by Luke Scull
So eager for a pat on the head. The recognition that I deserved a place among the Magelord’s apprentices in spite of my less-than-impressive powers. Ah, the naivety of youth.
Instead he had looked up to find three Augmentors standing over him. They had ignored his questions and forced his arms behind his back. One of them, a grey-eyed, slender man, had placed a dagger at his throat. Eremul had felt the blade leaching away his magic, sucking him dry until he was an empty husk. He remembered the fear that had gripped him then.
The three Augmentors had marched him down to the dungeons. What followed was still a blur, but he remembered the agony. Pain so terrible it made him vomit. The horrible feeling of weightlessness beneath his torso. He had looked down at what had been done to him and he had promptly fainted. He remembered praying for a release from the torment – for death.
He had not died. For some inexplicable reason, they had kept him alive.
Eremul glanced now at the slab he had been fastened to all those years ago. He fancied he could still see the scorch marks on the stone where the fire had been used to cauterize the stumps after his legs were cut from his body. They had been thrown on a huge fire, along with the corpse of every wizard that had perished during the Culling. No less than thirty bodies had turned the air black with smoke.
Of all the wizards in Dorminia, Salazar had permitted Eremul alone to live. Had he divined that his one-time apprentice would serve some purpose in the years to come? The mages who had survived the Godswar had returned changed, possessed of immortality and other traits that made them something more than human. Perhaps a certain amount of prescience was one of those traits.
Eremul’s chair jerked to a halt, tearing him away from his reminiscences. They had reached the fallen Magelord. The Tyrant of Dorminia was lying on a makeshift bed, his head propped up on cushions the colour of blood. A wiry old physician wrung his hands together nearby, fear plain on his face.
The Supreme Augmentor walked over to the prone form of Salazar. He bent down and placed an ear to the Magelord’s mouth. ‘He is hardly breathing.’
Eremul stared, feeling hatred surge within him. How he would love to yank a cushion from under that ancient head and choke the life from the withered old monster! Or better yet, summon up whatever feeble magic he possessed and smite the murderous bastard. Set fire to his eyes and watch them run down his sagging cheeks. Burn his manhood to a cinder.
It would cost me my life, but I’d enjoy every second of it.
He almost did it. A look from the hard-eyed Augmentor looming over him changed his mind at the last moment. Her gaze seemed to promise him a fate worse than death. He thought suddenly of the Hook and the poor bastards left to die in the hanging cages. His nerve faltered.
‘Move aside,’ he muttered. He wheeled his chair to the side of the bed and looked down. Salazar’s eyes were closed and his face was the colour of an old bruise.
‘I’ve tried every remedy I know,’ the physician whined. ‘The poison refuses to respond to any of them. Perhaps his lordship should be taken somewhere more comfortable?’
The Supreme Augmentor shook his head. ‘I don’t want him moved. We can’t allow anyone to see him in this state. There may still be assassins within the tower. This is the safest place for him.’
Eremul doubted there were any more of the White Lady’s pale servants around. The would-be killers were most certainly the three he had encountered several nights past. They had come close, so very close, to succeeding. They still might.
‘Begin,’ the Supreme Augmentor ordered, placing a gloved hand on the hilt of the longsword at his belt. Eremul swallowed. No easy choices.
He touched the Magelord’s neck, feeling for a pulse. It was there, but it was incredibly faint. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and plunged into Salazar’s mind.
The stench of death filled his nostrils, so strong that he thought he might retch up his breakfast. He could feel the sludge crawling through the Magelord’s arteries, could hear the rattling of the tyrant’s heart as it fought to pump fouled blood through his body.
Then he sensed it. A third presence besides himself and the subconscious mind of Salazar. It was unnatural and cold and full of malign intent. He reached for it and it recoiled. It felt dead. He clenched his teeth together and probed deeper, grabbed hold of the presence and began to thought-mine…
He stood upon grey wastes of ash and bone and watched the robed figures scurrying to meet him. They dared challenge him here, in his domain? Humanity’s hubris knew no bounds!
With a thought he raised a thousand thousand corpses from the dead wastes, sent them lurching towards the invaders in a wall of clawing limbs and snapping teeth a mile deep. A handful of wizards were torn apart, but then magic flared from the intruders, arcing up and back down to erupt in a wave of explosions that obliterated his army. Fragments of bone exploded into the air, a cloud of white dust so thick it momentarily blotted out the monochrome sky.
He snarled, skull visage twisting in anger. Then he exhaled mightily, and from his mouth issued a billowing darkness that swept towards the invaders. Three of them were caught up in it before they had time to raise their magical barriers, dancing in agony as the flesh was stripped from their bones. Their naked skeletons eventually toppled to the ground, breaking apart in the places where even their sinews had been consumed.
The rest of the insects had evaded the cloud, surrounding themselves in globes of energy or miniature whirlwinds that dissipated the pestilence before it could reach them. One of the wizards stepped forwards, an old man wrapped in scarlet cloth. The interloper raised both hands and a gigantic web of glowing energy shot from his outstretched palms.
He roared as the web landed on him and burned through his rotting flesh. He tried desperately to pull it off, but something massive hit him from the side and sent him crashing to his knees. It was a mammoth, as tall at the shoulder as he was at the thigh. It shifted shape and became a man, naked from the waist up and rippling with muscle. The wizard shifted again, and suddenly a huge eagle was before him, clawing at his eyes.
Missiles of the brightest energy struck him from all sides. The barrage of magic poured endlessly from his assailants as he struggled to free himself. He swatted at the eagle, and then saw movement below him. He raised one foot and crushed a man beneath it, felt bones crunch and bodily fluids splatter around his ankle. Even so, the pain was overwhelming…
Eremul gasped. He was witnessing the final moments of a god. But how? He felt the Magelord’s consciousness beginning to stir. He reached out to it and was immediately assailed by a hundred thoughts and memories. One thread was brighter than the others, so he latched onto it…
The Reaver was on his knees. They had lost Raurin, and Zayab, and countless others, but they were winning. The god was unable to shake off the snare he had thrown. Mithradates clawed at the Reaver’s eyes, tearing a gaping hole in the left orb with his talons. Foul pus welled out and the god screamed in pain. He saw Balamar crushed by one of those massive hoofed feet, leaving a broken pile of gore beneath.
He glanced to his right. Marius watched the carnage with his hands clasped around his corpulent waist, his eyes fixed on the face of the ailing god.
‘Marius,’ he snarled. ‘We almost have him! What are you doing?’
The other wizard started as if surprised. He wiped at the sweat on his brow, smoothed his robe down over his paunch. ‘Catching my breath,’ he replied. ‘Let’s finish this.’
Snaking tendrils of blue light erupted from the big man’s palms and enveloped the Reaver, twining around the golden web that had entrapped him. The reinforced weave began to constrict, tugging tighter around its victim. Skin split and bones cracked as the god was compressed. With a final scream, the Reaver exploded in a torrential shower of black blood and whirling energy.
As the carnage settled, he noticed that Marius had a small smile on his face.
Eremul’s head swam. He had just beheld the death of a god. And not j
ust any god, but one of the thirteen Primes: the Reaver, Lord of Death himself. At that moment, he suddenly understood the nature of the poison afflicting Salazar.
He opened one eye and peered at the Augmentors waiting anxiously behind him. ‘He needs to be bled,’ he said. ‘Open his wrists. I will do the rest.’
The Supreme Augmentor looked as though he was about to protest but then his mouth set in a grim line. He nodded and walked over to the bed. Then he drew his longsword in one smooth motion and placed the edge of the blade over the Magelord’s left arm.
‘If you are lying,’ he said, ‘you will hang in the Hook. You will be fed and watered to ensure you do not die quickly. I trust you understand this.’
Eremul rolled his eyes. ‘Just cut his fucking wrists,’ he said. The Supreme Augmentor bent to his work.
He summoned all the magic he could muster. He felt it blossom within him. Now I must decide, he thought. I can save a tyrant and damn a city… or I can save a city and condemn myself.
He was a double agent who had deceived a great many potential allies to maintain the fallacy that he was a loyal servant of the Magelord. He had ratted on the foolish, the desperate, those who never had a hope of bringing about any real change. They were the scapegoats that needed to be sacrificed to give him an opportunity like this.
To pass up that opportunity now would be the greatest betrayal of all – a slap in the face to all those he had sentenced to death.
He frowned. No one in the city cared a damn for him. He wasn’t loved. He wasn’t even respected. He wanted Salazar dead – but after a lifetime of suffering, the prospect of a drawn-out, agonizing death was not appealing. No, the Tyrant of Dorminia would die, but on Eremul’s terms. He would not sacrifice himself. Not here. Not now. He wasn’t a hero.
Coward, his brain screamed at him, but he ignored it and focused on the corrupted presence within Salazar. He poured his magic against it. Magic was life, the potentiality of creation, and it was anathema to supernatural poison flooding the ancient Gharzian wizard’s veins.
Black blood began to seep from Salazar’s wrists. It dribbled out, running down his arms to gather in thick oily pools as the essence of the Reaver, the Lord of Death, was slowly purged from its withered old host.
The Magelord’s pulse quickened. His breathing became audible. His eyelids began to flutter until finally they opened.
‘Barandas,’ he croaked. The Supreme Augmentor leaned over him, his eyes suspiciously moist and a joyous expression on his face.
‘My lord! You are back with us. Lie still. Do not strain yourself. You have suffered a great deal.’
Salazar glanced at his wrists. The black ooze had ceased, and now his arms leaked simple, clean blood rather than living poison. He whispered something inaudible and the wounds began to smoke.
Eremul gasped. The Magelord’s skin was knitting itself back together. Such power, he thought, aghast. Such terrifying power.
The Tyrant of Dorminia sat up. His gaze swept over the Augmentors assembled around him and settled on Eremul, who felt a shiver pass through him.
‘Ah. The Halfmage. You have repaid my mercy most handsomely.’ His voice became harder, growing stronger even as he spoke. ‘You will say nothing of what you saw while our minds were linked. I will have your word or I will have your tongue. Which shall it be?’
Eremul swallowed hard. ‘My word,’ he said.
‘Good. Help me up, Supreme Augmentor. There is no time to waste.’
‘My lord?’ the blond-haired warrior asked uncertainly.
Salazar looked at his wrinkled palms and brought them slowly together in front of his face. ‘War,’ he said. ‘This attempt on my life was the White Lady’s doing. Only she has the means to use the Reaver’s own blood to poison me. We must prepare for war.’
The Measure of a Man
He cut through the water like an arrow, blinking stinging tears from his eyes. He was closing on Soeman fast. The engineer was only a hundred yards away. The flailing man went under again, and for a moment Cole thought he wasn’t going to surface.
Don’t you dare die on me, he thought angrily, spurring himself on. This is my moment. I’ll never forgive you if you drown.
Of all his many qualities, Cole had always prided himself most on his athleticism. He could run faster and further than any man he knew, and he was as comfortable in water as he was on land. He could feel the eyes of Three-Finger and the rest of the Redemption’s passengers on him now, could well imagine the looks of awe and respect on their faces as they witnessed the deeds of a hero at first hand. It was time the world learned the measure of Davarus Cole.
Soeman’s balding pate poked up above the waves once more, but this time he didn’t resume his laboured swim towards the Redemption. Instead his arms flailed around desperately, and he sank back beneath the water.
Cole grunted with exertion and redoubled his efforts. He reached the spot where the engineer had vanished, took a mighty gulp of air and then swam downwards. He could see the man just below him. He was twitching pathetically. With a mighty snort, Cole grabbed hold of one of Soeman’s arms and reversed direction, kicking frantically for the surface.
His head broke the water and he gasped for breath. He dragged the engineer up and held his mouth open with one hand, beating on his chest with the other as he desperately treaded water. With a strangled retching sound, Soeman puked out water and began coughing uncontrollably. Cole sighed with relief. He’ll live.
‘Hold on tight,’ he said, and with one arm looped around Soeman’s chest to keep him afloat he swam for the carrack ahead of them. Their progress was agonizingly slow compared with the quicksilver pace Cole had set in the opposite direction, but nonetheless the Redemption drew nearer.
‘You saved me,’ Soeman managed to croak once he was sufficiently recovered from his near-drowning.
‘It’s what I do,’ Cole replied. ‘Try to remain still. If you wriggle around you’ll only hinder us.’
He had saved a man’s life. He thought back to the Hook and his failed attempt to rescue the poor old sod who had been chosen by the Black Lottery. His anger at having let the man die still rankled with him, not least because things would have gone so differently back at the Shard hideout. Garrett and the others would learn to respect him soon enough, once he returned with Magebane and a crew of loyal men under his command.
‘Uh,’ Soeman mumbled. His right arm waved vaguely at something in front of him.
‘What is it? I thought I told you to keep still…’ Cole’s words trailed off when he saw what the engineer was pointing at. There was a rowing boat full of Watchmen in the distance. It was closing the gap between them at frightening speed.
‘Kick your damned legs!’ Cole shrieked, pushing down on the water with all the strength he could muster.
The Redemption was within hailing distance. ‘Lower a rope,’ he shouted. Someone must have heard him, as a figure hurried across the deck and threw a line over the side of the ship. Fifty more yards, he thought.
His legs burning with exhaustion, so heavy they felt like they would drag him to the sea floor, Cole grasped the hanging rope and wrapped it around his body. He held Soeman close to him. ‘Pull us up!’ he yelled.
Whoever was above them complied, and they were hauled up the side of the ship and pulled aboard. Cole flopped out onto the deck, listening to the sounds of his heart thumping inside his chest. Eventually he looked up into the scabby face of Three-Finger. My loyal sidekick.
‘You did well there, kid,’ the convict said, giving him a nod. Soeman moaned nearby.
‘The boat,’ Cole panted. ‘There are Watchmen closing on us.’
‘Vessel spotted, five hundred yards to starboard,’ someone cried.
‘We can take them,’ Three-Finger said. He offered a hand. Cole grasped it and grunted as the other man pulled him to his feet. His legs still felt unsteady and his left arm ached as bad as his ribs.
‘The boat’s packed with them,’ the lookout cried
again. ‘Ten Watchmen, a handful of sailors, and… that bastard Augmentor.’
‘Who here has a crossbow?’ Three-Finger bellowed. One man raised his hand – the others looked around helplessly.
Cole gasped as another moment of inspiration struck. ‘The artillery,’ he shouted. ‘We can sink them before they reach us.’ He ran over to one of the small cannons mounted on the forecastle. ‘Get me some powder, a small wad of cloth, and a flint and tinder,’ he ordered one of the sailors close to him. The man hurried over to the hold at the stern. He returned with three small canvas bags, nondescript save for the red flames inked near their centres.
The young Shard reached down at his belt, grasping for the hilt of Magebane. With a curse he remembered that he no longer possessed his precious dagger. ‘Pass me your knife,’ he said. He took the blade from the sailor and cut open one of the bags, emptying its contents into the end of the cannon.
Artillery operated by alchemy was a relatively new invention. The components needed to create the explosive powder were rare and costly to obtain. Shadowport had enjoyed access to far greater reserves of the necessary ingredients, and the effectiveness of the City of Shades’ cannons, combined with its considerably more advanced shipbuilding techniques, had effectively won the naval war with Dorminia.
Cole had studied a few of the books in Garrett’s collection and he thought he knew enough to operate one of these weapons. They were cumbersome and potentially dangerous – but in the right hands, they could be deadly.
He grabbed a round iron shot from a crate near the cannon and fed it down the barrel with a wooden pole. ‘Bring the ship around so I can get a clear shot,’ he yelled at Jack, who spun the ship’s wheel with relish. The carrack began to turn. The rowing boat was almost within his sights.
