by Luke Scull
Barandas’s eyes narrowed. Over there, on the hillock: a monster of a man, unimaginably tall, towering above even Garmond. He was naked from the waist up, his chest crisscrossed with old scars. This could only be the infamous general he had heard so much about.
The Supreme Augmentor made for the leader of the dark-skinned mercenaries. Cut off the head and the body will die. Lord Salazar was fond of that phrase – though he had done the opposite when he had massacred Shadowport…
Barandas gripped his sword firmly. This was not the time for uncertainty. He pressed ahead, killing with surgical precision any Sumnian in his path. The enchanted heart in his chest ensured his body never tired. Mentally he required occasional rest as might anyone else, but physically he was a machine: an inexhaustible instrument of unmatched lethality.
A lone enemy appeared just as a clear stretch to the small hill opened before him. Unlike the rest of them this one was white of skin. He was panting heavily, a greatsword clutched in his gnarled old hands. A jagged scar ran down his battered face and his hide armour was covered in spots of blood.
Barandas frowned. A Highlander? Here?
He thrust all thoughts aside as he closed on the greybeard. He launched his attack, intending to make short work of the old warrior. His first swing was blocked just as he anticipated, so he dropped his shoulder and reversed his stroke, ready to dash by the instant his blade sliced through—
His slash was parried. Shocked, he barely got his sword back up in time as the old man launched a counter-attack, striking with alarming skill, first one direction and then the other, the massive greatsword flowing as easily as the Redbelly River. Incredibly, Barandas found himself being driven back. He knocked aside one thrust, just about parried another, and then almost gasped in shock as the pommel of the greatsword caught him a glancing blow on the nose.
The old Highlander stared at him with implacable blue eyes. ‘Come at me,’ he growled.
Barandas obliged.
The Hero’s Destiny
Davarus Cole stepped carefully around the debris and glanced up at the black monolith soaring above him. Smoke still billowed from the top of the Obelisk. Chunks of granite – the fallen remnants of the tower’s apex – littered the surrounding courtyard almost to the entrance, which was deserted. At any other time, at least twenty Watchmen would be stationed in the barracks either side of the courtyard. Right now every soldier in the city was desperately holding the walls against Dorminia’s would-be liberators.
Lost in thought, Cole accidentally bumped the chair against a piece of rubble. It jerked and almost toppled over. ‘Shit! Watch where you’re going!’ hissed his charge as he clung on for dear life.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. They had got this far on the pretence that Eremul had been summoned by the Tyrant of Dorminia, with Cole his begrudging helper. That deception would be useless once they were inside the tower. He was sweating under his leathers, and not just from the warmth of the afternoon sun.
Eremul hissed suddenly, ‘There’s someone coming.’ A red-cloaked guard emerged from the shadows shrouding the entrance to the Obelisk. The mage shot him a warning look. ‘Let me do the talking.’
The two of them continued on up to the gates. The uneven surface caused the wizard to bounce up and down like a man sat astride a particularly recalcitrant mule.
‘Halt!’ demanded the Watchman. He levelled his spear at them. ‘The Obelisk is not expecting visitors.’
‘Well met,’ said Eremul brightly. ‘I am the Halfmage. You may have heard of me. I am here in answer to his lordship’s summons.’
The guard appeared unimpressed. ‘Tough shit. I was told to allow no one through. Thurbal’s orders.’
A strange expression slowly distorted Eremul’s face. Cole almost shuddered, so gruesome and unnatural did it appear. It took him a moment to realize the mage was smiling. ‘Come now, friend. We both know Lord Salazar does not explain his whims to the likes of us.’
The Watchman’s monobrow arched in confusion and his eyes seemed to glaze over. Finally he nodded and lowered his spear. ‘Right you are. I’ll open the gates. Ah, about your friend here…’
‘He’s with me. While my compact frame bestows many benefits, traversing multiple flights of stairs by myself is not among them.’
‘Of course.’ The guard’s face seemed frozen in a peculiar dreamy stare. He turned and unlocked the great iron gates, then beckoned Cole and Eremul through with his spear. ‘How’s it going on the wall?’ he asked as they strolled by him. He gestured in the direction of the fighting.
Eremul gurned again. ‘Your brave colleagues fight with the courage of men possessed. They will never surrender so long as our beloved ruler watches over us.’ He made a show of patting his robes suddenly. ‘You know, I do appear to have dropped a sceptre on the floor back there. I don’t suppose you would be kind enough to retrieve it?’
Much to Cole’s surprise, the guard nodded happily. ‘Aye, not a problem.’ He turned and began searching around for the non-existent silver coin.
Eremul shot him an urgent look and made a fierce stabbing gesture.
‘What?’ said Cole. ‘I… Oh.’ With a grimace, he drew Magebane and sidled over to where the Watchman was picking around in the dirt.
‘There doesn’t seem to be anything down— Urgh.’
The guard tumbled to the floor. Cole wiped the bloody edge of Magebane on the man’s cloak and gave the wizard a reproachful look. ‘We didn’t need to kill him.’
Eremul sneered unpleasantly. ‘That guard was not overcome by my irresistible charm alone. Sophistry is one of the hardest forms of magic to master. I was fortunate he was a dull-witted sort or manipulating him might well have proved beyond me.’ The mage paused. He seemed to be trembling now, his face sweating with exertion. ‘My spell would have worn off at any moment. He needed to die.’
Cole stared at the corpse. A hero doesn’t manipulate people. A hero doesn’t stab someone from behind. Sasha’s words returned to haunt him again. You’re an asshole, Cole. Your father would be ashamed of you. And so would Garrett.
He had spent the last four days turning those words over in his head. He still wasn’t sure what he had done wrong, but he had evidently misread the situation back near the Fade ruins. Sasha had always been feisty and unpredictable. That was one of the reasons he found her so attractive. But what if she had meant what she said?
Damn Isaac. It was all his fault, with his stupid lute and irritating face. He had waltzed in and stolen Cole’s rightful place in the group, somehow fooled them all into believing he was a boon companion when he was nothing but a dirty fraud. He would have told the man that himself, but as far as Cole was concerned Isaac was beneath him. No doubt the bastard had his eye on Sasha and had been working to turn her against him from the moment he wormed his way into her company.
He shook his head. There was no hope for deadbeats like Isaac. When it came right down to it, he was the one standing at the entrance to the Obelisk, preparing to rid the world of a foul tyrant. Not Isaac, oh no. He’d probably have pissed his pants if he’d found himself in this situation.
He would show them all that he was a hero just like his father. He would make Sasha proud of him. Make Garrett proud of him.
‘Are you just going to stand there?’ The Halfmage sounded vaguely annoyed.
‘I was just working out the best way to make Salazar suffer,’ replied Cole. He set his jaw in what he hoped was a suitably grim fashion. ‘Let’s do this.’
They entered a sparsely decorated hall. A scarlet carpet ran for perhaps sixty feet before terminating in a set of doors. Other doors led off the passageway into plush sitting rooms.
‘The kitchens and servant quarters are near the back,’ muttered the Halfmage as they progressed down the hallway. ‘Keep your head down. They know me.’
A couple of old maids eyed them warily as they passed a small mess hall set with a long table covered in breads and cheeses. Cole felt his stomach rumble. The gruel that
had been served in the militia camp was barely fit for a dog, but he had forced it down.
They reached the double doors. They were unlocked, and creaked open to reveal a set of steps leading up into the darkness. ‘The Grand Council Chamber is on the second floor,’ said Eremul. ‘Keep going on up. Pass through the library and then up to the fourth floor. The Stasiseum should be unguarded. Salazar will likely be on the sixth floor, if it is not destroyed.’
Cole scratched his head. His cropped scalp was still itchy, though having caught sight of himself in the waters of the Redbelly River he had to admit he looked rather fetching. Dangerous, even. ‘What’s a Stasiseum?’
‘You’ll find out soon enough.’ Eremul spun his chair around to stare him directly in the eye. ‘This is where we part ways.’
‘You’re not coming with me?’
The wizard shook his head. ‘The incident with the guard left me emptier than a magistrate’s pockets after a night of moon dust and expensive whores. I will be impotent, figuratively speaking, for the next few hours. Focus on killing the Magelord and nothing else. Do you understand? We will never have a better opportunity to rid the city of that genocidal, deicidal son of a bitch. Salazar must die.’
Cole nodded. He gripped Magebane’s hilt tightly. ‘I won’t fail. This is what I was born to do. My father’s legacy to me.’
Eremul looked at him, a strange glint in his eyes. ‘Go and make your father proud, Davarus Cole.’
The second floor of the Obelisk opened before him like the entrance to hell. Unlike the first level of the tower there were no windows to let in any natural light. Torches on brackets provided the only illumination. Cole crept down the narrow passageway, sticking to the inside wall, a loaded crossbow in hand. His booted feet made no sound on the soft carpet.
The passage curved slowly around the side of the tower. He followed it until he spotted a shadow looming on the opposite wall, moving towards him. He crouched low and prepared to shoot. The shadow suddenly wavered, then turned and disappeared in the other direction. Cole took a deep breath and padded forwards until the shadow reappeared and he could see the Watchman who cast it.
The sentry was facing away from him. He appeared to mutter something, and Cole’s heart sank as another voice mumbled a reply. Two of them. This could prove tricky.
He retreated back down the passageway and waited. After a minute or two the shadow of the closest Watchman drifted back into view. He moved with it, keeping just out of sight. When the sentry finally stopped to turn back in the other direction, Cole made his move. He raised his crossbow and fired. The bolt hit his target in the neck. He was on him in an instant, Magebane silencing the guard before he could utter a sound.
He dragged the body along the passage all the way back to the stairwell and hid it there. The carpet would hide the bloodstains, but he would need to be quick now. He sped down the passage as quietly as he could manage. A shallow alcove opened on his right, leading to a huge set of metal-bound doors. The other guard was just ahead. He was facing in the other direction.
Cole thanked his luck and raised his crossbow again. He was just lining up a shot when the Watchman turned. The young Shard threw himself into the alcove and back-pedalled until he was pushing up against one of the huge doors. He held his breath.
‘Who’s there?’ the guard demanded. There was the sound of steel being drawn. Cole dropped the crossbow, drew Magebane and plunged it into the sentry’s chest just as he rounded the side of the alcove. The enchanted dagger drove through the chainmail armour and deep into the flesh beneath. Death, Cole thought. Death is here.
Staring at the dying man’s face, though, the desire to utter some witty remark wilted like parchment caught in a flame. He’s not much older than me, Cole thought. He doesn’t have cruel eyes like Pock-face or that other one, the Watchmen who killed the old man back at the Hook.
He remembered Kramer’s shocked expression when he had slit his throat. Murder isn’t noble or just or heroic. It’s… just murder. Cole sagged back against the double doors. This is Salazar’s fault, he told himself. When he’s dead there will be no more killing. Dorminia will surrender and we will be free to build a better city. A fairer city.
He put his ear against the double doors. They were locked. The Grand Council Chamber must lie beyond, but he could hear no sound from within.
Stepping carefully over the body, he continued down the passageway, eventually reaching another set of stairs. He climbed them and emerged into the library on the third floor. There was no one about, but he flitted from bookcase to bookcase just to be safe.
When he reached the Obelisk’s fourth floor, Davarus Cole’s breath caught in his throat.
The entire level was a huge circular chamber. Thick transparent glass ran all around the circumference save for where the two sets of stairs connected to the lower and upper floors. Behind the glass, artfully positioned and displayed, was a wondrous array of stuffed creatures he had never before seen.
One display held a green-skinned humanoid with protruding tusks. The taxidermist had teased the beast into an aggressive pose: the spiked club in the creature’s ham-like fist was raised as if it would smash open its glass prison. The display was so detailed Cole could see the individual hairs bristling from its piggish snout.
In another part of the chamber he saw what appeared to be an egg the size of a child suspended above a large brazier. He stared in amazement. There was fire around the edge of the brazier, so realistic it couldn’t possibly be fake – and yet the flame was completely static, as motionless as ice. He put his hand to the glass and felt the warmth emanating from behind. Smoke was suspended near the top of the display, unmoving. It too was apparently frozen in time.
What had Eremul called this place? The Stasiseum?
The dome in the centre of the chamber stood apart from the rest of the displays. Cole walked up to it, peered inside – and was almost sick. A robed man was spread-eagled in the middle of the dome, suspended some six feet in the air by four iron spikes driven through his wrists and ankles to the small tree behind him. A fifth stake emerged from the floor vertically to impale him up the length of his body. Cole stared at the designs on the robe. He recognized the symbol of the Mother from the temple near the Hook as well as the ruins beneath Thelassa. There were other symbols too – the black horn of Tyrannus he knew, as well as the skull of the Reaver and the anchor of Malantis.
The priest’s face was locked in a scream of eternal agony. Beads of blood hung suspended in the air, caught in the act of dripping from where the spikes pierced his body. Just in front of the priest was a pedestal, and in the centre of the pedestal was a golden urn. There was a name inscribed upon it. Cole peered more closely and saw that it read Dorminia.
He stared at the tree to which the priest was staked. It was a small oak, with leaves the colour of gold. There had been a tree like that in Verdisa Park in the Noble Quarter when he was a boy. It had burned down years ago. Shortly before his father’s murder.
He tore his gaze away and headed for the stairs.
Cole hurried through the gallery on the fifth floor. He had become distracted, a mistake the Darkson would surely have chastised him for. What was his mentor doing now? What part would the master assassin play in the fighting? He didn’t have time to worry about that, he realized. He had a destiny to fulfil.
Benches lined the centre of the gallery. Sculptures stared proudly at him, positioned at intervals down the chamber. Covering the walls were paintings and tapestries depicting places and events from the distant past. One of the largest tapestries caught his eye and against his better judgement Cole slowed to inspect it more closely.
It depicted a pretty young woman standing between two men, one of an age with her and the other old enough to be her father. Both men wore robes. Cole concluded they must be wizards.
He squinted at the tapestry. The mage on the left looked very much like a somewhat younger Salazar. The girl gazed at him with undisguised adoration whil
e she held the hand of the other man, who regarded her with worshipful blue eyes. Behind the three figures, woven in exquisite detail, was a forest of the most vibrant greens and golds.
A slight noise ahead of him snapped his attention away from the tapestry. Cole’s heart lurched in his chest. Staring across at him from the other side of the gallery was a burly warrior.
‘The fuck you doing here?’ the man growled. He wore grey chainmail, and, like Cole, his matching hair was cut short.
The warrior’s hand hovered over the hilt of the weapon at his belt. Cole suddenly remembered he had a loaded crossbow in his hand. ‘I’m here for Salazar,’ he replied. ‘Don’t make me kill you.’
The drab fellow smiled, his eyes never leaving Cole’s crossbow. ‘If you’re gonna shoot me, you’d best pray you don’t miss.’
Cole’s gloved fingers twitched. There was maybe forty feet between them. ‘I want you to place your sword down on the bench to your left. Slowly. Then sit down on the floor over there.’
The man appeared to consider this. ‘You got me,’ he said, with a nod. With delicate care, he placed his fingers around the hilt of his weapon and carefully drew it. Cole relaxed an inch.
Another mistake.
The grey warrior dropped to the ground suddenly, rolling behind a bench. Cole pressed the trigger almost instantly, but it was a fraction too late. The bolt missed by a hair’s breadth and struck the far wall of the gallery.
Shit. The man was back on his feet and pounding towards him before he even had time to reach for another quarrel. He hurled the useless crossbow at his attacker, who drew his scimitar and cleaved the makeshift projectile in half in a single motion. Cole saw the glow around the edge of the blade and his heart sunk further. Augmentor.
‘Come here, you little prick,’ snarled his pursuer as Cole turned and ducked behind a statue, fumbling at his belt for Magebane. There was a whistling sound just above his head and the top half of the statue simply fell away, a foot of solid stone cut through like butter.
