by Luke Scull
Kayne glanced at Isaac, who still looked crestfallen at having committed such a heinous error. With a sigh, the ageing barbarian set off after the rest of the group.
The Rift was much larger up close than it looked from a distance. The chasm spanned a good eighty feet across and ten times that in length, a vicious scar in the earth belching foul gases that made the eyes sting. Worse than the gases, though, was the stench. The odour was unmistakably that of death, as if something huge rotted at the bottom of that stygian pit. Brodar Kayne squinted down into the depths of the breach but saw nothing but darkness at the bottom. Just as well, he thought.
They were gathered around the edge of the gigantic fissure. A narrow path had been carved into the face of the rock, folding back on itself as it descended into the chasm. Rope bridges spanned the drop from one side to the other at various points along the length of the gap. The sound of metal clanging on rock echoed from far below. Through the miasma of smoke drifting around the mouth of the chasm, Kayne could just about see small figures hard at work.
Jerek grabbed his arm and pointed to the top of the wooden tower just below them. The path ran above it along the face of the gorge for a few hundred feet before switchbacking to cut back directly beneath. If they tried to follow the path, they would likely be seen by the men on the platform before they could stop them raising the alarm.
Kayne nodded at Jerek, who grunted, and then at the top of the tower. He turned to the others. ‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘We need to take out those guards before they see us.’
The two Highlanders lowered themselves onto the wooden structure as quietly as they could manage, crawling on their bellies until they were able to peer down over the edge. Two miners were standing on the platform directly beneath, talking heatedly and gesturing at the work going on below them. A Watchman lounged on a stool in the corner, taking swigs from a flask.
Jerek pointed down, put a finger to his lips and removed an axe from the harness on his back. With his other hand he lowered himself carefully over the edge and disappeared from sight. Kayne heard the thump of boots hitting wood and then a couple of strangled moans followed by the sounds of a short scuffle. All was silent for a time. He tensed, expecting the worst.
Right on cue, the Watchman soared from the platform. The unfortunate soldier twisted in the air like an unwieldy and vastly oversized robin, his limbs flailing around and becoming hopelessly entangled in his scarlet cloak. He unleashed a mighty shriek as he fell, which seemed to last for an eternity. Jerek emerged on the path below a second later, his face twisted in rage. He spat something inaudible after the plummeting figure.
Brodar Kayne uttered a silent curse. For a minute there he’d almost hoped they might do this the easy way. He watched Jerek sprint back up the path, and then he hurried back to the others.
‘Get ready,’ he said. ‘They know we’re here.’ He reached behind him and drew his greatsword, taking comfort in its familiar weight and the way the steel whispered against the scabbard. Isaac drew his own sword.
Jerek arrived just as the shouts from below reached their ears. ‘They’re coming,’ he panted. He was breathing hard.
Kayne gave him a withering stare. ‘Aye, I figured a screaming Watchman tumbling to his death might get their attention. You’ll be the death of me, Wolf.’
His old friend grinned in response. ‘Might be I saved your life earlier,’ Jerek said. ‘Take the rough with the smooth, I reckon.’
Vicard was rummaging around in his backpack. ‘Hold them off,’ he said. ‘I have enough explosive powder in here to bring the whole thing crashing down.’
‘Hang on—’ Kayne began, but a quarrel whistled past his ear and he threw himself to the ground. Another one sailed over his head. Two Watchmen were rushing towards them up the switchback trail, furiously reloading their crossbows. Three more of the bastards were scrambling to reach the bridges on the other side of the Rift, their swords already in hand.
‘We need to close them down,’ he yelled at Jerek, but the Wolf was already halfway to the two crossbowmen. Kayne pushed himself to his feet and sprinted after him, sharp pain stabbing in his creaking knees with every step. The fumes caused him to choke and squeezed the air from his lungs, but he barrelled on regardless, tears streaming down his face.
Suddenly Jerek stumbled, barely staying on his feet. Brodar Kayne heard his growled fuck, saw him stagger again as another quarrel hit him in his right arm. The Wolf slowed and then sank to one knee. Shit.
Willing his ageing body forwards, every muscle screaming, Kayne reached the two men just as they were preparing another salvo. His greatsword caught one of them under the arm, almost cleaved his torso in half in a spray of red gore. He kicked the other soldier dead in the chest. The Watchman flew backwards off the path and tumbled down out of sight, screaming all the way.
The soldiers crossing the bridges were almost upon him. One of them fell to his knees and clawed at his throat. Kayne glanced back to see Sasha reloading her own crossbow. There was a flash, a warning shout from Vicard, and then the bridge with the two remaining Watchmen exploded in a torrent of hemp, timber and sizzling blood. The searing heat from the blast drove Kayne back and knocked him to his knees. The sound of the explosion hit next, a deafening roar that sent agony screaming through his ears to pound at his brain with the force of a hammer blow.
He coughed, spat blood. He’d bitten through his tongue. More men were coming up the path from the depths of the Rift, though their progress was decidedly hesitant having just witnessed the carnage above them. Regaining his feet, Kayne turned and saw Jerek struggling to rise. Blood soaked his left arm and pooled on the ground at his feet. A bolt quivered in his right thigh.
‘Come on, Wolf,’ he snarled, dragging his friend upright and throwing an arm around his shoulders to stop him from sinking back down again. The two Highlanders half ran, half stumbled back to the others. Jerek snorted in agony every time his wounded leg struck the turf. Most men would never have made it up from the ground after taking two quarrels from near point-blank range, but Jerek was the hardest bastard Kayne knew in a world full of hard bastards.
Sasha was gritting her teeth and aiming hopelessly down at the swarm of men climbing the chasm. The miners weren’t trained fighters, but they didn’t need to be. Not when they outnumbered the tiny group twenty to one. You didn’t survive those odds.
Vicard suddenly bustled forwards, or at least limped at an impressive pace. He held a bundle of what looked like thick red tubes in his hands.
Kayne felt a tiny shiver of fear run up his spine. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked carefully.
‘Saving the day,’ the alchemist replied. ‘Isaac, pass me some flint.’ The manservant immediately obliged and Vicard withdrew a small knife from his belt. He looked up at the rest of the group. Sweat beaded on his brow. ‘When I say get down,’ he said, ‘you get down. Understand?’ He placed the knife blade against the tangle of cords poking out of the tubes and struck the flint several times. It took a few attempts, but eventually the sparks caught and one of the wicks began to burn down.
‘Five… four… three… two… get the fuck down!’ The alchemist hurled the bundle at the path and dived for cover just as the first miners arrived on the scene. Brodar Kayne pushed Jerek gently to the ground and then threw himself down next to him, covering his ears with his hands.
The world turned red.
An indeterminate amount of time passed before he risked opening an eye a fraction. The rumbling had finally subsided, though the cloud of dust floating above the wreckage of the Rift continued to mushroom above them. He glanced at Jerek. His friend had gone pale and his breathing was shallow, but he was still conscious. Vicard climbed to his feet and began dusting himself down. Sasha and Isaac stared at the scene with horror on their faces.
Brodar Kayne got up and peered over the edge of the chasm. The southern side had partially collapsed in on itself, raining thousands of tons of rock down on the unfortunate miners below. None
could have survived that avalanche. Shit, he thought, and not for the first time that day. The plan had been to put a halt to the mining operation and destroy whatever equipment they could find, not cause a full-blown massacre.
‘Vicard. What the hell was that?’ growled Sasha, her large eyes full of anger. ‘Those were innocent men. Men just doing their jobs.’
Vicard flicked at a patch of dirt on his shoulder and shook his head. ‘I didn’t have any choice in the matter. We would have been killed. And you would have suffered even worse things.’
‘There’s nothing worse than being dead,’ Sasha replied. She walked over to where Jerek lay. ‘How’s he doing?’ she asked.
Kayne closed his eyes for a moment. Things hadn’t exactly gone as planned. The chances were that they’d get a whole lot worse. ‘He’s bad. Lost a lot of blood.’
Isaac knelt down and examined the Highlander. ‘None of the major vessels are punctured. He might still have a chance. Vicard, can I have your knife?’
The alchemist tossed his small blade over to the manservant and hobbled over to Kayne. ‘I want my powder back,’ he whined. ‘Fair’s fair. I saved your life.’
‘Take your bloody pouch,’ he growled back, throwing it at the alchemist’s feet. Vicard retrieved it and then went to stand alone. He pulled the flap back and raised it almost reverently to his nose.
‘Those explosives were worth twenty gold spires,’ he said. He inhaled deeply from the bag. His face became slack and then broke into that stupid smile. ‘You have no idea how much of this stuff twenty spires could afford. I tell you, I could be sitting on a whole mountain of hashka. The best money can buy. I—’
There was a blur behind him and suddenly the alchemist gasped. A barely audible whine escaped from his lips and for a moment he stood there swaying, blood leaking from his mouth. Then he toppled forwards onto his face. The hilt of a dagger was buried in his back.
‘Right through the spine,’ said the baby-faced killer who had appeared from behind Vicard. He smiled in satisfaction, revealing a perfect set of pearly-white teeth. The assassin flicked a blond curl away from his blue eyes and drew another dagger from his belt.
Brodar Kayne saw the glow around the man’s feet and tensed. Those boots. Magic. Bastard’s an Augmentor. He took a deep breath and stepped forwards. ‘Takes some courage to stab a man in the back. Why don’t you take off those boots you’re wearing and face me like a real warrior?’
The Augmentor smiled again, as if he found the thought terribly amusing. He picked casually at his nails with his dagger. His hands were perfectly manicured, like those of a noblewoman. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ he said eventually. ‘Look at you. So old I doubt you can get your prick up, and yet you bluster like a man thirty years your junior. There’s nothing quite as sad as an ageing savage.’
Bastard. Clever bastard. His hands tightened on his greatsword. Isaac rose from where he had been kneeling beside Jerek. Sasha was surreptitiously reaching under her cloak for her crossbow. He gave them an urgent shake of the head. A moment passed, and then their hands inched back away from their weapons.
‘Tell you what, old man,’ said the Augmentor in a conversational tone. ‘Give me some sport and I promise I’ll make the deaths of those two quick. I’m not like Garmond or Thurbal. They’d make the girl scream something fierce.’ He gave a rueful chuckle. ‘That’s hardly fitting behaviour for a gentleman like me. One has certain standards to maintain.’
Kayne narrowed his eyes. ‘Best we get to it then,’ he said. He raised his greatsword and waited.
There was the faint sensation of a breeze prickling his skin and suddenly the Augmentor was directly before him, dagger stabbing at his neck. At the last possible instant the old barbarian threw back his head, and the blade scored a shallow flesh wound. He brought his greatsword swinging around to cleave the bastard in two, only to slash at empty air. The Augmentor was back where he had been before, a full thirty feet away. Kayne felt blood trickle down his neck and dribble onto his chest.
‘Not bad, grandfather,’ said the smiling killer. He raised one hand in a mock salute. ‘Let’s see you evade this one.’
There was another blur, and before Kayne had time to react the Augmentor’s dagger was plunging into his stomach. He felt his hide shirt give way, the burning hot sensation of cold steel tearing into his guts. ‘Urgh,’ he grunted. The cherubic face in front of him flashed another white smile and then it was gone. The Augmentor reappeared twenty feet to his right.
He sucked in air as he felt the warm blood flooding his breeches. Fire burned in his stomach. He risked a glance down at the steel buried there. Nausea threatened to unman him. Look at your opponent. Look at him.
The Augmentor casually drew yet another dagger. This one was cruelly hooked, a weapon intended to catch and tear at flesh. The killer smiled at him once more, but just before he did so his eyes flicked to a spot on the barbarian’s chest.
Suddenly Brodar Kayne understood.
‘What are you waiting for?’ he gasped. ‘Come at me.’ He took a deep breath, saw the muscles twitch in the Augmentor’s arms…
In that same instant he dropped to one knee, brought his greatsword arcing around. He felt the slight rush of air, the thud of his sword connecting with flesh. A dagger clattered out of the air above his head and hit him on the shoulder before tumbling to the ground. Ten feet away, his would-be killer appeared. He had a confused expression on his cherubic face.
‘What—’ he began, and then his right leg fell away just above the knee in a gush of blood. He toppled over.
Brodar Kayne walked over to the squirming Augmentor. ‘You ought to have listened to me and taken them boots off,’ he said. ‘Your legs might move like the wind, but the rest of you ain’t no quicker than anyone else.’
He raised his greatsword. ‘That’s the problem with magic. It warps a man’s measure of himself, makes him lazy. The only place where speed really counts is in here.’ He tapped the side of his head with a finger.
Then he brought his greatsword down, plunging it through the Augmentor’s chest and driving it deep into his heart.
He released the hilt. The blade stood there, quivering. He stumbled a few steps, looked down at the steel protruding from his own body. He felt weak suddenly. There was movement behind him, but he was too tired to care. He just wanted to lie down and rest. He was allowed that much, wasn’t he? I’m too old for this sh—
This time the world turned black.
Friends in High Places
Eremul wiped sweat from his brow and attempted to dry his hands on his filthy robes. He succeeded only in smearing mud, sweat and other assorted scum further over his palms and fouled garments. With a muttered curse, he squinted down the hill that overlooked the harbour, attempting to catch sight of the utter bastard who had upended his chair and scampered off with a handful of coins he had spectacularly failed to earn.
The White Lady’s agents will be positively awed to make my acquaintance. Filthy, bruised and stinking of mud and shit. Perfect.
Of course, the lout Eremul had hired couldn’t have guessed the pitiful cripple he was pushing uphill was a mage. If he had, there wasn’t a chance in hell he would have tipped him unceremoniously onto his arse and run off back down the hill.
He had come within a whisker of evoking a powerful wind to sweep the treacherous son of a bitch from the bluff and send him hurtling towards a messy death on the rocks far below. Perhaps the only reason he hadn’t was the sudden shock at finding his useless body flopping around on the muddy ground. It had taken all of his strength to right his chair and somehow pull himself back on again.
Damn it, Isaac. Where are you?
The small band of rebels had not returned to Dorminia and Eremul was beginning to worry. Isaac was loyal and usually competent when it really mattered, despite his frequent buffoonery. The fellow he had hired to manoeuvre him to the top of Raven’s Bluff, on the other hand, was typical of the lowlifes he had no choice but to
tolerate on a daily basis. Only a select handful of Dorminians knew he was a mage and therefore treated him with a modicum of respect. The rest saw a scrawny, bookish cripple who was known to be irascible and hence the perfect target for all manner of cruel japes.
About the only use they have for books is to fuel their hearths during winter’s coldest months – or else wipe their arses with in the case of an emergency.
He had considered moving to a more affluent part of the city, but that would entail swapping honest ignorance for conceited superiority and insufferable pomposity. Frankly, that wasn’t a trade he was willing to make. Besides, the unassuming nature of the locals suited his purposes. The more distance between himself and his masters in the Noble Quarter, the better.
The ruined lighthouse loomed ahead, illuminated by the crescent moon in the clear midnight sky above. The tower here at Raven’s Bluff had once overlooked the point where the harbour opened up into Deadman’s Channel. As Dorminia had grown the harbour had expanded. New lighthouses had been constructed further along the coast, leaving this old building obsolete.
The Halfmage squinted at the tower, searching for any sign of his mysterious contacts within. He could see nothing except darkness. The structure soared before him like some giant skeletal finger stuck in the ground, as dead and silent as a corpse.
The thought made him uneasy. Thelassa’s enigmatic Magelord was said to practise strange magic and maintained a strict isolationist policy. Merchants required a special permit to trade and visitors were strictly monitored.
Those who had spent time in the City of Towers reported it to be a wondrous place, as beautiful as Dorminia was ugly, where fairness and equality were there to be had by all. More disturbing accounts made reference to queer things such as apparitions that materialized and then disappeared just as suddenly, pale women who seemed normal apart from their eyes, which were as dead as those of a corpse, and last but not least mass orgies in the streets, so licentious that the white marble of the city itself seemed to pulse with pleasure.
