Grim Company 02 - Sword Of The North

by Luke Scull

  He was relieved to see that none of the other men around the table had heard his latest outburst. ‘I was merely clearing my throat,’ he told his counterpart testily. It was difficult to keep his feelings locked inside sometimes. Hard to stomach the injustices he had suffered without giving voice to his frustrations.

  He gazed around the chamber one more time. His eyes narrowed as they swept over the rustic accoutrements that decorated the hall. Stuffed heads of primitive beasts, ancient swords and shields, helms of decorated heroes… all the trappings of a people stuck in a benighted existence. He doubted his kinsmen would know real culture if they were given a guided tour of the Royal Museum of Carhein by the Grand Curator himself. It galled Sir Meredith. In fact, it infuriated him.

  ‘Bloody barbarians!’ he blurted out.

  The King’s eye swivelled to regard him. ‘Something the matter?’ he grated. The right side of his face was a sight to behold, a mass of terrible bruises and disfigured flesh. Even the efforts of his sorceresses hadn’t been able to fix the damage.

  ‘No,’ Meredith replied. Though he made an effort not to let the scorn show in his voice, he refused to add the honorific Shranree and the others used when addressing this barbarian king. Oh, Krazka paid well for his services, in gold as well as in other things promised to him, and Sir Meredith had to concede that the usurper knew how to use a sword. But when it came to the heart of the matter, he was just another bloody barbarian.

  Even if he had cut down that fool Vard with such astonishing speed. Even if he had demonstrated impeccable swordsmanship against the Shaman: swordsmanship to rival that of a knight.

  ‘Where’s Yorn?’ Krazka barked, interrupting those troubling thoughts.

  Where was that big, stinking bastard? Meredith looked questioningly at Rayne, who merely shrugged and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. On the opposite side of the king, Bagha and Ryder stared at each other dumbly.

  Krazka spread his hands in a gesture of wounded incredulity. ‘See, this is what’s wrong with the world. You give a man something he’s always dreamed of, a position of honour that any Highlander worth his salt would die for, and he decides to knock off when it suits him. I’m starting to regret murdering his predecessor.’

  ‘He went to feed the prisoners,’ Wulgreth said from over where he stood guarding the entrance to the chamber. ‘He should have been back hours ago.’

  ‘What prisoners?’ growled Orgrim Foehammer.

  The largest of the four men seated around the table – though still some way smaller than Bagha looming nearby – Orgrim Foehammer was the only man present whose name Sir Meredith had already been familiar with before his return to the High Fangs. For many years the High Commander of Watcher’s Keep, Orgrim had grown fat since assuming the mantle of chieftain. Still, he cut an impressive figure. For an old man.

  ‘You’ll see soon enough, Foehammer,’ the King replied. He slid gracefully from his throne at the head of the table. ‘It’s time to choose,’ he said, walking slowly around the circumference of the table. ‘You’re either with me or you’re against me. I ain’t one for half-measures.’

  Sir Meredith shifted slightly. About bloody time, he thought. He could hardly wait to remove his damned armour.

  ‘I’ll send word of my decision when I’ve discussed it with my sons,’ growled Hrothgar. The chieftain of the Blue Reaching stroked his grey-blond beard and scowled. He had travelled far to be at this gathering – all the way from the desolate tundra on the edge of the Frozen Sea.

  ‘And you?’ Krazka asked Narm Blacktooth. The Deep Reaching was key to the King’s plans, Meredith knew. If Krazka could win Narm’s support, he would have a powerful ally positioned directly between the King’s Reaching and the now-hostile Black Reaching.

  The Blacktooth spat out a mouthful of the foul substance he was fond of chewing, the root of some plant native to his Reaching that left his teeth as black as tar. The vile stuff hit the table and splattered over the wooden surface. Sir Meredith bristled with anger. Any man who had dared showed such disrespect at the Rag King’s court would have lost his teeth and most probably his life. Meredith would have seen to it himself.

  ‘If this war drags on much longer my people will starve come the winter. You don’t leave me much choice.’

  Krazka nodded, and for a moment he seemed lost in whatever glorious future he was seeing in his mind’s eye. ‘When we march on the Lowlands, Blacktooth, you won’t ever need worry about bellies going empty again. There’ll be food enough for every Highlander.’

  Narm got to his feet. ‘Who said I’m marching anywhere? Naw, I’m thinking the Shaman will retake Heartstone. No man crosses a godkiller. Not even you, Butcher King. May as well throw my sword in with him and Carn Bloodfist and help speed things along.’

  The King’s face darkened. ‘Maybe you ain’t heard, but the Shaman’s dying.’

  ‘So you say. Don’t reckon it’s that easy to kill an immortal. I heard what happened to Mehmon and his town when they thought they could defy the Shaman’s will. Can’t say I fancy burning on a pyre when this all goes tits-up.’

  Krazka’s lone eye bored into the chieftain of the Deep Reaching with an intensity that seemed almost otherworldly. ‘You’re making a mistake, Blacktooth.’

  Narm turned his back on the King and walked away.

  ‘Where d’you think you’re going?’ Krazka’s voice was a deadly whisper.

  Narm Blacktooth paused halfway to the door. ‘The Code forbids a man to attack a guest in his own home. Even kings don’t break that rule.’

  ‘That so?’ said the Butcher King. ‘Well, the times are changin’. Wulgreth, stop that weasel-faced cunt!’

  At that, all hell broke loose.

  Hrothgar surged to his feet, roaring in protest. Sir Meredith and Red Rayne moved to restrain him while Wulgreth closed on Narm Blacktooth, levelling his deadly spear at the chieftain.

  ‘You treacherous fuck!’ Narm snarled. ‘I brought a hundred men and three sorceresses with me from the capital. When I don’t return to camp this night, they’ll send word to Underfort. You kill me and the armies of the Deep Reaching will boil out of the valleys seeking bloody vengeance!’

  ‘Nobody’s gonna send word,’ Krazka said. He glanced behind him. ‘Shranree, tell your sisters to begin razing Blacktooth’s camp to the ground. I want every man and woman reduced to ashes. No survivors. No one left alive to tell a tale.’

  The air shimmered behind the King and suddenly Shranree melted out of the air. Her face was coated with sweat from the effort of maintaining her cloak of invisibility. ‘They’re already in position, my king.’

  Sir Meredith met the sorceress’s eyes, and a moment later he felt himself go hard beneath his armour. The woman was larger than his tastes usually veered towards, but she was a competent conversationalist and her preferences in the bedroom had come as an unexpected surprise. It was because of her appetites that he had put his back out the night just past.

  ‘They’ll find out eventually!’ Narm was screaming now. ‘You won’t be able to keep your crimes a secret forever!’

  ‘Who said anything about forever?’ Krazka replied evenly. ‘I just need to keep ’em quiet until the Herald’s opened the hidden ways beneath the Spine. Shouldn’t be long now, not once I’ve sent a bunch of innocent souls his way.’ He nodded at Wulgreth, and the Northman drove his spear through Narm Blacktooth’s stomach, giving it a vicious twist. The chieftain of the Deep Reaching sank to his knees, black drool dribbling down his chin.

  ‘Foehammer!’ cried Hrothgar. ‘We can’t let this stand! This is a violation of the Code!’

  Orgrim Foehammer couldn’t meet his counterpart’s gaze. ‘The Code’s a thing for a different age,’ he said quietly.

  Krazka stalked over to Hrothgar. ‘Orgrim’s a man who knows how to move with the times. Why drown fighting against the tide when you can ride with it?’

  ‘You’ve thrown in with this… this lunatic?’ Hrothgar’s face was disbelie
ving.

  The Foehammer’s shoulders slumped. ‘The demons grew too many. I couldn’t sit by as Watcher’s Keep fell. I couldn’t see my people overrun, be torn apart and defiled in ways you couldn’t imagine.’ Orgrim’s voice was heavy with despair. ‘I had no choice, Hrothgar. Do you understand me? Imagine if it was your sons staring into the face of a demon horde.’

  ‘Speaking of sons,’ Krazka cut in smoothly. ‘How’d they find the trip here, Hrothgar? I hope they’re enjoying the sights of Turthing.’

  Hrothgar flinched as if struck. ‘How’d you know I left them up in Turthing?’

  ‘I’m paying someone in your entourage. Loyalty ain’t what it used to be.’

  ‘If you’ve harmed them… you… you fucking—’

  ‘They ain’t been harmed. Yet. But here’s the situation as I see it. You’re gonna head back to the Blue Reaching and start marshalling your forces. For every five hundred warriors you send, I’ll let one of your boys go. If a month passes without any reinforcements arriving… Well, I’ll still send a son back, ’cept this time he’ll be in a box. And more than likely in pieces. Depends on the size of the box, I guess.’

  Hrothgar looked as though he had aged ten years in a single minute. ‘The Code… my honour…’

  ‘Aye, you’re old school. Just like Orgrim here, until he saw sense. Like I said, the times are changing. And just to prove I’m serious, I got something to show you.’

  Sir Meredith’s nose wrinkled with distaste as he held the torch out over the cesspit. If his peers at the royal palace could see him now, why, they would soil their own robes laughing. Once he had been the Sword Lord, a champion of the Circle and First Knight of the King. Now he was aide-de-camp to a mad barbarian who was currently scrabbling around in a literal shithole. How the mighty had fallen.

  ‘May this accursed country and everyone in it drown in shit!’ he swore, unable to stop himself.

  ‘Reckon you could hold that torch still and shut the fuck up?’ the King shouted up at him from the pit.

  Sir Meredith stiffened. If any other man had dared address him in that tone, he would have challenged them to a duel instantly. He had killed men for less back in Tarbonne. Yet somehow he managed to keep silent. An admirable feat of self-control, he told himself. He wasn’t afraid of the one-eyed barbarian King. Fear had absolutely nothing to do with it.

  ‘She’s gone!’ roared Krazka. ‘That bitch is gone! Get down here! All of you.’

  The Kingsmen climbed down into the pit. Sir Meredith came last, cursing and blustering with every step, his armour feeling as though it weighed as much as a horse. He reached the bottom and felt his boots squelch on something unpleasant. He winced, and then he brought his torch up and looked around.

  A moment later he saw the broken cage. Shattered pieces of wicker floated in pools of stinking piss and muddy faeces. It would have taken a strong man indeed to have hacked apart the prison and freed its occupant. Sir Meredith met Krazka’s gaze, and even the human effluence surrounding them was a pleasant sight compared with the fury burning in that lone orb.

  ‘Yorn,’ rasped the King.

  He stomped through Heartstone, his armour clanking angrily with every step. A flash of magic lit the night sky to the west; the King’s circle were still laying waste to the Blacktooth’s camp. Shranree’s passions would run hot tonight, but Sir Meredith cared not for that. The acrid stench of burning flesh overpowered even the stink of the shit that clung to his boots, but he paid it no mind.

  Behind him, Rayne and Ryder hurried to keep up. ‘Why’re you so pissed off, iron man?’ Rayne asked. ‘A sorceress and a bunch of kids fleeing town is nothing to get so worked up about.’

  ‘None of your bloody business!’ Sir Meredith snapped. The guards on the western gate had told them what had happened. He probably hadn’t needed to kill them afterwards, but their negligence in allowing Heartstone’s foundlings to flee uncontested was simply intolerable, and Sir Meredith was in no mood to be lenient.

  They reached the Foundry. Judging by the red glow emanating from within, it appeared at least one of the furnaces still burned. Sir Meredith kicked open the door and stormed in.

  It was deserted save for the old greybeard Braxus. The burly blacksmith had his back to them and didn’t turn as their booted feet echoed through the chamber. Instead he leaned over the anvil beside the furnace and continued to hammer away at whatever he was working on. The molten metal in the open forge cast an eerie orange glow over the scene.

  ‘Braxus.’ Meredith halted ten feet behind the blacksmith, who for a moment did not respond. Finally he seemed to nod, and then he very carefully placed his hammer down on the anvil before turning.

  ‘I guessed I’d be seeing you here.’

  ‘You know why we’ve come?’

  ‘I reckon so.’

  Sir Meredith drew his sabre. ‘Then you also know what’s about to happen. Why did you do it, old man? Why let them go?’

  Braxus’s brow furrowed as if he didn’t understand the question.

  ‘Was it the sorceress? Did she cast some kind of spell on you? It won’t change your fate, but it might at least excuse your actions. Your betrayal. It might save your honour.’

  ‘Honour?’ Braxus laughed, a deep, booming sound that reverberated through the chamber. ‘They call you the iron man. I know a thing or two about iron myself. Worked it for forty years. The thing to remember about iron is that no matter how long you spend beating it, shaping into something worthy, if the ore ain’t any good it’ll always break. You can’t disguise bad iron, no matter how hard you try. Same thing applies to a man’s character. You might act like some kind of knight or lord or whatever they call them in the Lowlands, wearing your shiny armour as if you’re better than everyone else. But inside you’re rotten.’

  Sir Meredith’s eyes narrowed. ‘Tell me where Yorn and the sorceress are taking the foundlings.’

  Braxus shrugged his heavy shoulders. ‘Damned if I know. But if I did, I don’t reckon I’d be telling you.’

  The Sword Lord took a couple of steps towards the blacksmith. ‘When we catch up with them I shall execute the traitor Yorn myself. No doubt my colleagues here will take advantage of the situation to rape the sorceress. One can hardly hold that against them – it is after all part of their base nature. Now, what happens to the children is still for me to decide. With every obstinate word that tumbles out of your mouth, I fear my heart grows harder.’

  ‘They’re kids, you crazy bastard. They’re innocent.’

  ‘There is no innocence. Not in this world.’

  The old blacksmith stared at Sir Meredith, meeting his gaze, as if searching for something. ‘You’re not rotten,’ he said at last, as if some truth had just been confirmed. ‘You’re broken.’

  You’re broken.

  The words opened the black pit inside him and all the ugliness of his soul surged out, screaming.

  He brought his sabre flashing around just as Braxus reached for the hammer resting on the anvil. The blacksmith was still a strong man, but he had slowed in old age, if indeed he had ever been fast. Sir Meredith cut his arm off at the elbow before the hammer was even halfway raised. Braxus stared dumbly as the severed limb flopped to the ground, the hammer tumbling from his fingers to strike the floor with a bang. Meredith sheathed his sabre, then grabbed Braxus around his thick neck. He spun the blacksmith around and forced his head down, down into the molten iron.

  Red Rayne looked away, and even Ryder’s face paled a little. Braxus himself didn’t make a sound. He only shuddered, and a moment later his body went limp.

  Sir Meredith hardly noticed. He was remembering hands running down his trousers. Pulling them off while he panicked, not knowing what was happening. Not knowing until he was much older, and by then it had been much too late.

  He had tried to flee the memories. He had left the High Fangs and journeyed south, thinking he could be reborn in a distant land where no one knew his face or the things that had been done to him.
For a time it had worked. He became someone else.

  But eventually the inescapable truth caught up with him. It was there in the mocking smiles of the courtiers. It was there in the faces of the women he knew fucked him out of pity. It was there in the dark desires that had arisen within him of late, desires that had ultimately played some part in the Duke declaring war over the ugly matter of his grandson. Meredith bitterly regretted not disposing of the boy’s body.

  He dragged Braxus’s corpse away from the furnace. The blacksmith’s head had melted away from his shoulders, leaving only part of his jaw. The knight let the body flop to the ground and turned to the other Kingsmen.

  ‘Krazka needs those orphans returned to Heartstone. He’s promised them to the Herald. We’ll chase them to the ends of the earth if we must.’

  To fail in his quest wasn’t an option. After all, he too wanted what had been promised to him.

  Twenty-four Years Ago

  Brodar Kayne drew his cloak tighter and bent his head into the breeze. It sent his hair dancing around his shoulders as he leaned forward on his mare and listened to the howling of the wind through the nearby hills and the sound of the horse’s hoofs striking the road that led back to Watcher’s Keep. There’d been a bitter chill in the air the last few days. Winter was coming again.

  Had it been almost a year already? He was going to miss the first anniversary of his joining, he realized unhappily. He wanted to turn around, to tug on the reins and gallop straight back to Mhaira and his newborn son. Duty called him back to the Keep before he’d barely got to know his beautiful little boy.

  He saw Magnar’s face in his mind’s eye again. The babe had Mhaira’s eyes, sure enough, but he reckoned his son had been lumbered with his father’s nose. The more he takes after his mother the better, he thought wryly.

  He tried to stay positive. Only three more years in the Borderland and he’d be free to return to Mhaira, this time for good. He would be a proper husband and father. Use his pension to build a house somewhere on the outskirts of Eastmeet. He wasn’t much of a carpenter, but he reckoned there was no small number of men who’d volunteer to lend a hand.