than half written – and sold a trilogy barely six months later. He helped shape the novel into something worth publishing.
Jennifer Custer at AM Heath for negotiating various foreign language deals on my behalf.
Alan Miranda, Simon Scoltock, and Russ Davis for their feedback on the manuscript when it was it in its earliest and most fragile form. Also, Kevin Smith for pointing out a number of errors.
Mike Brooks for his support and advice from start to end. The novel wouldn’t have been the same without his input.
Mathilda Imlah and the team at Head of Zeus for liking the story well enough to buy three of them, and for polishing out those rough edges.
Danielle Stockley and the team at Penguin for taking the trilogy under their wing on the opposite side of the Atlantic, and Chris Lotts for helping deliver it unto their hands.
Elizabeth Starr for her generosity in editing the entire manuscript out of the kindness of
her heart – often during the early hours of the morning when the shadow of the sun was but a distant memory…
And last but certainly not least, my wife Yesica for keeping the faith.
About the Author
LUKE SCULL was born in Bristol and lives in Warminster with his wife. Luke also designs computer roleplaying games and has worked on several acclaimed titles for Ossian Studios and Bioware. His latest project, iOS fantasy game The Shadow Sun, is scheduled for release in 2013. Visit his website at: www.lukescull.com
About this Book
THE GREY GRANITE walls of Dorminia rise to three times the height of a man, surrounding the city on all sides save for the south, where the Broken Sea begins. The stone is three-foot thick at its weakest point and can withstand all but the heaviest assault. The Crimson Watch patrol the streets even as Salazar’s Mindhawks patrol the skies. The Grey City was not always so. But something has changed. Something has broken at its heart. Perhaps the wild magic of the dead gods has corrupted Dorminia’s Magelord, as it has the earth itself. Perhaps Salazar’s desperate lust for power has finally quenched his last spark of humanity. Or perhaps this iron-fisted tyranny is no more than the consequence of a lifetime of dark deeds…
Still, pockets of resistance remain. Rebels meet in the ruined sanctuaries of long-dead gods. Their hope of change is dwindling; their numbers weak and scattered. But when two formidable Highlanders save the life of a young rebel, it proves the foundation for an unlikely fellowship. A fellowship united against tyranny, yet composed of selfrighteous outlaws, crippled turncoats and amoral mercenaries. A grim company. But with the world entering the Age of Ruin, this is not a time of heroes…
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Contents
Welcome Page
Dedication
Map of the Trine
A Tyrant’s Wager
