Grim Company 02 - Sword Of The North

by Luke Scull

  The server arrived and Monique ordered a bottle of white. ‘The best wine in Tarbonne,’ she said happily. ‘Produced in the capital itself. Men have died to protect the vineyards of Carhein.’

  ‘Men have died for less than that here.’

  Monique looked embarrassed, almost as if she had said something wrong. Eremul cursed himself again.

  Why can’t I talk to women? What the hell is wrong with me? Quick, make conversation. Something that won’t make you look like either an arsehole or a complete fuckwit.

  ‘I have a dog,’ he said. Shit!

  ‘Really? I like animals!’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes. Especially horses. I’m riding to Westrock soon, for the flower show. Maybe you would like to come with me?’

  ‘I… ah…’ I can’t sit a bloody horse, he thought bitterly, but what he said was, ‘I would love to.’

  ‘Excellent! Shall we eat? All this talk is making me hungry.’

  They were about to order when there was a sudden commotion near the door. A man and a woman stumbled in, two children trailing behind. The four of them looked half-starved. The children stared longingly at the plates of food, eyes fevered with desperation.

  ‘Please!’ the father pleaded. ‘We need food. Anything! Just the scraps if you can spare them. I beg you.’

  ‘If you have no coin to spend then get out!’ The server stormed over and shook his fist right in the man’s face.

  ‘But my children are dying! Please—’

  ‘Get out. Out, you rat bastard! Take your ugly wife and kids with you. Now, before I call the Watch!’

  Trembling, dragging his sobbing wife with him, the man left the tavern. The children followed behind them like lost souls.

  The server walked back to where Eremul and Monique were seated and shook his head ruefully. ‘My apologies. Some people think the world owes them a living. They don’t seem to realize we’re all in this together.’ He flicked some imaginary dirt from his gold-embroidered jacket in distaste. ‘Now, what can I get you?’

  ‘Soup,’ Eremul said flatly.

  The server’s mouth twisted in disapproval. ‘And you, madam?’

  ‘Soup,’ said Monique. ‘The cheapest you have.’

  The server stormed off, muttering under his breath about rat bastards, and Eremul made a mental note to check his soup when it arrived for anything untoward. He doubted the man would dare spit into the victuals of the city’s sole surviving wizard – but if he did, unpleasantness was certain to follow.

  Fortunately for all concerned, their soup when it arrived appeared free of bodily fluids. They finished their bowls and decided to go for a walk, or in Eremul’s case a trundle. Deep in conversation, they accidentally bumped into the family that had been begging in the Rose and Sceptre earlier. The children were staring dully into space while their parents scavenged spoiled food from stinking piles of refuse at the side of the road.

  The Halfmage reached into his robes. He withdrew the golden spire with which he had intended to treat both Monique and himself to a three-course meal and gave it to the disbelieving father. He also handed him stern instructions to take the Pioneer’s Deal once he and his family had filled their bellies.

  The sun eventually fell, and Eremul prepared to say goodbye to Monique. He’d made peace with the fact the date was an unmitigated disaster.

  I tried, he thought pathetically. At least I tried.

  But before she left, Monique kissed him on the cheek and wished him a good night, saying she was very much looking forward to seeing him again.

  Scars of War

  The horn sounded across Heartstone. Yllandris quickened her pace, hurrying down dirt roads riven with cracks in the heat of high summer. Dust flew up from her boots, making her sneeze. Warriors jostled her on their way to the Great Lodge. As Yllandris hurried past the huge structure, she glimpsed the King pacing back and forth while the town’s defenders assembled in the great clearing. The Six stood guard nearby.

  The streets had long ago emptied of women and children; the town’s non-combatants had taken shelter in their homes. If it came to it, the womenfolk had demonstrated in the past that they would take up arms and fight just as viciously as the men. It just wasn’t clear which side they would fight for.

  ‘Sister!’

  A woman’s voice hailed Yllandris as she passed the bakery old Mother Marta had run for years. Marta might be as fat as a hut but she was a kindly woman who would often hand out free pastries to the town’s foundlings.

  Yllandris turned her head and saw Rana hurrying towards her. Rana owned the apothecary shop just opposite the bakery. She was a senior member of Heartstone’s circle, a middle-aged woman of stern countenance whose wares were said to be inferior to Walda’s on the opposite side of town, despite the fact the other woman possessed not a magical bone in her body.

  ‘Walk with me,’ Rana said. It was more an order than a suggestion. Yllandris had never been popular among her peers, and Shranree’s open hostility had done little to discourage a similar attitude from the other sorceresses.

  They continued together to the north gate, walking in silence. The horn sounded again, another call to arms. A stream of warriors filed down the road, many of them the wrong side of forty and wearing forlorn looks that suggested they thought they wouldn’t live out the day. The news had spread. The Shaman was coming to reclaim his domain, and this time there would be no Herald to oppose him.

  Shortly after seizing control of Heartstone, Krazka had made an example of the greybeards who refused to accept him as their new king. The two sorceresses held their noses as they passed the gallows that had been erected in the centre of town. After weeks of exposure to the predations of insects and hungry carrion birds the corpses had been all but stripped bare, and the stench wasn’t as bad as Yllandris had feared. Still, a glance at the remains of intestines hanging down over half-eaten genitalia was almost enough to trigger another shaking fit.

  In an unexpected moment of empathy, Rana hooked an arm under Yllandris’s and guided her down a side street in order to avoid the worst of the gruesome spectacle. ‘Things will get better,’ the woman said, though her voice lacked conviction. ‘Shranree believes our people are on the verge of greatness.’

  ‘Greatness?’ Yllandris echoed, trying to sound respectful, to keep the incredulity out of her voice.

  ‘Our new king will lead us to the prize that was always meant for us. Even in this Age of Ruin, the Lowlands are a veritable paradise. No Highlander need ever starve again once we claim them as our own.’

  ‘The King cavorts with demons! Demons, Rana – the threat our menfolk have for centuries died keeping us safe from. And now they are here, outside our very walls.’

  Rana looked troubled. ‘The Lowlands are vast. Vast, and filled with fools who have grown soft and lazy. Let them suffer as we have suffered. We are blessed – our men peerless in battle, our women wise and strong in the gift of magic. We will find our true place in the world. A place we deserve. The demons are a means to an end. The King himself says so.’

  Yllandris listened in silence. A few months ago Rana’s arguments would have made a kind of sense. She had been willing to do anything in order to get what she felt was owed her. Manipulate anyone. Betray anyone.

  Now she said, ‘The King sacrifices children to the Herald.’

  Rana flinched at that and said nothing more.

  Beyond the gallows, they passed a crater in the ground the size of a tavern, left behind after the Shaman’s titanic struggle with the Herald had flattened a dozen buildings. The Magelord and the huge winged demon had clashed in the skies just outside the city, plummeting to earth in a maelstrom of raking claws and knotted muscle, the Shaman a blur of bronze beneath the gigantic midnight bulk of the Herald. At first it seemed the Shaman might be the stronger of the two, flinging the demon around like a man might toss a blanket. But then he had begun to falter. The demon’s talons left terrible furrows in his flesh, bloody wounds that
would have killed a mortal. It had taken a last-minute charge by the Brethren to drag the Shaman away to safety. Many Transcended had died in the retreat, torn apart by the winged terror as they guarded their master with their lives.

  If Krazka’s flurry of executions after snatching power quieted talk of resistance, the Herald’s ruthless display of efficacy had silenced it completely.

  Shranree was waiting for them at the north gate. Half the great King’s circle was already there with her. She looked mildly disappointed when Yllandris joined them, but she recovered quickly.

  ‘For once you are on time. Could it be the recent lesson I delivered has finally sunk in? I pray it is so.’ Shranree’s voice was sickly sweet, as false as a whore’s affections. ‘Take up your position. Now we wait.’

  Yllandris curtsied and did her best to appear deferential. Give her no reason no doubt you. Act like a chastened child. She is too arrogant to suspect anything. Her hand trembled suddenly and she willed herself to be calm. Fear was only uncertainty about the unknown, after all. There was no uncertainty about one very particular aspect of her plan.

  Whatever happened during the next few hours, she would not live to see tomorrow.

  It was midday when the Shaman finally arrived at the gates. The Brethren led the vanguard of his great army, a chaotic menagerie of beasts undyingly loyal to their master. Natural enemies ambled side by side: monstrous bears shoulder to shoulder with lean grey wolves, mountain cats padding alongside great white elk to form deadly ranks of antler and tooth and claw. Despite their savage appearance, the Brethren moved with a purpose and unity that set them apart from natural beasts.

  Once the Brethren had been men gifted with the spark of magic. At some point in their lives a yearning had arisen in them to transcend, to become one with a host animal. After they had found a suitable candidate they underwent the Shaman’s ritual and merged their mind with the body of their host. Many of the Brethren served to help defend the Borderland. While few in number, they were immune to demon fear. Without their support the army laying siege to the King’s Reaching for the last month would never have made it to Heartstone’s walls.

  Behind the Brethren came Carn Bloodfist’s host. The Bloodfist’s army numbered over ten thousand – twice what Heartstone had mustered. Soon the army of the Black Reaching would arrive to bolster the Shaman’s forces further. Mace’s change of heart was a significant blow to Krazka’s plans. It remained to be seen how the Butcher King would deal with that setback. For now, he had more immediate concerns. The warriors of the West Reaching eventually halted a safe distance away, marshalling outside the range of the King’s circle and whatever magic they might try to bring to bear.

  Another great horn blast split the air to mark the arrival of Krazka and his entourage. They approached up the wide dirt avenue that led from the centre of town, and the massed ranks of Heartstone’s defenders parted for them. The King strode along confidently, his white cloak billowing behind him.

  The Butcher King reached the north gate and gestured to one of the Six – the big brute with the ridiculous bear skull atop his head. Despite his size Yllandris did not judge him the most frightening of the men that guarded the King. Sir Meredith, the ironclad warrior: he made her skin crawl. The lean warrior with the bow looked as though he would peel a man alive for the sport of it. As for the strange Northman with the bloodshot eyes, Wulgreth, there was something not quite right about that one. Yorn looked distinctly out of place among such company.

  ‘Open the gate,’ Krazka commanded. The huge bear-skulled warrior moved to obey, single-handedly lifting the beam that sealed the gates and dropping it to the hard earth with a loud thud. An eagle soared overhead, emboldened by the absence of the Herald. No chance it was mere coincidence; it must have been one of the Brethren, or else a spirit animal spying for the Shaman’s forces. Krazka could have ordered his sorceresses to blast it out of sight, but instead he made an elaborate show of tidying his cloak and adjusting his sword belt. With a nod to his Kingsmen, who fell in behind him, Krazka pushed open the gate and strolled out to meet the opposing army.

  Yllandris’s heart hammered in her chest. She hadn’t been privy to the exact details of Krazka’s plan. She doubted any of the sorceresses had, even Shranree. All she knew was that when the King went out to challenge the Shaman, she and her sisters would follow. Then they would wait, and would do nothing. Not until the signal.

  The Brethren snarled and stamped as Krazka approached, but they did not attack. The King halted a stone’s throw from the bestial horde and raised a gloved hand. ‘I would speak with the Shaman,’ he thundered. ‘Let’s see if old potato face is brave enough to settle this man to man. Just him and me. No one else needs to die.’

  Yllandris was impressed despite herself. Much as she hated the child-sacrificing maniac, she was forced to admit that Krazka possessed balls of steel.

  There was a brief moment of chaos among the Brethren. A moment later they parted and out stormed the Magelord, a study in wrathful fury made flesh.

  Even with the ugly scars still raw on his skin – the legacy of his battle with the Herald – the Shaman cut an imposing figure. As always he was naked from the waist up, corded muscles bulging from every inch of his prodigious torso. Glacial blue eyes full of cold fury stared out from the Magelord’s blunt face.

  ‘Charlatan,’ he boomed, his voice like a great iceberg shifting in the Frozen Sea beyond the Blue Reaching. ‘You dare take the place of the rightful king! You dare bargain with demons, allowing them to pass unhindered into my domain! You dare defy me!’

  ‘Charlatan?’ Krazka spat. ‘That’s rich coming from you. The Herald told me some things, see. You ain’t one of us. You never were. You came here from the Lowlands, fleeing like a wounded dog after your woman was burned alive. You stole magic from the heavens and used it to make yourself a god. Well, you ain’t no god.’

  The Shaman bared his teeth. ‘I make no claim to godhood. But the strong rule the weak. That is how it has always been. I keep this land safe from what lies below the Spine.’

  ‘What lies below the Spine is opportunity. You’d have us sit here in this little corner of the north, worshipping your sweaty arse while the winters get harsher and food grows scarce. That’s what Beregund was about, wasn’t it? I killed for you there, and in the North Reaching. They broke the Treaty, so you had them razed them to the ground. I got no problem with that.’

  Krazka took a single step forward and in one lightning movement drew his abyssium sword. The grey metal seemed to throb, as though it hungered to taste the flesh of the immortal. ‘What I got a problem with are hypocrites. You’re too much of a coward to risk war with your peers in the Lowlands, that’s the truth. Aye, you might be a wolf compared to men who ain’t tasted the bounty of the gods. But the weakest of wolves, they’re still the runts of the pack.’

  The Shaman clenched his great fists, and his voice thundered with terrible rage. ‘Enough talk, worm! I accept your challenge. Samaya, reveal yourself.’

  The air stirred near the Magelord. One by one the sorceresses that had been lurking behind the Shaman under a spell of invisibility melted into view. Yllandris gasped softly, glanced at Shranree and saw her twitch in surprise.

  The leader of the West Reaching circle, Samaya, was as willowy as Shranree was rotund. ‘I await your command,’ she said demurely, though her eyes revealed her discomfort at this turn of events, as if carefully laid plans had been unexpectedly altered.

  ‘Allow none to interfere in this duel,’ the Shaman’s voice boomed. ‘We fight according to the Code. Let the winner take what they will. The loser will receive only death.’

  The two sets of sorceresses formed a ring around the Magelord and the King, each woman facing her counterpart across the circle. The Brethren waited a hundred yards back, the army of the West Reaching a half-mile beyond that. Yllandris glanced behind her and saw the town’s defenders massed just inside the walls. There was no appetite for battle on the faces of t
he town’s veterans, nor the reinforcements from the Lake Reaching.

  Yllandris could feel her heart thumping in her chest. Her sisters seemed just as nervous. Rana had gone an unhealthy shade of white; Esther had chewed her nails to the quick; even Shranree wore a fresh sheen of sweat on her face.

  The Six seemed much more relaxed. They stood just outside the circle of women, weapons sheathed and hands on their belts. Sir Meredith looked almost scornful, his heavy-lidded eyes filled with contempt, as if the face-off about to take place was a personal affront to his dignity.

  Yllandris paid no more notice to the iron man. With a grunt the Shaman launched himself at Krazka, intending to crush the imposter beneath his mighty fists.

  The Butcher King danced out of the way at the last instant, leaving the hulking Magelord clutching at thin air.

  ‘Huh.’ The Shaman braced himself and then suddenly he hurtled up into the sky, plummeting back down a moment later to strike the earth in the exact spot Krazka had been standing but a second before. The King rolled to his feet with the grace of a cat, responded with a dazzling combination of strikes that would surely have overwhelmed all but the very best swordsmen.

  The Shaman caught the blade between his palms.

  Immediately the scars on the Magelord’s chest began to open up. His muscles visibly sagged and lost their definition, his ageless face began to wrinkle.

  With a grunt, the Shaman tugged the sword free of Krazka’s grasp and tossed it aside. ‘Abyssium,’ the Magelord growled. ‘Demonsteel. You think me a fool?’ The weeping scars on his body began to smoke, knitting themselves back together. His face shifted and regained its youthfulness, his torso sculpting itself back into the image of perfection once again.

  Krazka scrabbled backwards. ‘Now!’ he roared.

  Yllandris felt Shranree’s sudden probing as the leader of the King’s circle reached for the magic of her sisters, demanding they surrender it. The sorceresses did as she commanded, pouring their collective strength into the dumpy little woman with her hands held aloft to the heavens.