by Luke Scull
As far as Cole was concerned, any blow against Salazar was a victory for the people of Dorminia, even if they didn’t yet realize it. The failure of the city’s navy proved that the Tyrant of Dorminia was not infallible. It was this kind of setback – together with the efforts of men like Davarus Cole – that would ultimately loosen Salazar’s grip enough for the good people of Dorminia to rise up and overthrow their eternal overlord. If Cole didn’t kill him first.
The thought made him smile. One day the entire north would know him for the hero he was.
A screech rent the air and Cole looked up in alarm. A mindhawk wheeled in broad circles overhead. Its silver head vibrated slowly and its sapphire eyes scanned the city below. Those men and women unfortunate enough to find themselves in the area immediately began to hurry away.
Cole almost scurried off as well. Then he remembered the pill he had swallowed before leaving his apartment and breathed more easily. The drug was a soporific of sorts, numbing the parts of the brain that could inadvertently transmit treasonous thoughts to the magical mutations in the sky above. He would have a headache the next morning, but it was a small price to pay to avoid the Black Lottery. The Crimson Watch randomly selected those guilty of perfidious thinking and subjected them to brutality, imprisonment and, in some cases, outright murder.
A disturbance ahead brought his attention back to the street. Two Watchmen were approaching, herding a frail old man. One of the red-cloaked soldiers gave him a vicious shove from behind and he stumbled, falling on his face. When he regained his feet, Cole saw that he now bore an ugly graze from scalp to cheek. The old man turned to his tormenters and began to protest, but a fist from the other Watchman dropped him to the ground again.
Cole went perfectly still. Incidents like this were not uncommon. Ostensibly the Crimson Watch served Dorminia and its territories as both standing army and city guard. In reality, they were little more than a network of thugs and bullies who terrorized the populace on the orders of the city magistrates and their ruthless master in the Obelisk.
The sensible course of action would be to slink away and avoid drawing attention to himself. Hadn’t Garrett urged caution? ‘The collective outweighs the individual,’ his foster father always said. ‘We can’t right every wrong. Acting rashly places us all in danger. Choose your battles wisely and remember that Shards cut deepest from the shadows.’
Cole frowned. Garrett probably hadn’t been referring to him. After all, it was obvious that his abilities and quick wits outstripped those of his peers by no small distance – and besides, hadn’t Garrett always said he would one day be a great hero, like his real father? A man such as he met injustice head on, enchanted blade in hand and epic destiny propelling him forwards with a righteous fury no petty villain could withstand.
His mind set, Cole strolled towards the Watchmen as assuredly as he could. He couldn’t help but notice the smattering of a crowd had melted away entirely. Its disappearance left him entirely exposed. His throat suddenly felt very dry.
The soldier kneeling over the old man looked up as Cole approached. He gave his colleague a questioning glance, removed his sword from his victim’s neck and straightened. ‘What the fuck do you want?’ he demanded coldly.
The other Watchman moved closer to Cole and dropped a hand to his scabbard. His voice was full of malice. ‘You’d better have good reason for interrupting official Crimson Watch business, boy, or I’m gonna drag your arse to the cells.’
‘That’s enough!’ commanded Cole, in a voice he fervently hoped rang with authority. He reached under his cloak and placed a hand around the hilt of Magebane. For some reason his hands had started trembling. That wasn’t supposed to happen.
He pushed ahead with his ruse. ‘Since you two sons of whores are too stupid to work it out, you’re speaking to an Augmentor. This man is wanted at the Obelisk. Hand him over.’ Sweat had begun to bead on his forehead. He tried to will it away, without success.
‘That so?’ The soldier to the left of Cole sounded unimpressed. He was a cruel-looking man of middling years, with small, squinty eyes and a pockmarked face. ‘Then you’ll take no offence if we ask you to prove your credentials.’ He waited expectantly.
Cole swallowed hard and drew Magebane in one smooth motion, holding the long dagger in such a way that his shaking hand was mostly concealed. He nodded at the weapon. ‘This is enchanted. See the glow? No one except an Augmentor may possess such a weapon. I trust that satisfies your curiosity.’
Please, just nod and leave in peace, he silently prayed. What he said was, ‘Now get the fuck out of my sight before I shove this dagger so far up your dick eye it tickles the back of your throat with your balls!’
The Watchmen glanced at one another. An understanding seemed to pass between them. Pock-face shrugged and spat at the battered fellow on the ground.
‘Right you are. He’s yours. We’ll bid you good day.’ The two men moved slowly past Cole and continued south down the road.
He watched the fluttering red cloaks retreating. Elation flooded him and he couldn’t help but grin at his impromptu wit. He might be better educated than the rest of the Shards – the rebels he called comrades – but he could still cuss like the roughest of them when the occasion called for it. He was an everyman, he supposed, able to empathize effortlessly with both the noblest and the most inconsequential of men.
He looked down at the groaning old fellow at his feet. His left eye socket was heavily bruised and blood caked his cheek and neck. ‘Can you stand?’ Cole asked.
‘Uh…’ the man replied. He tried to rise but failed. Cole felt a sudden flash of impatience.
‘Did you even see what just happened? I saved your life. They would have killed you.’ He softened his voice and placed a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder as he struggled to his knees. ‘It may not seem like it now, but fate had a purpose in your being here. You were supposed to witness this. One day you’ll look back and laugh and wonder if this wasn’t the birth of the legend— What? What is it?’
The man’s uninjured eye had gone wide, as if he had seen something terrible approaching behind Cole. The young Shard turned.
Pock-face was standing there, an evil sneer on his face. The other Watchman had his sword raised. As if in slow motion, Cole’s eyes swivelled to the right to stare up at the pommel that was descending on his head. He managed to jerk back quickly enough to take the brunt of the blow on his nose.
Crack. An explosion of pain. Ridiculous pain. He tried to scream, but his voice broke and it came out as a piggish squeal. White light blinded him. When his vision returned he found that he was lying on top of the old fool. How did that happen?
Slimy liquid in his mouth, tasting of salt. Blood. He shook his head and struggled desperately to orientate himself.
Pock-face was standing over him. Sunlight glinted off his raised longsword, reflecting onto his chainmail. Cole tried to focus. He saw the Obelisk against a red sunset on the Watchman’s white tabard. Red bloodstains too. My blood?
The soldier brought his longsword whistling down. Cole managed to roll out of the way just in time. It cut the air where he had lain but a moment before and cleaved the head of the old man in two. Bone fragments and brain matter defaced the cobbles.
Gritting his teeth against the pain in his skull, Cole raised Magebane and stabbed at the leg of the Watchman. The glowing dagger scored a shallow wound and the soldier cursed, readying his gore-covered longsword for another strike. His companion advanced, his own blade raised.
Cole scrabbled madly backwards as Pock-face launched a savage overhead swing. The sword descended and suddenly Magebane was there, turning aside the larger weapon as if it weighed nothing. Pock-face aimed a kick at Cole’s chest. It connected with a sickening thud and sent him sprawling. The Watchman snarled and sprang forwards, intending to end the fight. He slipped on a pool of gore and his wounded leg buckled. He struck the ground hard, uttering a string of vile curses.
Get up! Get up! C
ole forced himself to his feet. His nose and chin dribbled blood, but at least his arms and legs still functioned. The other Watchman was closing fast, his sword raised.
Cole took a deep breath to steady his nerves. This is what it came down to. He couldn’t overcome the soldier in hand-to-hand combat – not with his injuries and the Watchman’s superior armour. His own leather would offer scant protection. He raised his left hand and lined up Magebane, as he had so often practised. He couldn’t miss; fate wouldn’t allow it. It was in moments like these that heroes performed deeds for historians to marvel upon.
He threw the dagger, watching as Magebane pivoted unerringly end over end through the air towards the soldier’s head. It was a magnificent throw, as he knew it would be. Practice makes perfect, particularly for a natural marksman with an instinct for—
The blunt hilt of the dagger struck the Watchman’s right eye. He bellowed in anger and reached for his face as Magebane clattered to the ground. His comrade had regained his feet and was now limping towards Cole, his mouth a twisted snarl of fury. ‘Kill the fucker!’ he screamed, spittle spraying over his chin.
Cole whimpered and ran for his life.
He’d been running for several minutes. His chest felt as if it was on fire. Every breath was agony.
He coughed and spat out blood. He could hear them pursuing through the winding alleyways that led south-east of the Hook. He shouldered past everyone he met – in these slums, the poor and the destitute – knocking one old woman into a pile of refuse and wincing as her cries drew the attention of the soldiers chasing him.
His breathing became more laboured. Something was wrong with his lungs. He slowed to a walk, and then to a complete halt. By a warehouse stinking of rotten fish, he sank to his knees and listened as death approached. A single tear rolled down his cheek.
A sorry end, he thought bitterly.
Back on the Run
He pushed with all the strength he could muster. It was like trying to force a pebble through the eye of a needle. Or an arm through one of the Shaman’s wicker cages.
The High Fangs were a world away, but there were some memories you couldn’t leave behind. No matter how far you ran.
Brodar Kayne bit down and grunted with the effort. His large, scarred hands trembled around his manhood. The pain was excruciating. Spirits be damned, the pain was unholy. He’d taken arrows and blades in the gut that hurt less than this. At least, he thought they had. That was the problem with age. It played tricks on the mind.
Concentration. That was the key. Shut out the maddening noise of the street and focus on the job in hand. It was easier back up in the Fangs, where the wind was a constant whisper broken only by the howls of wolves or other beasts and a man respected another’s privacy enough to let him take a piss in peace. Here in the big city it seemed everyone wanted to interfere in his business. Merchants thrust their wares into his face as if he was a pleasure maid at a chieftain’s war gathering. It was madness.
He’d knocked one trader near-unconscious earlier in the day. The merchant had grabbed his hand, apparently intending to press some cloth into it. Brodar Kayne had apologized when he realized the fellow had meant no harm.
Gradually he felt the pressure in his bladder begin to relent. Obstructions of the purifying mechanisms by which the body is cleansed, the physician had told him. He’d wanted to make a small incision, and had only just escaped without his metal tools wedged somewhere unpleasant. Kayne hadn’t survived this long by allowing men with sharp implements to poke around his body.
Ten, nine, eight, seven… He mentally counted down in a silent ritual. If there was one thing he’d learned over his many years it was the importance of routine in defending the human body against the depredations of time. It had nothing to do with superstition. Or getting old.
Five… four… three… and he sighed in relief as the pain eased and his bladder prepared to empty itself. Two… one… ‘Shit.’ The sounds of a noisy pursuit interrupted him as he was on the cusp of release, a few drops of discoloured piss dribbling down his leg before his cock seized up like a dead man’s chest.
Kayne thrust his treacherous member back inside his breeches and strode out of the side alley determined to find out what all the fuss was about.
Someone was going to pay.
A lad slumped against the side of an old warehouse a little further up the street. His head rested on his chest and his breathing was ragged, as if he had an internal injury that made every inhalation a struggle. Faces peered out from behind doors and then melted away as Brodar Kayne approached the miserable figure. He grabbed a handful of sweat-matted hair and pulled the boy’s head back.
A mouthful of bloody spittle missed his eye by a finger’s width. A hand groped up, desperately seeking a weapon but succeeding only in prodding him painfully in the groin.
As swift as a snake, he grabbed the youngster’s arm and twisted it, eliciting a yelp. His other hand cuffed the insolent bastard in the head hard enough to bounce it right off the wall behind. He reached down and hauled the fool upright.
‘You picked a bad day to start something with me,’ he snarled down into the blood-smeared face. He was a lad of around twenty winters, Kayne saw, fair-skinned like most of these city folk. His steel-coloured eyes were unfocused and slightly watery, as if he’d been crying. Kayne shook his head in disgust.
‘You know you’ve lived too long when a smack upside a fellow’s head is enough to set him to tears. At your age I’d killed more men than I could rightly remember. Took some wounds that could kill a man too, and came through ’em none the worse for it. You got yourself a broken rib, I reckon, and that nose won’t ever be as straight as it was. Still, you’ll live – assuming I let you.’
He heard the rustle of chainmail behind him and turned, releasing his grip on the Lowlander, who promptly flopped to the ground.
‘Out of the way! This is Crimson Watch business.’ The speaker was an ugly little man with a plague-ravaged face. He dragged his right leg as he approached. A trail of blood glistened behind him.
The other fellow was younger and somewhat broader but still half a head shorter than Kayne, who saw that he sported a fresh bruise beneath his right eye. The red-cloaked soldier scowled up at him.
‘You’re a Highlander. What are you doing so far south? A man of your years ought to be tending goats or sitting around a campfire spinning bullshit tales to convince some maiden to suck your cock – or whatever it is you mountain folk do. You’re not welcome here. Lord Salazar has no love for the Magelord of the High Fangs.’
Kayne shrugged. ‘Can’t say I blame him,’ he replied. ‘The Shaman and me, we got our differences as well. Enough to make the frozen north an unsafe place for an old barbarian.’ The youth at his feet had begun to moan. ‘I was down this way. Thought I’d see the sights of the city. Tell me, what’s the boy done?’
‘What business is that of yours?’ said the pock-faced fellow. ‘He’s guilty of interfering with the application of the law. The fucker stabbed me in the leg with this dagger. It won’t stop bleeding.’ He gestured at the weapon at his belt and then to his leg. There was a hint of panic in his voice.
Kayne’s eyes swept over the weapon and noted the telltale glow. ‘Magic, if I ain’t mistaken,’ he said. ‘I’m no expert but I reckon that wound won’t be closing by itself any time soon. Best find yourself a decent physician.’ He folded his arms and fixed the two soldiers with his best implacable stare.
The younger soldier’s hand went to his sword. ‘Not without this shit-eater we’re not. Come on, move aside.’
Kayne flexed his neck. It clicked slightly. He sighed in satisfaction. ‘No,’ he said.
‘Then you’ll die with him. Merrik, you take his left side.’
The Watchmen advanced on him slowly, their scarlet cloaks fluttering in the breeze.
Come at me, he thought, reaching behind him to the hilt of the greatsword slung on his back. He felt its familiar grip beneath his fingers. He ste
pped away from the prone lad, sparing the twitching figure an annoyed glance. This wouldn’t make things any easier. His opponents circled around him.
The soldier to his right feinted low and then brought his sword around in a vicious backhand chop. Kayne thrust his hips backwards and drew his chest in. The sword whistled past, barely an inch away.
He caught movement out of the corner of his left eye and spun, dropping into a crouch. As he felt the steel pass harmlessly over his head, his right elbow rose and crunched into the cheek of his assailant, who flopped to the ground. He pulled his greatsword loose of its scabbard with his other hand as he completed the rotation, raised it just in time to parry the other soldier’s follow-up attack.
His opponent stepped back and blinked. ‘Fuck,’ he said.
‘Aye,’ nodded Brodar Kayne. ‘Let’s get this over with. I need to piss.’
Greatsword and longsword came together. Kayne hardly moved as he casually responded to the wild thrusts of the Watchman. In desperation, his opponent launched an overhead slash intended to cleave his skull. Kayne neatly sidestepped it and brought his own blade sweeping around at waist height.
The Watchman stared at the entrails spilling from the bloody mess where his midriff had been. He dropped his sword and moved to gather the glistening, snaking things in his hands, but then dropped them in disgust.
Always bad when that happens, Kayne thought sympathetically. He raised his greatsword and cut the man’s head from his shoulders.
Wiping the blade clean on the corpse’s tabard, he sheathed it behind him and then walked over to the other Watchman, who was struggling groggily to his feet. He grabbed the soldier’s head and smashed it four, five, six times into the side of the warehouse. Holding the body upright with one hand, he took the dagger from the dead man’s belt with the other and let him fall.
