Grim Company 02 - Sword Of The North

by Luke Scull

  ‘He changed his mind.’

  There was an explosion to the west and smoke rose from a large hole that had appeared in the ground. Bodies were strewn around the hole, though it was hard to be certain of the identities of the dead at this distance. Krazka stared at the carnage for a moment. ‘How many sorceresses has Carn Bloodfist got?’ he asked conversationally.

  ‘I believe there may be upwards of twenty in the West Reaching,’ Shranree answered.

  Krazka nodded. ‘And how many do you reckon are out there now?’

  Shranree shook her head. ‘I cannot be certain. They cloak themselves in magic. Samaya, the leader of their circle, is a skilled illusionist.’

  Krazka turned and faced the circle, finally sheathing his magic-devouring sword to sighs of relief. Yllandris watched it all with dull eyes. She felt empty. It would scarcely have mattered to her if the Butcher King had strolled over and cut her throat right then.

  ‘The Herald’s returning to the Spine,’ Krazka grunted. ‘He won’t be back for a while.’

  Shranree looked flustered. ‘But, my king, the Shaman…’

  ‘Aye, he’s out there somewhere.’ Krazka cracked his fingers absently-mindedly. ‘I reckon our one-time Magelord will see this as a good time to show his ugly face again.’

  Shranree’s double chin wobbled nervously. ‘This is ill news. We are thirty in number, the greatest circle ever assembled in my lifetime. But between the Shaman and Samaya’s own circle, we may yet be overwhelmed. I fear they will marshal their forces for an all-out assault once they learn of the Herald’s departure.’

  The Butcher King grinned suddenly. ‘I’m counting on it.’ He turned and beckoned to his Kingsmen. They stepped forward, and Yllandris saw that one carried a small bundle wrapped in cloth. Krazka gestured and the Kingsman – a pale-faced warrior with bloodshot eyes who seemed vaguely familiar – tugged the bundle open, revealing an assortment of rings. They glittered grey in the sun.

  ‘The Herald brought me these,’ said Krazka. ‘They’re abyssium, same as my blade. They can only absorb so much magic before they break, but I reckon they’ll serve the purpose I have in mind.’

  Yllandris watched as the King’s Six each took a ring from the pile. There was something else there, a larger steel object with a strange cylindrical barrel, but Krazka quickly folded the cloth back and it disappeared from sight.

  Yorn walked over to join the Six. She noticed Vard was missing and recalled that he been sent to the Black Reaching and was due back any time now. As she stared at Krazka and remembered the fresh blood on his sword, it was then she realized what had happened. The mad bastard killed his own Kingsman. Vard brought him the news about Mace and he murdered him in a fit of rage. Yorn is his replacement.

  The King was facing his men now, his back to the sorceresses. The sun was beginning to set, bathing the hill the colour of blood. ‘When the Shaman makes his move,’ Krazka said, ‘we’re gonna spring a nasty surprise. Mace wants to throw his sword in with that fucker? I’ll burn his entire Reaching to the ground. Just as soon as I’m done with Carn Bloodfist.’ He turned slowly, and the look in his eye pierced even the apathy that had settled over Yllandris.

  ‘First we need to test that these rings work,’ Krazka announced. ‘All you sorceresses from the Black Reaching, raise your hands.’

  None of the women did so. Krazka sighed and gestured at Shranree. ‘How about you just point them out? Save us all some time.’

  Shranree hesitated for only a moment, then spun and began pointing at women and calling out names. ‘Henetha. Marella. Quinell…’

  Krazka’s Six moved forward, weapons raised. The circle parted, sorceresses stumbling away to leave the women from the Black Reaching utterly exposed.

  Don’t watch, Yllandris told herself. She met Yorn’s eyes for a moment. Was that disgust on his face? She remembered his words. Last thing the King needs is to waste any of his sorceresses.

  A monster of a man barged past her, taller than Yorn and near as wide as an ox, face split in a wide grin. He was joined by another of the Six, a middle-aged man wearing heavy plate-metal armour like the knights of the Lowlands her mother used to tell her stories of.

  A moment later the screams began as the Six went to work. Yllandris focused on Krazka, at the bloodlust in that lone eye. She had hated the Shaman once, plotted to end his life so that she and Magnar could rule free of the whims of a ruthless immortal. It had been a childish notion. As she stared at Krazka, the man who had disfigured her lover and taken his throne and sacrificed innocent children to a demon, she would have given her own life to watch the Magelord crush this mad king.

  Krazka caught her watching him. He shot her an obscene wink. ‘At least they’ll die fast,’ he drawled. ‘Better than the fate your boy’s stuck with.’

  Yllandris swore then that she would see Krazka dead.

  Whatever it took.

  Cold Truths, Warm Lies

  The Collectors were out in force, wraith-like in the early-morning mist with their charcoal robes and featureless hoods. Corpse wagons strained under the weight of dozens of bodies. Some were blackened things charred beyond recognition, but it was the corpses that still had flesh clinging to them that really made the Halfmage’s stomach churn.

  Jobs might be scarce, the poor desperate enough to volunteer for a voyage into the unknown just to fill their bellies. But the Collectors, the shepherds of the dead, they never want for work.

  He glanced at the women beside him as he wheeled himself over the cobbles. Sasha had offered to push his chair for him, the earnestness in her voice surprising him enough that he forgot to feel patronized. It was an easy journey to the harbour from the depository and the road sloped gently downhill much of the way. Though he was tired from the night’s activities, he thought it better than to sit back and catch some sleep, lest he never wake again. He knew the mind of the older sister scowling at him all too well.

  Imagine the awe on the faces of the drunks who witnessed the three of us entering the depository together in the early hours of the morning. I would help spread a scurrilous rumour, but I suspect my legend is already stretched to the very edge of plausibility.

  ‘What are you smiling at? I’m still not sure I buy your story, Halfmage.’

  Eremul’s amusement drained away. He frowned back at Cyreena or Ambryl or whatever she was calling herself these days. He was still struggling with the bizarre circumstances in which the sisters had been reunited – a turn of events that could rival any of the hero’s tales he had read for sheer absurdity.

  ‘You’ve seen the evidence,’ he replied. He patted his robe, where the page he had removed from the tome back at the depository lay carefully wrapped beside the grisly trophy they had cut from the rebel’s corpse earlier that night.

  ‘I’ve seen an illustration in a dusty old book. A book that is more than likely a flight of fancy, intended to mislead gullible fools into believing in some mythic past rather than facing the mundane truth.’

  Eremul frowned. ‘Mundanity is a matter of perspective, especially when one is a wizard. Besides, Saltierre was no Kenats.’

  Kenats had been a historian who had gained fame for presenting previously unknown facts about the Age of Legends. Later it had been discovered that he had fabricated almost everything he had written, employing an army of stooges to ‘corroborate’ his research. The fraud had ended up in a prison in Kingsport, and was eventually stabbed to death by a disgruntled inmate distraught to learn that the many-breasted wandering succubus did not in fact exist.

  ‘I distrust the word of any man who chooses to isolate himself with nothing but a quill and his imagination for company,’ Cyreena stated. ‘I can think of no vocation quite so emasculating.’

  ‘Then you of all people should have no issue with scribes of every stripe,’ Eremul snapped back. The woman was starting to grate on his nerves. ‘We have irrefutable evidence that the rebels are connected to the Fade. The script on that tattoo is a perfect match with
the ancient Fade script Saltierre transcribed in his book. I only wish he had recorded the meaning. With any luck, the White Lady will possess the means to translate it.’

  Sasha blinked a few times, disentangling herself from the dark thoughts Eremul knew preoccupied her. She had said little since they had left the depository. ‘I believe you. I knew there was something strange about Isaac.’

  Eremul grimaced at the mention of his erstwhile manservant. ‘The legends state certain among the Fade possessed an ability to beguile that is akin to magic. I believe Isaac manipulated me for years. You recall I sent him to the Wailing Rift with you back in the summer? No doubt that was his intention all along. He wished to guide events towards his own ends… whatever they were.’

  The pain that flashed across Sasha’s face at his mention of the Rift surprised the Halfmage, and he said nothing more for a time. He watched the harbourside sprawl, noting once again the sorry state in which the city found itself. Dorminia was still reeling from the destruction caused by the catapults and ballistae the Thelassan army had unleashed. Last night’s arson attacks had hit hard; the damage was extensive. He watched as a Collector hauled the body of a woman from the husk of yet another burned-out building.

  Sasha shook her head. ‘The common folk can’t take much more. I thought the worst was behind us.’

  ‘Trust me when I say the worst is always to come. Be grateful you weren’t visiting Shadowport when Salazar dropped a billion tons of water on the city.’

  ‘I heard the White Lady is sending ships to look for survivors,’ Cyreena said. Her mouth twisted angrily. ‘A wasted gesture on her part, when there are many in Dorminia that require her aid.’

  ‘Be sure to raise the point after you’ve relayed to her my warning,’ said Eremul. He knew Cyreena despised Thelassa’s Magelord – the White Lady had after all succeeded in offing her master – but he didn’t want the woman jeopardizing the delivery of his message. The one-time Augmentor had lost none of her self-assurance following Salazar’s death. For that, he had to admit to a grudging admiration. Augmentors that had been severed from their bondmagic often went insane.

  Though, I suppose one might ask how you can break the mind of someone who is already a thousand glittering shards of crazy.

  He was suddenly reminded of the Grand Regent’s words – the accusation that he himself was a loony, and his subsequent ignoble departure from the Grand Council Chamber. He would never be permitted to return to the Obelisk. Furthermore, if he didn’t keep a low profile, a permanent visit to the tower’s dungeons seemed a distinct possibility. Timerus was known to be a petty, vengeful little man.

  In that, I suspect, we are alike.

  ‘Are you sure the harbourmaster’s office will be open?’ Sasha asked. She looked decidedly worse for wear. Her eyes were blurred from lack of sleep and, if Eremul was any judge, moon dust comedown. He had experimented with narcotics himself during his lowest ebbs but found them all wholly underwhelming. Nothing could compare with the thrill of magic dancing through one’s veins.

  ‘I’ve lived here for thirteen years,’ the Halfmage replied. He swallowed the barbed comment he was about to make, a reminder about the boat he had arranged for her and her unlikely band of companions scarce two months past. There was no need to bring up the Wailing Rift again.

  A few minutes later they arrived at the docks. The harbour was ghostly quiet compared with the previous morning. The Thelassan ships had all departed and were now sailing west, crossing the Broken Sea towards the Endless Ocean. The few ships that were left, the remains of Dorminia’s once-great armada, were a sorry sight to behold.

  ‘It stinks of fish,’ Cyreena complained.

  ‘I can’t smell a thing,’ Sasha replied, rubbing at her nose. Eremul looked from one sister to the other. It was easy to see the resemblance now. Cyreena was ten years older, her hair blonde rather than the dark brown of her sister’s, but the similarities were obvious. It was the eyes where they truly differed. Sasha’s held a sadness unaccountably deep for one so young, yet there was also a sparkle there that even recent events had not entirely dulled. Cyreena’s stare, on the other hand, carried nothing but deep malice. By Eremul’s reckoning, she was a sociopath.

  ‘Those warehouses store the fishermen’s haul,’ the Halfmage explained, gesturing to a huddle of huge wooden buildings covered in bird shit. ‘Whatever they can dredge up from the Broken Sea. The fishermen’s catch grows smaller with each passing year.’

  ‘There are men up there,’ Sasha whispered, pointing to the roofs of the warehouses. Figures milled around, crossbows at the ready.

  ‘Crimson Watchmen,’ Eremul said. ‘Famine is coming. Fresh fish will soon be a luxury only the rich can afford. There will be rioting in the streets.’

  Even as they made their way towards the harbourmaster’s office, they passed beggars covered in rags and streetwalkers soliciting the handful of longshoremen that worked the docks this early hour. Cyreena’s expression suggested she would like to drown the women in the harbour.

  The offices were located in a smaller building set back a little from the waterfront. ‘Let me do the talking,’ Eremul said, allowing his gaze to linger sternly on Cyreena.

  He pushed open the door and wheeled himself into the reception area. This early in the morning it was thankfully deserted, with the exception of a stern-faced secretary sucking a cigarillo and a dark-haired woman sitting on a wooden bench pushed up against the far wall. She peered over her reading lenses as they entered.

  Eremul approached the receptionist’s desk. Sasha and Cyreena waited just behind him. The secretary was a large woman, fair-skinned and sporting an unruly mass of red hair that indicated Andarran heritage.

  The secretary plucked the cigarillo from her mouth with one chubby hand and heaved a dramatic sigh at the sheer temerity of the public in disturbing her smoke. ‘Yes?’ she asked, voice full of righteous indignation.

  Eremul forced his mouth into what he hoped passed for a smile. ‘A good morning to you! I would like to speak with the harbourmaster if possible.’

  ‘Come back later.’ The receptionist waved a hand dismissively and stuck the cigarillo back in her mouth.

  ‘This is a matter of some urgency.’

  ‘Are you deaf? I said come back later.’ The receptionist noticed her cigarillo had gone out. She tutted and began to fumble for her tinderbox.

  The Halfmage reached forward and grasped the end of the cigarillo between his fingertips. He evoked slightly, teasing the magic out, shaping it into a fire spell. The tips of his fingers glowed red for a brief moment. Then he pulled his hand away and fixed the secretary with his most imperious stare. She looked at her cigarillo in astonishment. The end was now burning brightly.

  ‘Who are you?’ she whispered.

  ‘They call me the Halfmage. You may have heard of me.’

  The woman on the bench turned to stare at him. The secretary’s mouth quivered, her chins wobbling. ‘You… you are the famous Halfmage? The wizard that killed Salazar?’

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. He wasn’t too big a man to accept a little adulation now and then.

  ‘But you’re a cripple!’

  The smug smile on Eremul’s face evaporated. ‘And you’re a fat cow,’ he snapped back. ‘Why the fuck do you think I’m called the Halfmage?’ He glared at the secretary. ‘You tell the harbourmaster I want to see him this instant. Or else I’ll show you exactly why the Tyrant of Dorminia begged for death come the end.’ The last part was an afterthought. If he was going to bullshit his way through this, he might as well commit to the performance.

  The receptionist reached under the desk with a shaking hand and withdrew a large iron key. She pushed it over the counter towards him. ‘This is the key to his office,’ she said, voice trembling. ‘It’s just down the hall, first door on the left.’

  Eremul took the key from her unresisting fingers and nodded at the sisters. Then he manoeuvred his chair awkwardly around, accidentally bumped into th
e desk, somewhat spoiling the moment, and sped off down the passage beyond the reception area. He found the room he was looking for and placed the key in the lock. It clicked open with a twist, and he entered. Sasha and Cyreena followed behind him.

  Sitting beside a table stacked high with paperwork, half-empty bottles of wine and what looked suspiciously like a pile of moon dust, was an ugly little man with a bandage around his right hand. His eyes were closed; he apparently wasn’t yet aware he had guests. Eremul and the sisters watched him for a moment or two. The rhythmic wet noises from beneath the desk were the only sounds in the room.

  ‘I’m going to assume that woman hanging off your cock isn’t the wife you spoke so fondly of.’

  Lashan’s eyes shot open. ‘What the fuck!’

  A head emerged, dirty brown hair and a dusting of white powder covering a face that had seen better days. The hooker wiped her mouth and smiled stupidly. ‘You want me to carry on, milord?’

  ‘No! Get the fuck out!’ Lashan cried. The whore scrambled out from beneath the desk and hurried from the room. Lashan began to fumble with his breeches, fixing Eremul with a stare of utter loathing. ‘What are you doing here, you bastard half-man?’

  ‘I’m looking for the harbourmaster. Mardok, I believe.’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Coughed up his guts. I’m the new harbourmaster.’

  Eremul frowned. Several influential figures had been strategically poisoned by agents of the White Lady months ago. The poison could replicate the effects of a common cold for months before necrosis occurred. While Timerus had assured the council that all traces of the black lung toxin had been destroyed, hardly a week passed without another high-ranking official turning up dead.

  ‘I need a ship chartered to Thelassa,’ Eremul said. ‘Today.’

  Lashan was still fiddling with his breeches, the act greatly complicated by his injured hand. His pupils had the dilated look of someone high on hashka. ‘You’re asking me for a favour? After you broke half my fingers? I never found that shit-eater Isaac or the gold he owed. I couldn’t even afford a physician for my hand. You can suck my—’