by Luke Scull
Orgrim’s shoulders sagged. ‘Him,’ he whispered, nodding at Sir Meredith.
‘Shranree?’ the King asked.
The sorceress cleared her throat. ‘My king, Red Rayne is clearly unbalanced. His fireplant addiction makes him a liability and his loss of fighting skill means he is no longer fit to guard you. Sir Meredith is without question the better man.’
‘Bullshit!’ Rayne roared again. His face had turned as red as his epithet, the jhaeld in his blood pushing him to the brink of a berserker rage.
Krazka’s eye narrowed and he stared off into the blizzard as if deep in thought. ‘That’s two votes each. Looks like I get to cast the deciding vote.’ There was a terrible pause before the King’s weapon swung back to Sir Meredith. ‘Think that metal armour will protect you, sir knight?’
Meredith felt a warm trickle beneath his cuisses and he realized he had pissed himself. He squeezed his eyes shut, waited for the end.
The blast sent him crashing to the ground in an armoured heap. He lay flattened for a moment, his ears ringing from the thunderous noise, too shocked to move. Then he rolled over and groaned. He reached out to push himself up and felt something soft and spongy beneath his gauntlets. He opened his eyes.
The grey, snaking mess of Rayne’s brains were splattered all over the snow. The man’s body was crumpled nearby, dark matter hanging out of the shattered remnants of his skull. There was blood everywhere.
A shadow loomed over him. It was Krazka, the barrel of the terrible weapon he clutched smoking gently in his hand. ‘You may be the better man,’ he drawled, ‘but if you ever pull a stunt like that again, it’ll be your corpse lying headless on the snow. We understand each other, sir knight?’
‘Yes,’ Sir Meredith managed.
‘Yes what?’
‘Yes… my king.’
He drove his sword home again and again. Krazka’s face filled his world as he thrust, gasping with effort, sweat pouring down his face. ‘Die,’ he rasped. ‘Die, you bloody savage.’
The King tried to scream but no sound emerged. Sir Meredith smiled and thrust harder, revelling in his mastery, relishing the restoration of the natural order of things. He was a knight. Knights did not cower before barbarians.
He felt a sudden sting on his face. He snapped out of his reverie to see Shranree’s nails clawing at his cheeks, her body writhing beneath him. His hands were wrapped around her throat, choking her as agreed, but he’d got carried away in his fantasy and now she was turning red, no longer able to breathe. He relaxed his grip and turned away from the woman, rolling onto his back to stare up at the wooden ceiling while she coughed and spluttered on the bed beside him.
‘You almost strangled me,’ she gasped, rubbing at her neck. ‘A few seconds more and the King would be searching for another Kingsman. You are a good fuck, but you are not worth dying for.’
As if to reinforce the threat in her words, Shranree’s hand glowed briefly. A moment later the red marks around her neck faded. Sir Meredith stared at his rapidly wilting manhood and wanted to scream. How many more times was he going to be emasculated this day?
As his desire slipped away, Meredith was glad for the robe Shranree pulled on to cover her fleshy figure. He barely found her attractive at the best of times, and in truth was still confused as to why he had agreed to meet with her at all. After his humiliation earlier that day company had been the last thing on his mind. He ought to be preparing himself for the war to come, not lying here ploughing this shapeless sack of flesh.
Shranree’s heavy cheeks were still flushed from the ferocity of their lovemaking. He flinched as she placed a hand on his forearm. ‘The King was not jesting earlier,’ she said quietly. ‘If you go against his will again, he will kill you.’
Sir Meredith felt his teeth grinding together. ‘The King is insane,’ he replied bitterly. ‘A madman. In Carhein the city’s physicians would lock him in an asylum and throw away the key.’
‘At first I too believed him mad. I have since learned the opposite is in fact true. Most see the world through a prism constructed of a hundred thousand lies, but Krazka sees only reality. Great men must embrace reality in order to shape it to their will.’
Sir Meredith frowned. ‘And what is reality, woman?’
‘We live in a godless world. A dying world. When hope fades, it is better to submit to the darkness than to resist. The King knows what he wants and he lets nothing dissuade him from it.’
‘What do you want?’ Meredith asked. The woman was beginning to irritate him. She sounded like one of the Nameless cultists back in Grantz, with all her talk of submitting to the darkness. He was a knight. He would forever walk in the light.
‘Power,’ she said simply. ‘When the Lowlands eventually fall, I will claim a dominion of my own down south.’ She briefly rose from the bed and her robes fell away to reveal her soft curves beneath. ‘I should like a consort to rule beside me,’ she said, reaching towards his flaccid member. ‘Perhaps we could claim one of the Shattered Realms. Maybe even Tarbonne. Would you like that, lover?’
The thought of his beloved Tarbonne befouled by an army of his countrymen and a horde of demons filled Sir Meredith with horror. It was too precious a jewel to be desecrated by fiends and barbarians.
He had made a mistake in coming back, he saw that now. This was no land for a knight.
Shranree’s round face creased in confusion as he batted away her hand. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked, as he bent down and retrieved his sword belt from the floor.
‘I’m done here,’ he said crisply. He was done, in more ways than one. He began to gather up the pieces of his armour.
‘You can’t just walk out,’ Shranree hissed. Her voice had turned ugly. ‘Who do you think you are?’
‘I, milady, am a knight,’ he snapped.
Shranree rolled off the bed. Her feet struck the floor with a hefty thump, and she leaned down to gather her discarded robes. ‘A knight,’ she said, her voice thick with scorn. ‘Why, you didn’t look like a knight earlier. I saw you piss your pants.’
Sir Meredith stiffened. ‘Watch your whore tongue,’ he rasped, his hands twitching.
Shranree finished gathering up her robes. As she straightened, something seemed to occur to her. Without turning, she said, ‘I always wondered why your mother gave you a girl’s name. Now I know.’
Shranree was still snorting with amusement when Sir Meredith’s sabre burst through her back.
The snow had stopped falling at last. The night was still and silent, the town buried beneath a blanket of white. Sentries were posted on the walls, their torches casting long shadows over Heartstone, but their attention was directed towards the north and the south and the west, where the armies of three hostile Reachings were encamped.
It was to the east where Sir Meredith’s eyes were fixed. The burden he dragged behind him left a deep furrow in the snow. ‘Why did I come back?’ he muttered feverishly to himself, over and over again, sweat rolling down his brow and dripping from his chin. If only that bitch hadn’t opened her fat mouth.
‘Insolent whore!’ he swore, instantly clamping a hand over his face, afraid that someone might hear him. He took a deep breath and tried to focus. He needed to get the body out of Heartstone and dispose of it before anyone discovered Shranree was missing.
He slowed as he neared the east gate. The guards on duty recognized him and threw hurried salutes, no doubt keenly aware of the fate that had befallen their counterparts on the west gate. They stared at the sack Sir Meredith hauled with curious expressions.
‘What ya doing?’ one dared asked, his rustic manner of speech making Sir Meredith shudder.
‘The King’s business,’ Sir Meredith shot back. ‘Get that bloody gate open – and learn some eloquence, damn you!’
The guards hurried to obey. One of them kept glancing at the sack, a deep frown on his bearded face. The knight memorized the man’s features, thinking that he might need to make him vanish if the opportunity pre
sented itself.
‘Need some ’elp?’ asked the first guard as Sir Meredith hauled his burden through the gates. The dropped ‘h’ was simply too egregious after everything else that had transpired that day. Meredith spun and backhanded the guard across the face with his iron gauntlets, cracking his jaw and knocking out several teeth.
‘When a knight gives you an order, you obey it,’ he said furiously.
He dragged Shranree’s corpse away from the gate and down the road a short distance, and then descended the shallow embankment south of the road. There was a small stream just ahead. It wasn’t ideal, but it should serve to hide the evidence. In his mind’s eye he saw Rayne’s brains seeping out of his skull, and he shuddered.
He reached the stream and let the sack go slack. He rubbed his aching back, cursing the day he had decided to lower his standards for such a woman. For a moment he had the uneasy thought that perhaps he was going native. Would he soon be trading wine for mead and stumbling home excited by the prospect of a toothless mouth gumming his manhood? The image filled him with revulsion.
Yet another reason to leave this accursed land as soon as possible.
He grabbed hold of the sack and was preparing to drag it into the water when he noticed the stream was frozen solid. He stared at it in disbelief. How could he have been so stupid?
‘Shit,’ he said. This had gone well beyond a debacle. Now it was a damned calamity.
He was searching desperately for another spot to dump the corpse when he noticed someone approaching from the road. He drew his sabre, knowing that if he was discovered and word got back to the King, his life would be forfeit.
It was that bastard Wulgreth. The Northman was dressed for travel, a thick cloak thrown over his hide armour and a satchel slung over his shoulder. And yet he wasn’t carrying his spear, or indeed a weapon of any description. Sir Meredith was both surprised and elated. He would make quick work of this fool.
For some reason, however, Wulgreth seemed amused. ‘Iron man. I thought as much.’
Sir Meredith looked around to be sure no one was with Wulgreth. ‘Did the guards raise the alarm?’ he demanded.
‘They never saw me leave.’
Meredith’s eyes narrowed. ‘You are a fool to travel unarmed.’
‘Weapons come in many forms.’ Wulgreth’s eyes settled on the sack. Even in the darkness, they seemed to have a reddish tint. ‘You murdered his favourite sorceress. The blood is still fresh.’
‘She impugned my honour. That may mean little to you – but to a knight it is not something that can be borne. She left me little choice but to kill her. As do you.’
‘Do not threaten me, iron man.’
‘A barbarian threatens. A knight asserts.’ Sir Meredith stormed forward, preparing to drive his sabre through this arrogant Northman’s pale flesh.
Wulgreth uttered a single word that made no sense. Suddenly the hilt of Sir Meredith’s sabre glowed red hot and he dropped the weapon, yelping in pain. The Northman’s eyes were a brighter red now, like two hot coals sparking to life.
‘You… You’re a wizard?’ Meredith asked hoarsely.
‘Of a kind.’
‘Why are you here?’
Wulgreth reached up to his neck and fondled the key that was hanging on a thin chain there. ‘My work in this part of the world is finished. The gholam is free and the markers are in place. I was preparing to follow the road east and then south when the blood of this sorceress called to me.’
Sir Meredith looked down at the corpse at his feet. ‘You wish to use her body?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’ Wulgreth walked over to the sack and pulled it away from Shranree. He gazed at the woman hungrily.
Sir Meredith’s bile rose in his throat then, but when Wulgreth knelt down he did nothing of a carnal nature. Instead, he shoved a single finger inside the gaping wound in Shranree’s back and muttered some arcane words. Moments later the sorceress’s body began to deflate, as if her internal fluids were being leached away. Within seconds the corpse had been reduced to a withered husk, unrecognizable as anything that might once have been human.
Wulgreth straightened; his eyes shone like rubies in his skull. ‘I believe that is what they call one for the road. Now, I must go. The Master awaits.’
Sir Meredith stared at the revolting thing that had once been Shranree. ‘The Master,’ he repeated in a daze of horrified fascination. ‘You don’t mean Krazka.’
‘I do not.’
‘Then… who? Who is your master?’
‘You might call him… a weaver. He plucks the threads of countless lives and shapes the Pattern to his will.’
Sir Meredith watched Wulgreth climb back up the embankment. Fear warred with valour, and as it always did in a true knight valour won out. ‘Wait,’ he called. ‘Let me come with you.’
The wizard’s voice reached him as a sinister whisper that nonetheless carried the length of the embankment. ‘You cannot walk the paths I walk, iron man. Besides, Wolgred the Wanderer always travels alone.’
Executed
The banging on the cell door startled him awake. He’d been dreaming of her again. Every time he closed his eyes and drifted off it was Monique’s face that occupied his thoughts. For that small blessing, if nothing else, he was grateful.
There were worse things to dwell on, the night before a man’s execution.
There was another bang on the door and then the rattle of a key being inserted into the lock. The Halfmage shivered despite the sweat that suddenly sprang from his brow.
It’s time.
The door scraped open and a Watchman melted out of the shadows to peer into the cell. ‘You awake?’
‘Of course. It would be rather careless of me to sleep through my own execution.’
‘You going to come peacefully? No magic?’
‘That was the deal.’
At least he hoped that was still the case – Timerus had nothing to gain by breaking his word and harming Monique once this was all over. The Grand Regent would stick to his promise; he had to keep telling himself that. The alternative was too terrible to contemplate.
‘You need help with that chair?’
‘How very generous of you to offer,’ he replied acerbically, though in truth Eremul was slightly taken aback by the earnestness in the guard’s voice. The noble men of the Crimson Watch had wasted no opportunity to torment him during his incarceration. What better way to honour the last days of the condemned than to piss in his food, or threaten to burn down the depository and his life’s work with it? Whatever one might say about Marshal Bracka’s incompetence when it came to keeping the city safe, the new commander of the Watch was determined not to let standards drop in the arena of petty cruelty.
There wasn’t any malice in this particular’s Watchman’s eyes. Only a mild consternation as he came and took hold of Eremul’s chair and wheeled him out of the cell into the dungeons that occupied the lowest level of the Obelisk’s dark bulk. Torches lined the walls, illuminating the slabs and tools Eremul knew so intimately. The person he had once been had died in this place; died to be reborn as the Halfmage. It was fitting that it would serve as his final stop now, before the maimed mockery of a man who had survived the Culling all those years ago departed this world for good.
‘Why’d you do it?’ asked the Watchman as he guided Eremul up the stairs leading to the ground floor. ‘You were a hero. Why plot to destroy the city you helped free from the tyrant? It makes no sense.’
‘Who can know the mind of a madman,’ Eremul replied drolly. He was tired of protesting his innocence. It would make no difference. He and Lorganna would hang at noon; the world would carry on spinning, people would carry on fighting and fucking and dying, and no one would give two shits that he was gone. Until recently he wouldn’t have done either – but now he felt an acute sense of regret that he would be leaving Monique so suddenly, without even saying goodbye. No sooner had he found something of value in his life than it was cruelly taken
from him.
It’s the irony that kills. It was fortunate the gods were dead, or he might accuse them of having a sense of humour.
‘My old ma didn’t think so,’ said the Watchman unexpectedly.
‘Think what?’ Eremul’s earlier stoicism was beginning to waver now. His stomach churned with nerves; the armour of anger and resentment that had served to keep the terror at arm’s length was beginning to fail as the moment drew nearer.
‘Think you were mad. She came to you seeking aid. You gave her an elixir to help with the pain in her joints. She said you wouldn’t accept payment.’
Eremul frowned, trying to remember the instance the guard referred to. The weeks following Salazar’s death had become a blur with all that had transpired since. ‘I don’t recall. How is she feeling?’
‘She’s walking much better.’
‘Lucky for some of us, I suppose.’
They exited the stairwell and approached the Obelisk’s double doors. Eremul closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the soft breeze washing down the entrance hall, enjoying these last few seconds of peace before his ignoble march – or rather trundle – to the hangman’s noose. He wondered if his life would flash before him in the moment before the rope went taut. He wondered if he would see her face one last time.
The patter of rain struck his head and finally he opened his eyes. Angry clouds filled the sky from horizon to horizon. There would be no last glorious moment in the sun for him – only a thorough drenching courtesy of the late-autumn storm.
But then, I would expect nothing less.
As he was wheeled through the courtyard other Watchmen fell in behind them from the barracks on either side. Several had crossbows levelled on him.
‘Ready to die, half-man?’ one of the officers sneered.
Eremul ignored the guard and fixed his attention on the streets as the procession headed east and then south towards the Hook. The Noble Quarter had been ransacked months past, and things had got even worse since then as the White Lady had continued to asset-strip the city’s wealth. Dorminia was ripe for insurrection, a fact the woman who had posed as Lorganna had been quick to use for her own ends. What Melissan’s ends were exactly, Eremul still hadn’t figured out. He was still confused as to why she had drawn him into her schemes. Why set up the meeting at the lighthouse? Why allow him to experiment with the prisoner and uncover the truth about the mind-controlling tattoos?
