by Luke Scull
The entrance hall was empty except for the Halfmage, who was biting into a plum. He glanced up in surprise, wiping juice from his chin with the corner of one billowing sleeve. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Salazar’s dead,’ he said as he barged past the wizard, causing him to fumble the plum. It splattered to the floor, leaving a red mess.
‘He’s what? Where are you going? What about me?’
‘There’s something I need to do,’ Cole shouted back. ‘Let the city know. Salazar is dead.’
He glanced down at the bag hanging at his belt. Tick tock tick tock. Every pulse of the device sent fresh waves of dread washing through him. He gritted his teeth and ran on.
The light was fading by the time he arrived at the hidden entrance to the temple of the Mother. He pulled the snaking vines of ivy aside, noting with growing dread that they hadn’t been disturbed in a while. He was about to squeeze through the narrow gap when he heard the sound of many footsteps moving in tandem. They seemed to be heading in his direction. He hesitated, and then edged back along the side of the temple’s crumbling walls and peered out down the Trade Way.
A huge column of Sumnian mercenaries was marching towards the Hook. At the head of the small army was the fattest man Cole had ever seen. His ankles were as thick as most men’s thighs, and his four chins bounced up and down with every waddling step he took. Behind the whale of a man, soldiers laughed and cast avaricious glances to the north, where the estates of wealthy nobles rose above the sequestering walls. Some made obscene gestures while others stared with wolfish grins.
Cole ducked back behind the temple. It looked like an entire company of Sumnian mercenaries had breached the east gate without seeing a lick of action. Maybe the defenders learned of Salazar’s death and laid down their weapons, he thought. He should have felt some pride at that, but he couldn’t. Not with the tick tock tick crawling in his ears like a burrowing insect. Not with the strange heavy feeling in his chest.
Taking a deep breath, Cole pushed himself through the aperture at the rear of the temple and padded down the short passageway until he reached the steps leading up, just as he had nearly six weeks ago. He had been bruised and bleeding then, late for Garrett’s summons because of his own foolishness. Even so, as he slowly climbed the stairs up to the sanctuary, he would have given anything to return to that more innocent time.
When he saw that the door had been torn off its hinges, he finally knew.
The bodies had been piled in the nave and then torched.
Cole stumbled over to the blackened remains of the pyre and stood there numbly. Through blurring eyes, he took in the dark stains on the floor, the red smears covering the walls.
He reached down and grasped a tattered fragment of blue fabric. A hint of gold embroidery was visible at the edge. It was the jerkin Garrett had been wearing at the Shard meeting. The night he had stormed off, throwing the pendant his foster father had given him into the fire that had burned in this very spot.
He crouched down, desperately sifting through the ash and charred bones, growing more and more frantic as he failed to find what he was searching for.
The pendant wasn’t there.
With a sudden, uncontrollable sob, he collapsed onto the filthy floor, crawling backwards until his back pressed up against a pillar.
And then he cried, and he did not stop crying until his chest was sore and his eyes were raw and there were no more tears to give.
I’m sorry, Garrett. Sorry for walking out. Sorry for being too arrogant to listen when you tried to put me on the right path.
He untied the bag at his belt and removed his mentor’s pocket watch. He stared at it, remembering all the good times the two of them had shared.
Cole wiped fresh tears from his soot-covered face and rose shakily to his feet. He walked over to the altar and carefully placed the device in the centre of the pedestal. The goddess might be gone, but perhaps the Creator will shepherd their souls.
He said a prayer then, for Garrett and Vicard and all the others, even the Urich twins whom he had never much liked. They had been his brothers, every one of them.
At least he still had Sasha. The news would devastate her, and his heart ached more at the thought of seeing her hurt than at his own sorrow.
He swallowed hard and tried to steady himself. Garrett had spent his life seeking to liberate Dorminia from a tyrant, and now, finally, his dream had come true. Cole and Sasha would stick together and see that the Grey City became a beacon of hope in a land besieged by darkness. It’s what Garrett would have wanted.
With a final farewell to his friends, colleagues and mentor, Davarus Cole departed the temple of the Mother.
He would never return.
The evening breeze was like the breath of a goddess after the carnal stench of the ruined temple. News of Salazar’s death had spread, judging by the handful of revellers cheering and singing in the plaza. The gibbets had been pulled down and their captives apparently released, though Cole doubted any of them would be in much of a condition to join the meagre celebrations.
Most of Dorminia was still subdued. Despite the death of the city’s tyrannical overlord, a great many men had lost their lives. There would be rivers of tears shed, months of heartbreak for those that remained.
Feeling sick with grief himself, Cole was preparing to follow the road west to try and track down Sasha when a small procession caught his attention. A thin, hawk-nosed man wearing the robes of a city magistrate walked side by side with the monstrously fat Sumnian he had spotted earlier. A dozen or so dark-skinned mercenaries trailed behind them. Between the soldiers and the mismatched pair at the front of the procession was one of the White Lady’s pale servants – and hunched over next to her, looking like a mummer in gaudy magistrate’s robes too large for his scrawny frame, was a man Cole knew very well.
‘Remy!’ he cried. The physician started as if surprised. Cole began to hurry over to him but was stopped by the bristling points of a dozen spears aiming at his face.
The procession halted suddenly. The old physician looked at him nervously from puckered eyes lined with crow’s feet.
‘And who is this?’ queried the magistrate leading the group, in a caustic tone. Cole squinted. He looked familiar.
‘Grand Magistrate Timerus, this… this is none other than Davarus Cole,’ said Remy, sounding somewhat anxious.
Grand Magistrate Timerus? Cole stared around in confusion. What were Thelassa’s mercenaries doing with the head of Salazar’s council? And why was Remy dressed as a magistrate?
It was the corpulent Sumnian beside Timerus who spoke. ‘The boy who slew the tyrant, yes? My soldiers have you to thank for the bounty that awaits us this night!’ He laughed suddenly, his massive jowls wobbling. ‘Every man knows that when you swear your blade to me, you wed Lady Fortune herself. The dice roll – and as always, they smile on General Zolta.’
‘Indeed, General,’ said Grand Magistrate Timerus. He placed a long finger on his chin and observed Cole as a lizard might regard a cockroach. ‘You played your part in this to perfection, young man.’
‘My part?’ repeated Cole. He was lost.
Timerus raised an eyebrow. ‘I took great pains to ensure the Obelisk was all but undefended. It was I who ordered the militia on the east gate to stand down when the Supreme Augmentor sadly passed away.’
‘You gave the city to the mercenaries? But you’re the most powerful magistrate on the Grand Council!’
Timerus tutted softly. ‘You don’t think a coup could have been achieved without influential support in Dorminia, surely? That cretinous half-man probably thinks himself very clever, but he too was nothing more than a pawn. And as for power… I found my ambitions uncomfortably stifled by the city’s erstwhile Magelord. One does not simply wait for an immortal to die of old age. A more active approach was needed. The White Lady was most receptive to my terms.’
‘She will honour the agreement,’ said the pale woman in a
deadpan voice. ‘You will rule Dorminia as her regent. So long as you remember your place.’
‘Of course,’ replied Timerus, bowing smoothly. ‘I live to serve our mistress.’
Cole’s head swam. It all made sense, except…
‘Garrett and the rest… They’re dead. Murdered.’ He frowned suddenly at Remy. ‘How did you escape? You were at the temple. You fixed my nose. I remember.’
Timerus smiled, but not a single trace of warmth reached his glittering eyes. ‘Ah. He doesn’t know, does he?’
Remy shifted uncomfortably, glancing to the left and then the right and finally scratching at his grey stubble. ‘The Shards, well… We weren’t going anywhere fast. I was tired of living like a beggar. Tired of listening to Garrett’s grand schemes while nothing ever changed except his pockets got deeper. I put the feelers out. Someone bit, and it wasn’t quite the fish I was expecting.’
‘What Remy is trying to say is that he sold out your little band of rebels,’ Timerus said. ‘Fortunately for all concerned, it was me he chose to rat to. Had it been anyone else the course of events might have run entirely differently.’
‘I never expected—’ Remy began, but Timerus raised a hand to cut him off.
‘To keep up appearances and to present Remy as a credible turncoat, it was necessary for everyone involved with the rebels to die. I had the Supreme Augmentor carry out the order. I can tell by the way your teeth are grinding together that this revelation displeases you. Well, young man, sacrifices needed to be made.’
Sacrifices needed to be made. Cole’s fingers twitched closer to Magebane’s hilt.
‘Garrett was dying anyway,’ Remy said. ‘He had early symptoms of blacklung infection.’
‘If you can’t take a city by force, you crush its economy. The poisoning of the city’s merchants began last year.’ Timerus paused for a moment and inspected his nails. ‘Blacklung is a most potent creation, impossible to detect and incredibly versatile. It can kill in a few minutes – as the incident in the Grand Council Chamber so ably demonstrated – or a year, depending on the level of concentration. Why, Marshal Halendorf’s expiration was planned to perfection.’
‘About that,’ said Remy. ‘I believe the poison has found its way into the Warrens. Many of the city’s urchins have been dying recently.’
Timerus shrugged. ‘So long as it is contained, I see no cause for concern. In fact, it is probably for the best. I understand the White Lady has little tolerance for rubbish. We will commence a more thorough cleansing operation in the near future.’
Cole had heard enough. He drew Magebane and advanced on Remy. ‘You treacherous bastard!’ he screamed. ‘You killed them all! Men you knew for years! My family!’ He raised the glowing blade – only to suddenly find himself confronted by the pale woman. She loomed menacingly close, barring his way.
Remy shook his head. ‘Don’t be an idiot, boy. You don’t want to do this.’
Cole spat in his face.
The physician’s troubled expression contorted and became angry. ‘Family?’ he sneered. ‘Sasha was the only one who ever had a good thing to say about you. Even Garrett despaired of you.’
‘He loved me!’ Cole shouted back.
‘You deluded idiot. You think Garrett became rich by being sentimental? He was a merchant. He took you in because of Magebane. All this talk about your father and you being some great white hope, it was all bullshit. You were an investment. Nothing more.’
‘You’re a lying bastard,’ Cole said, his voice breaking.
Remy laughed suddenly, a thin, reedy sound that was nonetheless thick with contempt. ‘The only bastard here is you. If Garrett ever did have a son, it was Sasha. And from what I heard, she’s seen more cock between her legs than you ever will.’
A brief silence followed his words. After a moment General Zolta began to chuckle, a sharp whooping sound that set his men off. Suddenly it seemed everyone was laughing at him. Remy was in hysterics, snot dribbling from his chin. Even Timerus looked amused.
Cole began to shake. He stared around him wildly, at all those faces mocking him, showing him the truth of what he really was. With the guffaws of the men behind him twisting like a dagger in his back, he turned and ran.
Born To Die
Salazar, the Tyrant of Dorminia, perhaps the single most powerful wizard who ever lived, was splattered all over the Obelisk’s courtyard, looking like something a giant bird had shat out.
Eremul finally tore his eyes away from the pulpy mess and stared out at the darkening city beyond the courtyard. Timerus and his ratty old sidekick had passed out of the Obelisk and into the Noble Quarter an hour ago. Accompanying them, to his utter shock, had been one of the White Lady’s odd creatures. The Grand Magistrate’s face had been insufferably smug. It hadn’t taken long for Eremul to conclude that he must have been plotting against Salazar all along. He had clearly underestimated the fellow.
He glanced again at the remains of the Magelord. It was a strange thing, seeing the man he had hated for so long come to such a spectacularly gruesome end. Now the initial rush of elation had worn off there was an uncomfortable sensation in his chest, and upon further reflection he realized what it was.
Emptiness.
Those with nothing but vengeance to live for are condemned by their own bitter victory.
He had read that in a book somewhere years ago and had thought it a heap of horseshit – the usual tripe written by authors whose aphorisms were about as relevant to the real world as his own cock was to the satisfaction of Dorminia’s collective women.
As it happened, the bastard had been right on the money.
He stared out at the city again. Was that a scream he had just heard? He thought he smelled smoke on the air.
With a final glance at Salazar’s corpse, he wheeled his chair out of the courtyard and began the long trek back to the harbour and the depository.
Sasha watched the lurid orange flames lighting up the night skyline behind the walls of the Noble Quarter. Mercenaries continued to pour into the district, laughing and hollering and brandishing weapons in one hand and large sacks in the other. Dark shapes flitted from house to house as the Sumnians looted and murdered their way through the homes of Dorminia’s wealthiest citizens.
This isn’t right, she thought, feeling despair creeping up and threatening to engulf her. How can this be happening? She spotted General D’rak and a group of his men near the south of the plaza and hurried over to him. She ignored the leers and whistles she received as she faced up to the mercenary in the white leather armour.
‘General D’rak, what is going on? Call your men back!’ she demanded.
The southerner flashed that outstandingly white smile. He reached up a callused hand and began smoothing out his oiled braids. ‘They are not my men,’ he said. ‘They are Zolta’s. As always, the Fat General emerges with the lion’s share of the spoils.’
‘But you were paid!’ Sasha said angrily. ‘This is our city. The nobles may be rich and selfish but they don’t deserve to be murdered in their homes.’
D’rak shrugged. ‘Zolta was not paid. The White Lady’s purse did not stretch far enough for his services. The Fat General took the contract on the promise he would claim his share after. And that is what he is doing, yes?’
Sasha stared at the Noble Quarter again, her teeth grinding together as she watched the pillaging continue in the distance. Someone trundled by just behind her and she turned to see the Halfmage on his strange contraption wheeling away towards the south. He seemed lost in his own thoughts, oblivious to the stares that followed his passing.
She rubbed at her throbbing head. The bleeding in her side had finally stopped, but she felt as weak as a newborn baby and she knew she looked like an absolute mess.
The mercenaries were still grinning at her. She scowled back at them and turned away. She cursed herself for not stopping the Halfmage when she had the chance and asking him where Cole might be found. Much to her annoyance, she found
herself worrying about him.
The temple of the Mother, she thought. Perhaps the Shards are gathered there now. She pushed her way through the ever-increasing crowd gathering in the plaza. Those who had not fought in the day’s battle were finally beginning to celebrate the news of the city’s liberation – if liberation was indeed what it was. She was beginning to feel uneasy that the White Lady’s intentions were not as altruistic as Brianna had believed.
Distracted by those troubling thoughts, she almost bumped into a woman going in the opposite direction, a hard-faced lady some years older than her with strawberry-blond hair caught up with a pretty hairpin. Their eyes met for a split second. There was something oddly familiar about the woman’s face, but by the time she thought to stop and question her they had passed each other.
The temple was just ahead. She hoped her instincts were right and that Cole, Garrett and the rest were there. Cole would probably be completely insufferable now. She would have to work extra hard to keep him in check.
She wondered if she would get the chance to see Brodar Kayne again before he departed. The old Highlander had been a rock over the last few weeks, and the news that his wife still lived had gone some way to lifting her spirits after the horrors of the fighting she had seen. As for his companion, Jerek was as much an enigma now as when he had first stomped into the Shard gathering all those weeks ago. She realized then that there was no one she would rather have watching her back than that grim-faced bastard. How had that happened? Men never ceased to surprise her.
She reached the hidden entrance and saw that someone had recently disturbed the vines and forgotten to replace them. She allowed herself a smile. Cole might now actually be the hero he had always thought he was, but some things would never change.
