by Luke Scull
Yllandris summoned her own power and felt the familiar tingling thrill of magic as it raced through her veins. She opened herself up to Shranree, surrendered as much of the magic as she dared. But she held something back, a tiny thread she refused to yield.
Shrieking, rapturous with the magical maelstrom raging within her, Shranree finally evoked the great spell she and the King had been planning all along. She pointed a finger at the Magelord. The Shaman jolted and then suddenly froze, paralysed by the enormous energies pouring from the leader of the King’s circle.
By the time the circle’s counterparts from the West Reaching realized something was amiss, the Six were already among them. Swords and axes bit into flesh in great explosive gushes of red spray. The West Reaching sorceresses attempted to unleash their own magic to defend themselves – but they could only stare in horror as their spells fizzled and died, consumed by the abyssium rings the Kingsmen wore beneath their gloves.
The faster among the Brethren were already halfway to the carnage when a dozen blink demons suddenly manifested right in their path. The fiends had been hiding in the tunnels Krazka had ordered excavated just north of town. The ten feet of earth that separated their ambush spot from the surface was no obstacle to them, no barrier to beings for whom the laws of the world were as mutable as clay.
Krazka retrieved his sword and stalked towards the immobile Magelord. ‘Took me twenty years to get to this point,’ the one-eyed King mused. ‘Not bad for a whore’s get left to die in a cesspool. You got no idea what it takes to climb up out of that pit and reach for the stars. Maybe once upon a time you did. But you forgot.’
Krazka raised his demonsteel blade, lining up the razor edge for a killing blow. ‘There ain’t no rules, see. No Code. There’s only the strength of a man’s desires and the things he’s willing to do to see ’em fulfilled. Me, I want the world… and there’s nothing I won’t do, no man, woman or child I won’t kill, to get it.’
… no man, woman or child I won’t kill, to get it…
Yllandris found her courage at last.
She seized the tiny thread of magic she had kept hidden from Shranree. The woman’s face was rigid in concentration, the vein in her forehead throbbing, sweat pouring down her cheeks. Even with the combined sorcery of the circle, it took every bit of Shranree’s focus to keep the Shaman under her spell. She hadn’t considered the potential for treachery. She was too arrogant to believe anyone would dare.
Circle magic was unique to the sorceresses of the High Fangs. Whilst the circle leader could draw upon the power of her sisters, it also required trust, for where a member of the circle could give, she could also take. In practice such a thing was almost unheard of. A sorceress who dared hijack a circle’s power from its leader faced execution on the spot.
Yllandris, however, had made peace with death.
She opened herself wide, like a flower spreading itself before the sun, and seized the magic, draining it from Shranree. The woman’s eyes widened and her focus faltered, and a second later she screamed in outrage.
Krazka’s sword flashed down—
—and missed, as the Shaman found himself suddenly free of his invisible chains. He lashed out at the false King, a blur too fast for the eyes to follow, and though Krazka somehow moved to evade the full devastating force of the blow the punch glanced off the side of his face, lifting him up off the ground.
Yllandris heaved a ragged sigh and allowed the stolen magic to dissipate harmlessly away. It was over. She ignored the confused shouts from her sisters; she blocked out Shranree’s shrieking curses. The woman would realize what had happened soon enough – but by then it would be too late.
She watched as the Shaman moved to finish off the fallen King. Krazka was on the dirt, his face a ruined mess. He appeared to be fumbling for something in his cloak, but there was nothing that could possibly help him against this relentless immortal, nothing that could harm this half-god—
Bang.
The sound was like a thunderclap, so loud it left her ears ringing and drove her to her knees.
The Shaman looked down at his chest and his blunt face creased in puzzlement. There was a small hole just below his left nipple. In the silence following the explosion, the pitter-patter of his blood striking the grass could be heard.
Opposite the Magelord, thick smoke wreathing his disfigured face, Krazka clutched the strange cylindrical device Yllandris had first glimpsed on the hill west of town.
Suddenly the Shaman staggered. He began to change shape, sprouting feathers, desperately seeking the raven form that would allow him to escape. Half-shifted, he leaped into the air and zigzagged through the sky, crimson droplets raining down on the Brethren and blink demons locked in their desperate struggle below. He made it a few hundred yards and then faltered before tumbling out of the sky.
Somehow, Krazka climbed back to his feet. He lurched over to the sorceresses like a drunkard, sword in one hand, gently smoking metal cylinder in the other. Yllandris flinched as she saw the horrific damage that had been done to his face. Krazka’s cheek was shattered and his right ear hung off the side of his head.
The King thrust the tip of his sword right up against Shranree’s throat. ‘What… the… fuck?’ he growled, red spittle flecking the edges of his mouth.
Shranree pointed a quivering finger at Yllandris. Her voice was a screech. ‘It was that duplicitous whore! She broke the circle!’
Yllandris thought she had reconciled herself to dying, but as the King’s dead eye settled on her she felt that familiar twitching begin in her legs and arms.Krazka stashed the metal device inside his cloak and staggered over to her, looking as if he might topple over at any moment. With most of the right side of his face torn off he looked more sinister than ever, as grotesque as any demon from the Devil’s Spine. She flinched as he placed an arm around her shoulders.
Just ahead of them the Six had finally finished massacring the West Reaching sorceresses. Butchered and broken bodies littered the ground, small piles of tangled limbs and blood-matted hair. Krazka whistled and the Kingsmen moved to join him, their weapons dripping scarlet beads, soaked from the black work they had just undertaken.
Yorn met Yllandris’s eyes. The shame on his face would have made her cry if she weren’t so terrified.
Krazka pointed to the north, where the Brethren and blink demons were a whirlwind of tooth and claw and deadly serrated tongue. ‘Rain fire down on them,’ he ordered Shranree. ‘I want to watch them burn.’
‘My king… what about the Shaman? If he returns—’
‘The Shaman’s done. He’s got a piece of abyssium stuck inside him. Braxus knows his craft.’
‘What will you do with her?’ There could be no doubt as to whom Shranree’s ‘her’ referred.
Krazka removed his arm from Yllandris’s shoulders. ‘Call me soft, but I’ve always had a weakness for a pretty woman.’
She dared to hope then. Maybe the King intended to keep her as a concubine. The thought sickened her, but at least she wouldn’t have to die. Anything was better than death.
She never saw Krazka’s hand move. All she saw was the glitter of steel in the corner of her eye. Then she was on her knees, reaching up to her face out of pure instinct, feeling her hands flood with the warmth of her own blood. So much blood. A moment later the pain hit her like a hammer.
‘Lucky for me you ain’t so pretty now,’ Krazka whispered, though she hardly heard him above the sound of her own screams.
Twenty-five Years Ago
His hands were sweating despite the light snow that swirled down from the sky to settle on his face and beard. His breath came in short gasps. He’d been a Warden for six years, faced down demons and giants, the worst of what the Devil’s Spine had to offer – but he’d never been as nervous as he was just then. He stared at the ground and tried to calm his beating heart. This was it. There was no escape.
‘She’s beautiful,’ said Taran beside him. His voice was an awed whisper.
Finally he looked up. Like the last of the snow in the sun’s firstborn rays, all his fears melted away.
Beneath the fur cloak thrown around her shoulders to ward off the winter chill, Mhaira wore a blue gown that reached down to her ankles. Her sister and her cousin had braided her long brown hair. She looked like a princess rather than a simple shepherd’s daughter. He stared at her, mesmerized by her beauty. He was the luckiest man in the world.
Borun walked beside Mhaira, his arm locked with hers. Just behind trailed Lellana and Natalya. Both women looked thoroughly miserable, though the former at least appeared to be making an effort to disguise the fact. As she drew closer Kayne saw that Mhaira’s eyes were wet with tears. She smiled at him, the astonishing smile that could light up an entire room, but there was pain there. A pain she couldn’t disguise.
Ashamed for his earlier nerves, he wanted nothing more than to go to Mhaira and take her in his arms. She seemed to read his intentions and gave a slight shake of her head, the hurt in her brilliant grey eyes eclipsed by a sudden and profound love for him.
‘I, hmm, believe we are almost ready.’
Rastagar adjusted his robes and fiddled with the wreath hanging around his thin neck. The veronyi was surprisingly spry for a man of his advanced years, though he seemed to have something permanently lodged in his craw. He cleared his throat noisily before continuing. ‘Spirit Father, step forward.’
Borun went to stand before Rastagar, returning Kayne’s grin with one of his own. The new Warden was every inch a man now. Though the beard he was growing was a sorry-looking thing, the rest of him had filled out dramatically in the last year. He was broader in the shoulder even than Kayne, stronger than any man at Watcher’s Keep save the Commander himself, and only Kayne regularly got the better of Borun when they practised on the training courts – the very courts they were now standing upon.
Rastagar reached into the bag at his waist and withdrew a pinch of dirt. He rubbed it into his palms, working the soil deep into his many wrinkles. ‘Spirits of the earth,’ he intoned, loud enough for all gathered to hear, ‘I entreat you, bear witness to the joining here today of Brodar Kayne and Mhaira, daughter of Magnar, who sadly passed from us yesterday morning. May you nurture his soul so that it may be reborn and returned to us anew. In his place, Borun of Karsus has volunteered to stand as Spirit Father. He will be the stone that fortifies this couple in times of hardship, the bedrock that helps support the weight of years when they seem too heavy to bear. May he forever hold true.’ The veronyi reached out and placed a hand on Borun’s forehead, marking a line with the dirt on his finger. When he was finished the veronyi nodded in satisfaction. Borun stepped back, and Kayne and Mhaira stepped forward.
Kayne stole a glance at his bride. Mhaira was crying freely now, tears streaming down her cheeks. The determination he saw in those eyes, the strength she must have possessed to go through with the ceremony after her father had perished on the journey, both humbled Brodar Kayne and filled him with wonder.
The veronyi turned to the brazier that crackled behind him. ‘Spirits of flame,’ he intoned. ‘I beseech you, keep the love between this couple burning bright through the years to come. May the warmth in their hearts never fade, and the fires of their passion gift us with children to make our land strong.’
Rastagar placed his hands in the brazier longer than any man ought to. When he finally withdrew them, he carried a tiny flame in each of his palms. ‘You will each grasp one of my hands,’ he instructed. Mhaira had been nervous about this part of the ceremony, afraid she would get burned even though the other women had assured her that the spirits would not let that happen. Her father’s death had robbed her of that fear, and she clasped the veronyi’s left hand without hesitation. Kayne took hold of the druid’s right hand. He felt a fleeting moment of intense heat before it faded and was replaced by a pleasant warmth that spread through his body.
Rastagar turned to the table beside him and carefully lifted the two cups placed there. ‘Spirits of the sea,’ he droned, ‘I implore you, nourish this couple. Wash away any doubts that yet remain. Drink!’ Rastagar handed each of them a cup. Kayne lifted his and swallowed the salty water within. It tasted unpleasant, but tradition demanded that the water used in the joining ceremony should be true seawater, drawn from the Frozen Sea itself. The spirits clearly approved of the practice, since no one who took part in the ritual ever got sick from the briny fluid.
The veronyi retrieved the cups and placed them back on the table. Then he removed the wreath from around his neck. The wreath was created from the branches of the great evergreens that grew throughout the northern Reachings, coloured with pale blue violets that matched Mhaira’s dress perfectly. ‘We are nearly done,’ the old man whispered. ‘Take the wreath. Hold it between you. High in the air, where all can see.’
Together Kayne and Mhaira took the wreath and turned to face the gathering. It was the moment Kayne had most been dreading. He’d never been comfortable with crowds.
He stared out across the packed court at the folk assembled there. Most of the faces he recognized. There was the High Commander, Orgrim Foehammer himself. Old Master Harlan, who despite his gruffness was the most beloved instructor at the citadel. Renno the Quartermaster; the blacksmith Braxus, whom Kayne had come to befriend in recent years; and dozens of Wardens and Wardens-in-training besides. There were men he had fought alongside, men who had saved his life and men whose lives he had saved, all of them united in their duty to guard the Borderland against the threat from the Devil’s Spine.
There were a fair number of women, also. The training yard was sprinkled with the wives of Wardens who like Kayne had chosen to marry. Most of the womenfolk lived in Eastmeet or in one of the small settlements on the outskirts of the capital. Life on the eastern frontier could be lonely and sometimes perilous, but it was a life Mhaira had chosen so that they could be together. Kayne was a Warden, sworn to protect this land. For the next four years, at least.
He glanced at her then, standing beside him, and he was filled with pride. Pride in her bravery. Pride in her faith in him, in her devotion in following him here.
Pride that this was the woman carrying his child.
Rastagar cleared his throat. ‘Finally I call upon the spirits of the sky. I beg you, watch over this couple as they join their lives to become one. Just as the twigs that form this wreath grow strong in union, so too will their souls entwine and endure the greatest hardships together. I offer this wreath to them now, so that they may remember the words spoken here this day.’
The veronyi leaned forward and placed a withered hand on each of their shoulders. ‘You may now exchange rings.’
Kayne went first, placing the golden band he’d bought from an Eastmeet jeweller on the fourth finger of Mhaira’s left hand. Her eyes widened when she saw it, and he wondered if he had made a poor choice. However, when she turned back from Lellana and presented him with a silver band, he realized with dismay that the look on her face had been shame. ‘Father didn’t have much money,’ she said, tears bright on her cheeks. ‘When he got ill the three of us struggled to run the farm by ourselves. I’m sorry—’
Kayne placed a finger gently on her lips, shushing her. ‘I love you,’ he simply. ‘And I don’t reckon there’s a ring or jewel in all the world that’s as pretty as your eyes. If anyone ought to apologize it’s me, for subjecting ’em to this ugly mug of mine for the rest of our days.’
He pulled her close then, not caring a damn about the watching crowd. Wrapped his arms around her as if he would never let her go.
‘The joining is complete,’ Rastagar announced to an eruption of cheers. ‘I now pronounce you, hmm, husband and wife.’
Lellana and Natalya came to congratulate them. The latter’s face was as sour as curdled milk. ‘I hope your lives are happy and filled with joy,’ she said, her voice unmistakably bitter. ‘After all, Uncle Magnar gave his own life to try and be here.’
‘Cousin!’ Lellana sh
ot Natalya a warning look. ‘It was his choice. We all knew the risk this time of year. He would have been proud of you, little sister.’
Mhaira embraced Lellana as Kayne nodded his thanks. Braxus came forward and gave him a handshake of such ferocity it might have caused serious damage to a smaller man. ‘Welcome to the bliss that is married life, lad. Best advice I can offer is never go to sleep angry after an argument.’
‘Aye? So resentment don’t build up?’
‘Who said anything about resentment? A man needs his breakfast served in the morning.’ Braxus chuckled at his joke. A moment later his face became sombre, and he held out the wrapped bundle he’d been carrying under one huge arm. ‘I wanted to give you this. Forged it some years past. Had the bright idea that one day I’d hand it down to my son. But, well, children ain’t happened yet and I figure me and Sal aren’t getting any younger. Shame, as I’ve always liked the little ’uns. Anyway, it’s yours now.’
Kayne pulled the cloth from the bundle. It was a sword – a big two-handed monster of a weapon. He gave it an experimental swing. ‘Brax… I can’t accept this. It’s a work of art.’
The blacksmith waved away his protests. ‘There ain’t no man better suited to it.’ Without another word Braxus turned and strolled off, leaving Kayne standing there clutching three and a half feet of steel.
‘Looks like we’ve both come a long way,’ rumbled Orgrim Foehammer from behind him. The new High Commander of Watcher’s Keep clapped him on the shoulder with a meaty hand. ‘I remember us rolling around on the banks of the Icemelt years ago. We never did find Skarn’s gang.’
‘Likely as not they turned on each other in the end.’
‘Perhaps.’ Orgrim placed his hands on his belt and stared out eastwards, towards the Borderland. ‘Four more years, Kayne,’ he said, after a moment of silence had passed between them. ‘Then you got a choice to make.’
Kayne nodded. ‘I reckon it’s already made.’
Orgrim nodded and then bid him farewell. Borun wandered over, a big grin on his face. ‘Well, that’s done it. Who’s gonna go whoring with me now?’
