by Luke Scull
The Darkson sighed. ‘The difference between a hero and a killer lies only in the ability of the former to justify every dark deed they perform to anyone who cares to listen. Even themselves. Especially themselves.’
‘My father wasn’t like that,’ Cole said. ‘He always did the right thing. He stood up for the weak and oppressed.’
‘As will you,’ the assassin replied. ‘Once you’ve planted Magebane in Salazar’s back and freed Dorminia from his tyranny, then you will have earned the right to call yourself a hero.’
Cole took a deep breath. I’ll show him I have what it takes. He drew his dagger and entered the maze.
It was dark, so dark he could see no more than a few feet in front of his face. There was the sound of running water nearby. He continued on down the corridor, took a left turn and then a right. He moved as the Darkson had taught him, on the balls of his feet to avoid making any noise. He heard rats scurrying past him, but he paid them no mind. Somewhere in this sprawling labyrinth was a man who deserved to die.
He had to believe that.
There was a slight flicker of light ahead. He crouched low in the shadows, hugging the wall behind him. He waited. Another slight flicker of light, and then it was gone. He rose and padded softly towards the spot where he had glimpsed the illumination.
He listened. All was silent now, save for the sound of running water, rats squeaking… and yes, there it was, the slight clank of an armoured man moving carelessly some distance ahead of him.
He clutched his dagger tighter, following the sound as quietly as he could. The light returned and then grew stronger. Finally, at an intersection where two alleyways met, he located his target.
The man was a good few inches taller than him. He wore bronze chainmail armour and a full helm that covered his head, and carried a longsword in his right hand and a lantern in his left. He was heedless of the racket he made as he turned one way and then the other, holding his blade out before him and raising the lantern to inspect the shadows that surrounded him on all sides.
Cole waited until his target was facing away from him and then crept forwards. He was only a dozen feet away when the armoured warrior suddenly turned and raised the lantern in the air. The young Shard rolled away from the light, concealing himself behind a broken wall that barely rose to his waist. He could hear the warrior moving closer. He held his breath and cursed inwardly. If it came down to a direct confrontation, he would be in a whole lot of trouble.
The light drew nearer and then halted abruptly. The footsteps ceased. He could hear ragged breathing from behind the helm. He tensed, preparing to dive out of the way the instant the warrior charged around the wall.
The light flickered and then suddenly began to recede, the footsteps carrying his target away from him. He released his breath. That had been close.
When he was certain he had not been spotted, he slunk out of his cover. The armoured figure was facing in the opposite direction once again. Cole padded forwards, inching closer and closer. He positioned himself behind his target, so close now he could smell the man’s sweat. There was no margin for error. If he missed his chance the warrior would likely shake him off and run him through. Images from his disastrous confrontation with the Watchmen reminded him of the terrible consequences of failure.
I’m Davarus Cole, he reminded himself. This is what I do.
He steadied himself. In one smooth motion, he wrapped an arm around the man’s head and tilted it upwards. With his other arm he slid the dagger underneath the helm and tugged it across the man’s neck. He felt it cut through flesh. His target let out a wet gasp and struggled weakly. Cole held him close, felt the warmth and the wetness soak his arm.
In moments it was over. The man jerked once and then stopped moving. Cole lowered the body gently to the ground. He felt strange. There was nothing noble in this act. No sense of pride or achievement. This wasn’t what a hero was supposed to do. He reached down and grasped the helm. With a tug, he pulled it free of the corpse.
He froze in shock. The fallen lantern illuminated the weather-beaten face of Admiral Kramer. The man’s tongue appeared to have been cut out, and his blue eyes were wide in death. They seemed to stare at him accusingly.
He remembered their time together back on the Swell. Kramer had been a harsh captain but also a fair one, a man who commanded respect. He was no criminal, just another of Salazar’s puppets who had become caught up in events over which he had no control.
And I killed him.
‘You did well,’ came that whispering voice from behind him. Cole didn’t bother turning around.
‘A decent enough death,’ the Darkson said. There was no gloating or amusement there, just a statement of fact. He was grateful for that, at least. ‘Ask yourself what the Tyrant of Dorminia would have done, had the tables been turned and this man had been his hostage. Worse than this, no?’
‘I killed him.’
‘Yes,’ agreed the Shamaathan. ‘And so, too, you will kill those who stand between you and Salazar. Men no better or worse than this one. Men who are simply doing their duty.’ The assassin sounded tired, almost melancholic.
The lantern burning on the ground suddenly winked out, plunging them into utter darkness. Before Cole had a chance to react it flared back to life. Standing before him was one of the White Lady’s pale servants. He stared at her in shock. Who are these women?
‘It is done?’ she enquired emotionlessly.
The Darkson nodded. ‘He’s ready.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Or as ready as he can be. This kind of training usually requires months.’
The pale woman turned to him. ‘Davarus Cole, it is time for you to fulfil your destiny. A ship has been prepared to sail you around the coast to Deadman’s Channel. The Darkson, Lady Brianna, and several of my sisters are to accompany you. You will seek out Brodar Kayne and reclaim Magebane.’
‘How?’ asked Cole. ‘He could be anywhere by now.’
‘Some manner of disaster befell the mine at the Wailing Rift,’ the woman replied. ‘If the Highlander perished there, Brianna will help you locate and recover the weapon. If this Brodar Kayne still lives, we will hunt him down.’
‘It is imperative that you recover your birthright,’ the assassin explained. ‘Thelassa cannot liberate the Grey City while the Tyrant of Dorminia draws breath. The longer we delay the greater the threat posed by Salazar becomes. Only the unique power of Magebane can get you close enough to kill him.’
‘What should I do once I have it in my possession?’ The thought of going up against Salazar was thrilling, but Cole couldn’t shake the feeling there was something he wasn’t being told.
‘Brianna will send a message back to Thelassa. Our army will then attack from the west and draw Dorminia’s defenders. You will infiltrate the Obelisk during the chaos and do what you have been trained to do.’
Cole thought about this for a moment. ‘What will happen to Dorminia and her people after Salazar’s gone?’
‘You will be free,’ the pale woman replied. ‘Of course, Thelassa will demand certain concessions in return, such as sole ownership of the Celestial Isles. That is fair, is it not?’
Cole nodded. ‘I guess so,’ he said. ‘I would like to take Three-Finger with me.’
‘You mean the rapist?’
‘He’s not a rapist. Three-Finger’s a bit coarse sometimes, but he has a heart of gold. Besides,’ he added, ‘he’s my henchman.’
The pale woman’s expression was, as always, unreadable. ‘I will communicate your wish to the White Lady. In the meantime, I must insist that you wear this while you are escorted from here.’ She reached down under her white robes and produced a collar.
Cole grimaced. Being a hero was a much more complicated business than he had thought.
He stared again at the corpse of Kramer. A decent man, forced to do evil things by the bastard up at the Obelisk. I will avenge you, Kramer. You, my father, and everyone else who has suffered because of the Tyrant of Dorminia.
He
looked at the bloody dagger in his hand.
I really am very sorry about that.
Duty Calls
Malbrec was located fifteen miles north of Dorminia. It straddled a trade route that wound up through the Demonfire Hills to continue on through to Ashfall at the very northern edge of Salazar’s territory, where the Trine ended and the bandit-infested Badlands began.
A mining town, Malbrec supplied much of the granite used in the construction of Dorminia’s many buildings. It also provided a lucrative source of income for the Grey City; Dorminia’s incumbent Chancellor had set a high tax on the town’s exports in return for its advantageous location and the protection the local Crimson Watch garrison offered from the roving abominations and bandits that haunted the region.
Barandas had been in Malbrec for only a few hours and already he wished he was back in Dorminia. His presence in the town had nothing to do with trade and everything to do with the rather grimmer business of conscription. Thelassa’s mercenary army would soon cross the narrow stretch of sea dividing the two cities, and Dorminia would need every man it could muster to defend it. As a vassal of the Grey City, Malbrec had a moral and legal obligation to provide soldiers in times of conflict. It was up to Barandas to take the raw material of the town’s young men and beat them into something worthwhile.
That was all very well, except that the young men of Malbrec showed scant enthusiasm for fulfilling their obligations.
Barandas frowned at the tear-streaked face of the woman before him. Her two sons loitered slightly behind her, examining the ground with mixed expressions of fear and shame. The elder sibling looked to be near twenty, the younger perhaps seventeen. Old enough to fight, Barandas judged, and didn’t he himself have the scars to prove it?
‘Their father perished down in the mines. Left me a widow, not a copper to my name,’ the woman was saying. ‘My boys, they’re good lads. They work the quarry to support their mother and their sister, who’s barely more than a babe. Who’s going to put food on the table while they’re off fighting?’
Thurbal tapped a foot impatiently. The stocky grey-haired Augmentor wasn’t much for subtlety. If it were up to him, he would have thrown every likely recruit in chains and packed them off to the training camp in wagons. Barandas was fast reaching the point where he wondered if that might not be the best approach. ‘You will be provided for while your boys are away,’ he said. ‘These are dangerous times. Magical abominations roam the wilderness. We will make men out of your sons; teach them how to use a sword so that when the threat to Dorminia is over, they may return and help protect the town from the horrors that plague this land.’
The woman looked at her boys. ‘What if they don’t return?’
Barandas shook his head. ‘Then you will be compensated appropriately. We are at war. Every man must play his part.’
The youngest crossed his arms and shot Barandas a defiant look. ‘This isn’t Malbrec’s fight. Why don’t you all go back to Dorminia and leave us be? I’m sick of your bloody Magelord telling us what to do.’
His mother gasped. Her other son turned to remonstrate with his brother, but the damage was already done. Thurbal had drawn his scimitar. He dashed across to the youth and grabbed him by the throat with his free hand. ‘Listen to me, you little prick,’ he snarled. ‘You’ll fight, all right. You’ll fight as though your life depends on it – because if you don’t, I’ll cut your balls off and send them back to your dear old mum here to remind her of what a gutless little whelp she raised.’
‘You’re choking him,’ the boy’s brother protested. The lad had turned red. His mother moaned pitifully.
Before Barandas could order his deputy to release the boy, the older brother grabbed Thurbal’s arms from behind. He tried to pull the Augmentor away from his sibling – but quick as a flash Thurbal threw his elbow back to drive deep into the young man’s stomach, causing him to release his grip and double over in agony.
‘Enough,’ Barandas ordered, but the grey warrior ignored his command, stepping forwards to bring the pommel of his scimitar crunching down into the lad’s skull once, twice, and then a third time, each blow connecting with a sickening crunch. The quarryman flopped down onto the ground.
‘Enough,’ Barandas barked again, and this time his own sword was in his hand. ‘Lower your weapon. Disobey me again, Thurbal, and I’ll kill you.’
His deputy sneered back at him and waved his scimitar in the air. The pommel was covered in blood. ‘That’s right, defend these cowards,’ he spat. ‘All your softly-softly bullshit will count for fuck all when the Sumnians arrive. You know what they do to their enemies? Let me tell you—’
He didn’t get the chance. With a flick of his wrist, Barandas disarmed his subordinate and sent his scimitar spinning out of his hands to land a dozen feet away. Thurbal’s mouth dropped open in shock.
‘I told you to lower your weapon,’ said Barandas. Despite his anger he couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief. Thurbal had needed a dressing down, but his disarming of the man could very well have backfired and left him holding one half of a severed sword. That wouldn’t have done much to establish his authority over his rebellious colleague.
‘You can retrieve your scimitar when I say so.’ Barandas looked down at the fallen quarryman. Blood leaked from the top of his head and pooled on the ground next to him.
It was then that his mother started to scream.
‘Someone fetch a physician,’ he said loudly to the slack-faced onlookers. He turned to the woman and her younger son, who looked as if he was about to piss himself. ‘I am sorry for what occurred here. Come and find me when you know if he is… likely to pull through. I would see you recompensed in some way.’
He left the sobbing woman and the small crowd that had gathered behind. Reprehensible though Thurbal’s actions were, the incident had been coming ever since Barandas and his two deputies arrived in Malbrec. The town had seemingly forgotten that it was a vassal of Dorminia; forgotten that it was Salazar who kept them safe and allowed them to sleep soundly in their beds. Now that war with Thelassa loomed, the town needed reminding where its loyalties lay.
Salazar had recently returned to the city after a two-week absence. The Magelord had not yet deigned to speak of where he had been. Halendorf’s condition had worsened, and the pressures of organizing Dorminia’s army had taken their toll on Barandas. Grand Magistrate Timerus was sufficiently recovered from his own ordeal and was already in the process of recommending new magistrates to replace those murdered in the assassination attempt. The upper echelons of Dorminia’s government would soon be crawling with men loyal to the hawk-nosed Grand Magistrate – or at least, even more loyal than the previous ones had been. Timerus was a schemer without peer, a man whose cunning had secured him a position second only to Salazar himself.
Barandas sighed. Timerus could play his games. He had more important matters to focus on. The drafting of soldiers from Dorminia’s poorer districts was under way and had gone surprisingly well, but three of Dorminia’s larger vassal towns had provided such a meagre yield of men that the Supreme Augmentor had decided to oversee the recruitment at Malbrec personally.
He sweated in his golden armour as he strode towards the east of town, where the gigantic quarry that was the basis of Malbrec’s industry yawned like a festering wound in the land. Red-cloaked soldiers saluted as he passed them, shielding their eyes from the afternoon sun.
Eventually he found the man he was looking for. Garmond was difficult to miss, even while he was sitting down. He was clad in his enchanted plate armour from head to toe, making no concessions to the early summer afternoon heat. The only part of his raiment he had removed were the gauntlets, which lay on the table next to him.
The huge Augmentor had a sheet of parchment before him and was in the process of scribbling something down. The quill looked faintly ridiculous in his ham-sized fist. At first Barandas had been vaguely surprised that the man even knew how to write. Garmond’s brutish counte
nance and infamous temper made it easy to overlook the fact he was a son of one of Dorminia’s most renowned families.
Garmond stopped writing as Barandas approached. ‘Commandant,’ he said. The monstrous helm he wore caused his voice to echo ominously so that not only did he look demonic, he also sounded the part.
Barandas nodded in greeting. ‘How many?’ he asked. He wasn’t particularly keen to hear the answer.
‘Eighty-five. They came forward quickly enough once I started knocking heads together.’
Barandas raised an eyebrow. That was more than he had expected from the small part of town Garmond had been assigned. Malbrec was home to just short of four thousand, the largest of the settlements that fell within Dorminia’s territory, but so far only a few hundred men had been drafted.
‘Is anyone still giving us trouble?’
Garmond turned his helmed head and nodded at the hill a few hundred yards to the south. A cluster of walled estates perched on top of the hill, fronted by pretty orchards and gardens.
Barandas sighed. Always the privileged. Too rich, too important to send their sons to war.
‘I’ll speak with them,’ he said. Dorminia’s nobles were still resisting his efforts at securing their participation in the city’s defence. He had no option but to raise that particular annoyance with Timerus, who would probably wave him away with some weak excuse. Still, there was no reason the wealthy merchants and landowners of Malbrec should dodge the draft.
He strode up the gently sloping path that meandered up the hill. The walk was a pleasant one. From this vantage point Barandas could see Crimson Watchmen going from door to door and enlisting suitable candidates. Those drafted would have a day to gather a few essential belongings and bid their farewells before they departed to the training camp just outside Dorminia’s eastern wall.
Wiping sweat from his brow, he approached the first of the estates, a small manor house set behind a row of cherry trees preparing to bloom. He stopped suddenly.
He remembered trees very similar to these, on a day that had, at first, been equally glorious.
