by Luke Scull
The massive warrior stationed outside the entrance to the Great Lodge nodded as she approached and beckoned her to go on inside. She stepped past him through the huge gate, inhaling the pungent odours of ancient darkwood, smoke, fur and leather that hung in the air. This is what home will smell like, so very soon.
She followed the vast entrance hall down towards the throne room, practising a regal smile on the men standing guard on either side. The Six were among the finest warriors in Heartstone, sworn to guard the King with their lives. The weapons and shields of legendary Highlanders hung from the darkwood walls, glistening in the smoky light of the torches arrayed on sconces down the length of the hall. Some day she would have sons, and no doubt their own arms would have pride of place among these of heroes from ages past.
She paused for a moment before entering the throne room and adjusted her shawl one final time. With a nod to the guards on either side of her, she swept through the great double doors.
Magnar, King of the High Fangs, watched her enter from his mighty oak throne at the head of the long trestle table dominating the room. Eight of the ten smaller thrones positioned lengthwise down the table were empty. The Butcher of Beregund, Krazka One-Eye, watched her hungrily from the throne immediately to the King’s right. On Magnar’s left, Orgrim Foehammer scowled and crossed his meaty arms over his expansive paunch.
Yllandris slowed. She hadn’t expected Magnar to have company. Not these two men, at any rate. Krazka and Orgrim were the most powerful of the chieftains who ruled the ten Reachings under the King, who in turn answered to the Shaman – when the Magelord bothered to involve himself in matters of state.
‘Yllandris,’ drawled Magnar in his cultured voice. ‘What brings you here?’
‘A woman?’ interrupted Orgrim, distaste plain in his voice. He slammed a fist down on the table. ‘We’re here to discuss war!’
Krazka licked his lips. Yllandris wasn’t sure which made her more uncomfortable: the leering eye on the right of that cruel face or the dead, colourless orb staring blindly on the left. ‘This the one you spoke about, Magnar? Your pet sorceress, aye? No wonder you like to keep her close.’
The King beckoned her to approach. He was young compared with the chieftains beside him, only a few years past his twentieth winter. Muscular and exceptionally tall, he regarded her with eyes the colour of steel. It was said Magnar’s prowess with a sword matched that of any of the Six, his elite bodyguard. He had proved a shrewd ruler during his short reign.
A formidable man. One who deserves a woman to match. She gave him a small curtsy. ‘My king, a pack of the Brethren returned just moments past. They were attacked by a demon of a kind I have never before seen. Two of the pack were killed: Thorne, and a white cougar whose name I do not know.’
‘This is troubling news,’ said the King. He was an educated man; perhaps too educated for the tastes of certain of his chieftains. His personal prowess and the ruthlessness he had displayed during his rule had ensured their muttering went unvoiced in public, but Yllandris knew some of them bore Magnar a grudge, and not only because of his learned manner.
‘Describe this demon to me,’ the King commanded.
‘It was hugely tall and as black as the night. It flew with wings near as wide as this chamber. Its talons were the size of longswords, capable of rending a man apart with a single swipe. I saw all this from Thorne, before he passed away.’
‘The Devil’s Spine continues to fuck us up the ass,’ Orgrim growled. ‘That accursed place spews up more demons by the day. How many of the Brethren have we lost this year alone? At this rate the High Fangs will be overrun.’
Krazka finally tore his gaze away from her breasts. He rubbed at his weeping dead eye with the back of his hand, where it left a trail of sticky slime. ‘It ain’t just the demons crawling out of the Devil’s Spine that’s the problem. They’re chasing out the giants and the wargs and fuck knows what else. This latest attack is just the tip of the iceberg.’
The King frowned and leaned forwards. ‘This has come at a bad time. We plan to move on Frosthold in the next few days. I had intended to send the Brethren with our main force. With the Shaman’s approval, of course.’
Yllandris was confused. Frosthold? That was the principal town of the North Reaching under the rule of Mehmon, one of the oldest and most respected chieftains of the High Fangs. Why would they move against Frosthold?
The King noted her puzzled expression. ‘Mehmon has declared independence,’ he said. ‘He no longer wishes to honour the Treaty, claiming his own people are starving. If his mutiny is allowed to go unpunished, other Reachings will follow his lead. Mehmon must be brought to justice and Frosthold put to the sword as an example to the rest. Orgrim and Krazka will return to their Reachings shortly and ready their men.’
Yllandris noticed the eager look on Krazka’s face. The Butcher of Beregund had earned his reputation three years ago, when he had led the ruthless massacre of the town of the same name. The Green Reaching had rebelled and the town of Beregund had been slaughtered to a man. No doubt he was looking forward to a repeat of the bloody work that had made him infamous across the High Fangs.
‘This demon will wreak chaos if it is left unchecked,’ she said. ‘It is capable of destroying entire villages.’
Magnar nodded. ‘Then I will split the Brethren. Half will accompany the war party to Frosthold, while the other half will hunt down this fiend—’
‘No,’ said a deep voice from a dark corner of the chamber.
The Shaman stepped out into the torchlight. His tanned body rippled in the orange glow, naked save for a pair of tattered brown breeches. He wasn’t tall by the standards of the men in the room, but he was incredibly wide, three hundred pounds of muscle packed onto a frame a shade under six feet. Deep veins threaded his bulging biceps and heaving chest and shoulders. His straggly black hair ran down to his waist, which seemed chiselled as if from stone. He looked like a god, or some heroic figure of legend.
He is neither. He participated in the killing of the gods and the bringing about of the Age of Ruin. She wondered how long he had been in the chamber. The Magelord could have slipped unnoticed into the throne room at any time, wearing the form of any number of creatures – even that of an insect. There was said to be no greater Shifter in the known world than the Shaman.
‘I will hunt and slay this monster,’ the Shaman growled in his low, rumbling voice. ‘Send the Brethren to Frosthold. You will need them.’
‘As you command,’ said Magnar. Yllandris felt a tickle of disappointment at his easy deference. The Shaman rarely interfered with the governing of the High Fangs, except to place a new king on the throne when the previous one had passed away. Magnar’s obedience reminded her that no matter how high she rose, there would always be a ceiling to her ambitions. The King’s will would forever come second to that of the Godkiller standing before her. No mortal outranked a Magelord where he or she claimed dominion.
The Shaman crossed his massive arms. Even Orgrim Foehammer looked small when sat so close to the hulking figure. ‘Frosthold’s circle is powerful. Send as many sorceresses as you can.’
‘There are seven in Heartstone, including Yllandris,’ the King replied. ‘That gives us fifteen in total, including the circles from the East and the Lake Reachings.’ He glanced at the chieftains to either side of him. They nodded in confirmation.
‘Adequate,’ said the Shaman. He looked up at the ceiling and raised his mighty arms in the air. ‘Search the High Fangs. Find any man who possesses the spark of magic and bring him here. I will create more of the Brethren.’ And with that he began to shimmer, his body seeming to stretch and elongate. All of a sudden his shifting form imploded, condensing so that only a tiny ball of light remained floating above the ground.
The glow faded away, to reveal a large black raven hovering in the air. The transformed Shaman croaked once and flew upwards, disappearing through a smoke vent in the wooden ceiling above.
Magnar, Ki
ng of the High Fangs, looked at Yllandris and pursed his lips. ‘You had best prepare yourself for travel. Tell the rest of your circle to do the same. The North Reaching is ten days away at the very least, and the journey is a hard one. I will see you when you return.’
Yllandris cursed silently, shooting venomous glances at the amused faces of Krazka and Orgrim. ‘Yes, my king,’ she said, slightly too sweetly. His eyes narrowed. She ignored his displeasure, dipped a perfunctory curtsy and turned on her heels to stride out of the throne room.
She had expected to find herself in his bed by now, as had been their routine for the past few months. Instead she must prepare herself for an unpleasant sojourn to the frozen North Reaching and a confrontation with a hostile circle.
One thing she did know. When Yllandris and King Magnar of the High Fangs finally underwent their joining and emerged as husband and wife, she would not sit quietly on her throne and be dictated to by a half-mad immortal.
A Magelord could die like any other man, of that she was certain.
The Hero’s Journey
Cole woke some time after tenth bell. His head pounded and his mouth tasted foul. A glance at the vomit-stained clothes strewn over the floor of his cramped sleeping quarters confirmed his worst fears.
What hour had it been when he’d left the Gorgon to stumble home in the rain? He couldn’t remember the short walk back to his modest apartment. He could recall only fragments of the preceding four hours or so he’d spent drinking himself into oblivion. All in all, he was extremely lucky to have made it back in one piece. The Hive was one of the roughest parts of the city, and a man wandering drunk and alone in the middle of the night was a ripe target for thieves and cut-throats.
He hadn’t intended to end up in such a state. After his dramatic exit from the temple of the Mother, Cole had entertained some vague notion of attempting a daring robbery on one of Dorminia’s powerful magistrates and returning triumphantly to his shamefaced comrades. ‘Witness!’ he would have declared. ‘A king’s ransom in gold and jewellery, enough to fund a strike at the very heart of Salazar’s power!’
As it happened, his ribs had begun to ache fiercely a few hundred yards from the temple and he’d decided that such valour would have to wait for another night. He had chosen to head home, only to become unaccountably sidetracked along the way.
Cole frowned. Somewhere in the hazy recesses of his mind, fragments of memories began to unveil themselves: a pair of women laughing at him; a kindly old man with his arm around him, calling him ‘boy’ and telling him everything would be all right. He looked at his clothes again. He hoped he hadn’t embarrassed himself.
Cole thrust his blanket away and slid gingerly from the straw mattress. He rose unsteadily to his feet, remaining perfectly still as the room swam around him and a wave of nausea threatened to heap further agony on his ribs. He breathed steadily for a few moments and the sensation passed.
He walked from the small bunk room into the main quarters, and then caught sight of his reflection in the mirror propped in the corner.
Cole stared in horror. His nose was hideously swollen and coloured an ugly shade of red from the bridge almost to the tip. He had a large purple bruise under his right eye and his cheeks were scraped and scabbed from thrashing around on the floor during yesterday’s exploits.
He felt a flash of rage. What had he done to deserve this? He reached for Magebane, half intending to hurl it at the foul visage staring back at him from the mirror. Too late he remembered that he no longer had the weapon. That only made him angrier.
Storming across to the armoire on the wall opposite the mirror, he quickly selected some fresh clothes and pulled them on. Then he strode over to the opposite corner of the room and knelt down, feeling around for the loose floorboard. He levered the board up slightly to hook a hand under and remove it.
He examined his hidden stash. He selected a plain dagger and a handful of copper crowns and silver sceptres, which he stowed away in his trousers. A tiny container at the very back of the shallow recess contained a dozen pale green pills. He placed one in his mouth and swallowed it down. He was just about to move the floorboard back into place when he noticed the small leather bag in which he had often stored his pendant. He felt a sudden pang of regret at having tossed it into the fire last night. Despite the disgraceful way they had treated him, he was still a Shard.
In a sudden burst of charitable feeling, Cole decided that after he had purchased what he needed at the market he would seek out Garrett and give him the chance to apologize. Other men might hold a grudge, but not him. His heart was just too big.
With one last mournful look in the mirror at his battered face, Davarus Cole exited his home in the western half of the city and headed south towards the market.
The sun was high in the sky by the time he arrived at the Bazaar, a sprawling collection of tents and stalls that operated all year round and brought folk from all over the Trine together to gossip, trade and otherwise interact in a relatively peaceful confluence. Goods from Shadowport were currently forbidden, as were merchants from that city. Two had been apprehended and dragged to the Hook in the last fortnight. They now hung in gibbets, their ample girth serving only to prolong their suffering inside the tiny cages.
The lengthy walk had given Cole time to clear his head. He had calmed down and examined the situation from every angle and had concluded that, in truth, there was only one person to blame for last night’s unpleasantness.
Brodar Kayne. The Highlander had stolen Magebane, his precious heirloom. Not content with undermining the respect he enjoyed among his fellow Shards, he had then sat idly by as Garrett announced that Cole had no place on the mission. He had expected the old warrior to speak up for him, to proclaim that, despite his youth, he possessed exactly the kind of courage that could aid their quest. Instead he had simply stared into the fire and continued picking his teeth.
And what right did an over-the-hill barbarian have to even borrow a weapon such as Magebane? He was no hero, unlike Davarus Cole, whose own legendary father had passed it to him on his deathbed.
The young Shard smiled sadly, as he often did when remembering his father’s tragic death. Illarius Cole had been a great rebel leader, and it had taken three of the Magelord’s best Augmentors to best him during a vicious and lengthy battle. Illarius had killed two of them before escaping, mortally wounded, to find young Davarus and deliver his final words.
‘Take this weapon, son,’ his father had said, choking back blood. ‘One day you will lead the city to freedom. I have seen the spark in you. Listen to Garrett and try to be a better man—’
Illarius had died before finishing his sentence, but he hadn’t needed to hear the rest. He knew Garrett’s limitations. While he loved and respected his mentor, he could not deny that his father’s wish for him to be a better man than Garrett was wise. For all his resourcefulness and organizational skills, the merchant lacked the ambition to ever achieve a truly significant victory for the Shards.
Cole tried not to blame his foster father. Greatness was a gift bestowed upon few, after all, and Garrett had done the best he could. It was up to Davarus Cole to lead the Shards to new heights when the time was right.
He heard his stomach growl and sudden hunger overwhelmed his ruminations on future glory. A food vendor was hawking his wares just ahead. Cole handed over four copper crowns for a chunk of pale goat’s cheese, a crust of hard bread and an overripe pear. He bit into the fruit and almost gagged when he saw the trio of tiny white worms twitching around inside.
He hurled the spoiled pear to the ground in front of the vendor’s stall and crushed it with his boot; then, on an impulse, he grabbed hold of the large basket in which all of the seller’s fruit was presented and upended it on the street. Let that be a lesson to you, he thought. Satisfied he had made his point, he strolled away from the stall, the outraged merchant’s curses following him down the narrow aisle.
He was feeling in better spirits now. The clou
ds that had blanketed Dorminia for the past week had finally dispersed and the sun was shining. In fact, it was unusually warm for a late spring morning. The pear aside, the hasty breakfast he’d just eaten had settled his stomach. Most important of all, he had a purpose.
That was the thing about being a hero. When you took a knock, you got right back up and came back stronger.
A bellman’s cry abruptly split the air, coming from somewhere on the other side of the Bazaar.
‘Attention, good people of Dorminia. Your glorious master has cast down the treacherous Marius and cleansed his city of sin with the very waters of the Broken Sea. The war is over. All praise Lord Salazar!’
It took a moment for the crier’s words to sink in. When they did, Cole hurried as fast as he could towards the man. A crowd was already forming around the crier, who repeated the announcement and ignored the flurry of questions darting at him from every angle.
‘This can’t be true,’ a gap-toothed farmer said numbly as Cole drew closer. ‘I got a daughter in the City of Shades. What does he mean by “cleansed”? I wish this bloody lockdown would end.’
Cole didn’t bother to reply. He shouldered the man aside and pushed deeper into the unwashed mass of citizenry chattering in alarm over the news. One woman in particular seemed anxious to air her views to as many folk as possible. He watched her for a time. Eventually her eyes met his and she wandered towards him. He was about to turn his back and pretend to have pressing business elsewhere when he noticed her swaying hips. Although she wore the drab clothes of a goodwife, her bosom, too, was impressive.
As she approached, Cole saw that she wasn’t as old as he’d initially thought. Her strawberry-blond hair caught the sun and glimmered prettily. All in all she was quite pleasant to look at. Worth a minute of his time, he supposed, though he couldn’t help feeling a bit self-conscious about his bruises.
