by Luke Scull
Fifty yards ahead of them Jerek slowed his stallion to a walk. The Wolf turned in his saddle and pointed at something on the side of the scratchy path they followed. It was the body of a hill-man, his legs shattered and his head mashed into a bloody pulp.
They rode on in silence, passing two more bodies. One had been savagely beaten with a blunt object. The other’s legs splayed unnaturally, his pelvis split from the impact of whatever had struck him. Kayne frowned at the sight. ‘You ever get giants this far south?’ he asked Brick. The red-haired youngster shook his head and fidgeted nervously.
A moment later they spotted the architect of the carnage.
‘Wait here,’ Kayne grunted to Brick. He exchanged a look with Jerek and then the two Highlanders slid from their horses, faces set in grim masks.
The killer stood unmoving in the middle of the path. Kayne had seen some big bastards in the last few months – none bigger than the monstrous Sumnian general who had led the assault on Dorminia – but he reckoned the stranger that regarded them on the road just then could match any of them for sheer strength. Huge muscles rippled below green skin, ham-sized fists clutching a spiked club big enough to make even Kayne’s greatsword look like some noble fop’s fencing steel. The odd humanoid looked even more savage than the hill-men, what with his jutting jaw and two tusks protruding above his upper lip, but Kayne noted a keen mind at work behind those amber eyes.
‘You heading north?’ Kayne said casually. The stranger made a sound halfway between a growl and a moan.
‘He asked you a question.’ Jerek took a step forward, axes raised.
The stranger’s yellow eyes narrowed dangerously but eventually he nodded. Then he glanced at the sack resting on the ground nearby. There was something round and bulky within.
‘Mind telling us what’s in the sack?’ Kayne asked.
The stranger made another moaning sound. He shifted the massive club in his hands, giving it a threatening shake. Scraps of flesh clung to the iron spikes studding the wood. One scrap shook loose, a piece of scalp with oily hair still attached.
‘He doesn’t have a tongue,’ Brick piped up suddenly. ‘That’s why he moans. He can’t speak.’
Kayne looked from Brick to the big green warrior. ‘Those savages attack you too?’
The stranger nodded again and a made a series of movements with his left hand, ending with a clenched fist.
Brick turned to Kayne. ‘He says he had no choice but to kill them. The hill-men thought he was a demon.’
‘How’d you know that?’
‘The Bandit King cuts the tongue from any man who dares speak against him. Raff and Slater taught me the mute language.’
Kayne turned back to the stranger. ‘You got a horse?’
The stranger shook his head, gestured towards the hills and drew a thick thumb across his throat.
‘So they killed your mount. Now you’re forced to go it on foot.’ Kayne pointed at the sack. ‘Must be heavy work, hauling that thing around.’
That got a suspicious look, but eventually the stranger nodded.
Kayne looked from Brick to Jerek. The boy seemed intrigued. Jerek shook his head grimly and shot him a look the older man knew well.
Kayne hesitated. ‘We could travel together,’ he said eventually, knowing what he was letting himself in for. ‘Until we’re out of the Badlands. Ain’t much further now.’
Right on cue, Jerek heaved a disgusted sigh. ‘Fucking knew this would happen,’ he rasped. ‘Not even a quarter of the way to the Fangs and already we’re collecting orphan bandits and green bastards like some kind of travelling circus. Might as well go back to Dorminia, find us a one-legged whore, maybe a troupe of midgets. Fuck’s sake.’
‘Calm, Wolf,’ Kayne whispered to his friend. ‘We could use the help if any more of those savages try their luck. And I’ve got a mind to know what’s in that sack.’
‘I’ll tell you what’s in the sack,’ Jerek grated. ‘A chopped-up corpse or some other shit we’re better off not knowing about. Always is.’
‘Could be that you’re right. But let’s give him a chance.’
Jerek spat. ‘Bastard stinks worse than those hill-men. Make sure he keeps out of my way.’ Having released some anger, the Wolf turned his back on them and stalked over to his horse.
Kayne walked up to the green-skinned warrior. ‘My name’s Kayne. The lad here is Brick. My comrade over there is Jerek. Don’t mind him, he takes a while to warm to new faces. What’s your name, friend?’
The stranger replied with a series of groans that sounded like a cross between a cow dying and a bear taking a shit.
Kayne listened politely. Then he looked questioningly at Brick, who shrugged and shook his head.
‘Er, well met then.’ He stuck out a hand towards the stranger, who after a moment’s hesitation grasped it in his own. The crushing grip made the old Highlander wince. He cleared his throat uncertainly. ‘I, ah… don’t suppose you mind if we call you Grunt?’
The Butcher King
The town reeked of death.
Yllandris hurried towards the western gate, the hood of her purple shawl pulled tight around her head. The silk garment was filthy, stained with old blood and still wet with tears. The sounds of battle grew audible as she neared the gate. The cries of dying men and the howls of the Brethren echoed from beyond Heartstone’s walls.
Even with her hood pulled up, Yllandris had to raise a hand to her mouth as she skirted the edge of the great pit just outside the gates. Bodies had been piled within, Highlander and beast and even the odd demonkin, foul creatures the colour of raw meat that putrefied hours after death. Though thick black flies swarmed over the corpses of the fallen warriors and Brethren, even they steered well clear of the liquefying remains of the demonkin.
Yllandris caught a glimpse of the small pile of bones stacked in the corner of the pit and stifled a sudden sob. She glanced away, struggling to hold back fresh tears. The faces of the three children she had been forced to round up for the Herald forced their way into her mind.
‘Are you crying?’ asked a young voice. Yllandris quickly wiped her face and saw that the speaker was Corinn, a girl of around twelve winters who had recently been orphaned after her father had perished fighting the Shaman’s forces a week earlier.
‘Just dust in my eye,’ Yllandris lied. ‘What are you doing here? This place is not safe for children.’
‘I’m not a child,’ Corinn said. ‘I’m a woman near grown.’
You’re a girl, Yllandris thought angrily. You have no idea what it means to be a woman. The sacrifices we must make.
‘You have experienced your first blooding?’
At Corinn’s hesitant shake of the head, Yllandris pointed towards the south and east. ‘Then you are a child. You should be at the Foundry.’
The ancient factory had become a refuge of sorts for Heartstone’s increasing population of orphans. The forges burned day and night, churning out weapons and armour to supply the warriors that continued to flood into Heartstone from the Lake Reaching. The orphans had found new purpose within the Foundry’s smoky walls, offering their assistance to the smiths that toiled within. It was hard and dangerous work, but it earned them a meal of an evening and a spot on the floor at night. Even during the short summer months, sundown in the Heartlands saw temperatures fall to near freezing.
‘I went to help our men,’ Corinn said. She dropped her blue eyes to the ground and bit her lower lip. ‘My mother taught me how to clean and stitch a wound.’
Yllandris stared at the girl, noting the blood on her dress, which was tattered and torn. Even so, Corinn, with her warm eyes and blonde hair, was pretty. She reminded Yllandris of her younger self. ‘You should leave the healing of the wounded to the sorceresses,’ she said sternly.
Corinn pushed a strand of hair from her face and frowned. ‘No one helped my father,’ she said, her voice trembling slightly.
Yllandris knew what the girl was thinking. The men Krazka spar
ed when he seized Heartstone have been sent out here to die. They are sacrificial pawns, a distraction meant to slow the Shaman’s forces while Krazka marshals the Reachings that have declared for him.
She searched for words, something to soothe the obvious hurt in this young woman’s eyes. This was unfamiliar territory. She had never given much thought to how others might feel before now. ‘Your father was a brave man,’ she ventured. ‘Honour his memory by staying out of harm’s way.’
Yllandris hurried past Corinn and the scowling warriors guarding the gate and ascended the hill that rose just beyond the high wooden palisade. This distraction had cost her precious time. She would be punished severely if she were late for Shranree’s summons. The leader of the King’s circle and most powerful sorceress in the High Fangs took great pleasure in chastising Yllandris at every opportunity.
The hill was steep, quickly rising to provide the best view of the King’s Reaching for miles around. Heartstone sprawled beneath her to the east, the waters of Lake Dragur beyond shining golden in the sun. Rolling valleys spread out to the south, eventually giving way to the Green Reaching, where winter’s grip was shorter and less severe than elsewhere in the High Fangs.
It was to the north and west that the attention of the women atop the hill was now focused. Battle thundered between the Shaman’s forces and Heartstone’s defenders, bolstered by demonkin summoned from the Devil’s Spine by their gigantic master. While the King’s Reaching was currently a focal point for the fighting, the civil war that had erupted since Krazka had stolen the throne from Magnar raged throughout much of the Heartlands.
As she ascended the hill the huge bulk of the Herald suddenly rose above the Great Lodge and hung ominously in the air. Bat-shaped wings the width of a field beat a susurrating rhythm, twenty feet of scaled horror turning slowly to stare with a triumvirate of burning eyes right at her, seeming to strip her soul bare. The demon lord’s snaking tail probed the air. Its slavering maw, filled with teeth like ivory daggers, almost seemed to grin at her, and Yllandris wanted to turn and flee back down the hill screaming.
Having surveyed the town, the demon lord shot up into the sky and soared eastwards, casting a colossal shadow below as it passed. Nothing would impede its passage; nothing would dare seek to challenge it. The Shaman himself had tasted the Herald’s power during their brief struggle in the skies north of town, and even that immortal godkiller had been found wanting.
It took Yllandris a minute or two to recover herself enough to resume her climb, moving unsteadily on legs that felt like jelly. It cost her precious time, a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by the stout little woman in command of the sorceresses gathered on the top of the hill.
‘The prodigal daughter finally graces us with her presence,’ Shranree declared as Yllandris scrambled to join her sisters. The thirty sorceresses that formed the King’s circle turned to regard her. Yllandris tried not to wilt under their scrutiny.
‘My apologies,’ she said. ‘I lost track of time.’
Shranree raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. It looked strangely out of place on that pink, fleshy face. ‘You seem distracted of late. Is there something on your mind?’
Something on my mind? My lover has been mutilated. All that was once promised to me has been torn away. The foundlings… Yllandris swallowed another sob, forcing herself not to react to the woman’s provocation. ‘Nothing, sister. I apologize for my tardiness.’
Shranree appeared mildly disappointed. Yllandris thought she might leave matters there, but then the rotund little sorceress beckoned at her with a stubby finger. ‘Come here.’
Yllandris did as she was commanded. She could feel the other women watching her.
Shranree studied her for moment or two. ‘The last few weeks have been unkind to you.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Why, you carry bags under your eyes, girl. Your hair is frankly a mess. And as for that complexion… I am beginning to wonder what the menfolk ever saw in you.’
Yllandris’s lower lip quivered. She reached up to her face and ran chewed fingernails over her skin. She hadn’t painted her eyes or lips in days. There didn’t seem any point now. Her fingers brushed the rough patch on her cheek. It itched constantly. Sometimes she lay awake at night, scratching at it until it bled.
Shranree tutted softly, a ghost of a smile in her cruel eyes. ‘You poor creature. You are like a snow-flower wilting in the harsh light of the sun. You had best toughen up. There is no cunt-struck fool of a king to shelter you now.’
Yllandris reeled back as if struck, shocked at the venom in the woman’s words. In her mind she saw Magnar’s mutilated body again. At first she had wanted him for the power that he represented, but now she realized that somewhere deep down she had loved him. At least a little. What had Shranree called him? A cunt-struck fool of a king.
‘You evil hag,’ she whispered. ‘I hate you.’
This time Shranree made no effort to conceal her contempt. ‘Silly girl. Your whorish behaviour shamed the circle. Those days are over. You will learn to obey.’
The senior sorceress raised her hands. Yllandris took a step back, suddenly afraid. A familiar tingling sensation filled the air. Everyone who possessed the gift could sense magic being evoked. ‘What are you—’
Her words were torn from her mouth in a gasp of agony. Her joints suddenly felt like they were on fire. Every muscle in her body seemed on the verge of ripping apart. She collapsed to her knees, clawing at the mud, tearing up great clumps of grass in her fists. She opened her mouth and screamed until her throat was raw.
‘Sister… is this necessary?’ queried one of the sorceresses from the Black Reaching in a small voice.
‘She must be disciplined. I take no pleasure in this.’
Yllandris managed to twist her neck to stare up into Shranree’s satisfied gaze, which exposed the lie for what it was. She could hardly breathe; her body felt as though it was going to implode.
Seconds passed and the magical assault did not relent. In desperation Yllandris prepared to evoke her own magic and unleash it against Shranree. She knew such an act would force the elder sister to kill her, but she would rather die struggling than meekly accept death.
‘What’s going on here?’ boomed a male voice.
Shranree’s eyes narrowed. ‘This is none of your concern, Kingsman.’
A big warrior Yllandris recognized – his name was Yorn – had arrived on the hilltop and was watching the spectacle with a deep frown on his bearded face. She had never much liked him, for he had never shown her the attention she was accustomed to from men, but just then Yorn seemed like a blessing sent by the spirits. ‘Please,’ she mouthed at him through the agony. ‘Please… help me.’
‘Last thing the King needs is to waste any of his sorceresses,’ Yorn rumbled. ‘Release her.’
Shranree huffed and tutted but eventually snapped her fingers. Instantly, the magical pressure vanished. Yllandris gulped in air, wiping at her bloody nose with her shawl. Yorn walked over and reached down a weathered hand. Yllandris grasped it and he pulled her to her feet with surprising gentleness. Her limbs felt as heavy as lead.
‘I trust you will heed this lesson,’ said Shranree. The leader of the King’s circle dabbed at her perspiring face with the sleeves of her robe and gave Yllandris a look that chilled her blood. ‘Do not force me to rebuke you again. I will not be so forgiving next time.’
The harsh cry of a horn thundered up the hill. Yorn placed a hand on the hilt of his broadsword. ‘The King comes.’
The gathered sorceresses fell to their knees as the self-proclaimed King of the High Fangs crested the summit, moving with the grace of a dancer, his magnificent white cloak billowing behind him.
King Krazka placed a gloved hand on the hilt of the sword at his hip and grinned. His dead left eye wept and rolled madly in its socket, but it was the right that unnerved Yllandris, leering at the assembled women as if they were meat rather than the most powerful practitioners o
f magic in the land.
Behind the Butcher King trailed his Kingsmen. Krazka’s champions made a mockery of a tradition that had endured for centuries. The Six were expected to be the most stalwart men in the Heartlands; warriors of renown who had proven themselves in battle countless times. The ragtag collection of killers the usurper King had brought with him from the Lake Reaching looked formidable, but they seemed as likely to stab the King in the back as take a sword thrust for him. They weren’t even wearing the ceremonial armour and closed helms. Most likely Krazka wanted to be certain the armed men who spent countless hours in his shadow were who they said they were. After all, he had seized the throne by dint of a similar deception.
Yllandris felt her skin crawl as the King’s roving eye settled on her. ‘Huh. You used to be a pretty little thing. Looking rougher than a dog’s arse these days.’
Shranree’s voice was sickly sweet. ‘My apologies if her screams displeased you, my king.’
Krazka drew his sword and stared at his reflection in the grey metal. A few spots of blood ran down the blade, which appeared to have seen recent use. ‘Ain’t the first time I’ve heard a woman shriek,’ he said wistfully.
That drew sharp intakes of breath, followed by an uncomfortable silence. Shranree’s smile stayed fixed on her face but now there was something like fear there. Yllandris remembered the severed head of the sorceress Thurva rolling on the ground, seeming to take forever to come to a halt. Krazka’s deadly sword had devoured her magic like a hungry wolf. Slid through her neck with hideous ease.
‘We await your command,’ Shranree said quietly. The blustering leader of the largest circle of sorceresses ever assembled in Heartstone appeared cowed, as if she were a young maid seeing her lover’s exposed cock for the first time.
‘I’ll make this short and sweet,’ Krazka growled. ‘I’ve just received some unfortunate news.’
‘My king?’ queried Shranree.
Krazka scowled and pointed his sword towards the north. ‘The Shaman has won the support of the Black Reaching.’
There were gasps from the circle. ‘But Mace already declared for you,’ said Shranree. ‘He sent six of his sorceresses.’ She gestured behind her, where several women now wore very worried expressions.
