by Luke Scull
‘I’m fine,’ he grunted. ‘Damn snow getting in my eyes.’ He straightened slowly, his creaking knees hurting worse than ever. ‘We can build a fire once we’re inside the forest. Keep everyone warm until this passes.’
‘Won’t that draw the attention of the Wildfolk?’
‘It might, but we can fight ’em if it comes to it. There ain’t no fighting the cold.’
Jana nodded and turned to help Corinn, who was trying to get Milo to eat something. The tiny orphan kept asking about Grunt. He was too young to understand that his big green friend wouldn’t be coming back.
‘I can hunt us some game,’ Brick said. ‘Jerek taught me how.’
Kayne watched the flame-haired youngster fiddle with his bow and felt a warm pride in the boy. He was turning into a man and a true one at that. If he’d done anything right these last few months it was sparing Brick’s life when he’d had the chance.
With Kayne and Brick leading the way, the odd little group entered the Greenwild. As the forest welcomed them into its snow-swept embrace, Kayne offered the spirits a silent prayer for seeing them this far.
He also said a prayer for friends lost along the way. For Jerek. For Grunt. Even for Brick’s uncle Glaston. He couldn’t shake the feeling he would be joining them soon enough.
Days merged into each other as they followed the rough paths leading north through the Greenwild. The weather grew colder, but even late in autumn the forest canopy above sheltered them from the worst vagaries of the approaching winter. Occasionally a snowstorm would shake the trees and cover the woodland floor in a blanket of white, but there was plenty of firewood to burn and game to hunt and water to refill their empty skins. Brick brought back rabbits and deer, even a small wild boar, though Kayne almost put his back out dragging the beast to camp. They ate well, however, and soon the children were in much better spirits.
One mild evening, a week after they first crossed into the Greenwild, Corinn was attempting to start a fire without success while Kayne and Brick sat together preparing dinner. The old Highlander gave the youngster a nudge and nodded at the struggling girl. ‘Seems like a good opportunity to lend a hand.’
‘Huh?’ Brick looked up from skinning a rabbit and pretended to notice Corinn for the first time that evening. His green eyes narrowed. ‘I’m a little busy right now,’ he said, fixing the tiny carcass with a good, hard stare as if to prove his point.
Kayne reached out and placed a firm hand on the boy’s arm. ‘I can take care of that,’ he said. ‘The girl’s been through hell seeing these little ’uns all to safety. I reckon she could use a friend.’
‘Jana’s her friend!’
‘Jana’s busy.’
Jana Shah Shan was practising her combat postures at the edge of the forest clearing. A handful of children watched, though by now many were bored of the routine. Jana did the same thing for hours each night, pushing herself as hard as she could, immersing herself in her Unity.
Kayne figured he knew why. The shame in her eyes still hadn’t faded. She’d frozen back there in the ruins, lost her discipline and submitted to her fear. It had happened to him once and he knew from experience that it could take years to recover, to forgive oneself for that moment of weakness.
Corinn was still struggling to start the campfire. She threw the flint at the ground and rubbed her teary eyes in frustration, the sort that wasn’t solely down to the matter at hand. Kayne was about to climb to his feet and offer the girl some help when, to his surprise, Brick clambered up and went to her.
‘All right?’ he said guardedly.
Corinn looked at him with her pretty blue eyes. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly.
Brick glanced back at Kayne, rising panic on his face. He looked as though he were about to flee. The old warrior gave him an encouraging wave. ‘Go on,’ he mouthed silently.
Brick hesitated, frozen by indecision. Lucky for him, Corinn took the lead. ‘I’m trying to start a fire,’ she said.
‘Well… you’re doing it wrong.’
‘Bloody hell, Brick,’ Kayne mouthed. You’re as bad as the Wolf, he was about to add, but in the end it didn’t feel right. Fortunately, Brick seemed to realize something more was required.
‘I can help you. If you want,’ he finished lamely.
Corinn brushed a few strands of blond hair from her face and nodded. ‘Okay,’ she said.
A moment later the two of them had a fire going. Brick risked a satisfied half-smile, but something on Corinn’s face must have startled him as it faded immediately. ‘Are you crying?’ he asked.
‘No. Well, a little. I was remembering my father.’
Brick hesitated. ‘Is he waiting for you? Up in the mountains?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay.’
A moment of silence passed. ‘My uncle died recently. He was like a father to me, too. I miss him.’
Kayne forced himself to stop listening at that point. He turned away and reached into the bag at his waist. He took out the small bundle wrapped in cloth, opened it and stared at the contents. At the old silver ring. At the lock of hair Mhaira had given to him when she became so sick he was certain he would lose her. The memory of those few days still gave him nightmares.
He stared at the knife he’d fashioned for Magnar’s fourteenth naming day. The image of his son trapped in a wicker cage wormed its way into his mind again and he fumbled the knife. He picked it up with shaking hands and looked around, afraid someone might have seen. If any of the children had noticed, they were too young to understand. His gaze settled on Brick and Corinn. Even in his grief he managed a small smile.
They were standing side by side by the fire, their hands clasped tightly together.
The next day they came across the devastation that had been inflicted on the Greenwild during the fight between Yllandris and her pursuers.
Swathes of forest had been reduced to blackened wasteland. At one point, nothing but a thick carpet of ash covered the ground for miles. The scale of the damage was appalling, and despite everything Kayne found himself feeling sorry for the Wildfolk that had come looking for vengeance. They were just as much victims as anyone else.
They encountered no living Wildfolk as they continued north through the burned-out forest. With a heavy heart, Kayne wondered if the group that had accompanied Ryder to Mal-Torrad had been the last of their kind. The Wildfolk had dwelled within the Greenwild for centuries, before the coming of the Shaman. Their passing would be another small tragedy in an age that had already seen so many peoples fade from the world.
As they crossed yet another field of ash, Brick spotted a strange sight. A circle of trees stood undamaged in the wasteland: an island of green amidst the ruin. Corinn recognized it immediately. ‘The Nexus Glade,’ she gasped from where she walked beside Brick. The two youngsters spent all their time together now.
‘You know this place?’ Kayne asked.
Corinn nodded. ‘This is where the iron man and the others caught up with us.’
‘How’d it survive the fire?’
‘This place is blessed,’ Corinn replied. ‘The spirits watch over it.’
Kayne turned and waited for Jana, who was hanging back to ensure none of the orphans wandered off. ‘You mind stopping here with the children? I don’t want the little ’uns seeing anything that might upset them.’
Jana called a halt, and together with Brick and Corinn Kayne made his way into the mysterious glade. He half expected a scene of mass slaughter, but what he found instead was a sight that made his old heart ache. The body of a young woman lay curled up on the grass. She had a deep wound in her chest where the killing blow had been delivered, but her expression was strangely peaceful in death. An old canvas sack lay nearby. Kayne saw it and thought of Grunt.
‘Yllandris,’ Corinn gasped suddenly. She rushed over, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Brick examined the sack. ‘It’s filled with bones.’
&nbs
p; ‘The remains of the children Krazka sacrificed to the Herald,’ Corinn said, cradling the body of the woman in her arms. ‘Yllandris wanted to bury them here.’
Kayne cracked his fingers. ‘Brick, help me find a sturdy branch. I’m gonna need to build a shovel.’
They spent the next hour digging four graves for the sad remains of the orphans and the pretty sorceress. As they laid them to rest, a thought occurred to Kayne. ‘This young woman,’ he said to Corinn. ‘Did she know Magnar?’
Corinn started as if surprised by the question. ‘She was his paramour.’
Kayne froze. ‘His paramour?’
‘You know. His… lover. Ever since last year. He was very fond of her. Or at least that’s what all the women used to say.’
‘Did… did she love him? My son, I mean. Did she love my son?’
‘People used to say mean things about her. That she wasn’t capable of loving anyone except herself. But I heard the way she spoke about Magnar after we fled town. She loved him.’ Corinn glanced at Brick and flushed slightly.
‘I never knew,’ Kayne said brokenly. He was burying his son’s first love – and he’d never even known her.
When finally they left the Greenwild, it was to be met by the breathtaking sight of rolling white hills. The Green Reaching was covered in snow as far as the eye could see.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Brick said, awestruck.
‘It’s home,’ Kayne said simply. Behind him the foundlings made happy noises and began scooping up handfuls of snow. Tiny Tom was feeling much better now, and he threw a handful of snow at Milo, squealing in delight.
Jana looked around, her eyes wide in amazement. ‘It’s like a white sea,’ she said in wonder.
‘Does it ever snow where you’re from?’ Kayne asked.
‘Once, when I was a girl. But nothing like this.’
Kayne closed his eyes for a moment. He was remembering the morning he and Mhaira and Magnar had been playing out in the snowy fields just before he’d been called away to the war. Those had been simpler times. Happier times. His reminiscing was abruptly shattered by Brick nudging him in the ribs.
‘Men approaching,’ the boy hissed. ‘Dozens. And they’re armed.’
Kayne’s eyes snapped open. ‘This far south?’ he muttered, shocked and dismayed. He’d been intending to see the orphans to Southhaven, then find a horse and ride west and north, circling around to the West Reaching and joining up with Carn Bloodfist’s army. If even the peaceful Green Reaching had become caught up in the war, nowhere in the Heartlands was likely to be safe.
Brick was readying his bow. Kayne placed a firm hand around his narrow shoulders and shook his head. ‘Not here, lad. There’s too many.’
‘We’re not going to fight?’
‘We’re outnumbered twenty to one.’
‘But… you’re the Sword of the North.’
‘I’m just a man, lad. One man goes up against twenty, he gets a spear in the back and a half a dozen swords in the ribs while he’s wondering which way to turn first. Twenty on one, it don’t matter how good the one is. Fact is, he dies.’ He remembered Red Valley, men dropping like leaves all around him. He looked at Jana, noticed the set of her jaw and the glint in her eyes. She wanted a fight, wanted the chance to regain whatever honour she thought she’d lost back in the ruins. ‘Let me do the talking,’ he said firmly.
The band of warriors approached slowly. They were dressed for battle, fully armoured and bristling with weapons. Many wore cloaks with fur-lined hoods covering their faces, but those that didn’t looked young. Very young.
One warrior, a big fellow with a deep cleft in his chin who couldn’t have seen his twentieth winter, took a step forward. He hardly seemed able to control his anger. ‘Got some gall passing back this way after the evil shit you done.’ He cleared his throat noisily and spat.
Kayne glanced at the yellow spittle dribbling down the front of his leather vest. He took a deep breath to calm himself, then, keeping his voice level and his hands by his sides: ‘Come again?’
‘Men and children slain. Women raped with cold steel and left to bleed out. The Butcher thinks we’re sheep-fuckers and cowards? That he can send his Kingsmen to terrorize us and we’ll bend over and take it?’
‘Hang on a minute, I ain’t no Kingsman—’
‘Bullshit!’ the warrior roared. A vein on his thick neck stood out angrily. ‘You chased these kids all the way down from Heartstone on the King’s orders. What, sacrificing children to demons wasn’t enough for you, old man? Couldn’t get you hard enough?’
‘Watch your mouth,’ Kayne snarled. He had his greatsword in his hands, his own anger getting the better of him now.
The cleft-jawed warrior advanced, two spearmen falling in behind him, their hoods hiding their faces. ‘I’m gonna send your head back to that butcher,’ the leader hissed. He sprang at Kayne, sword flashing down.
Kayne casually disarmed the young firebrand, then planted a boot in his mid-section and sent him flailing back to land flat on his arse.
The spearman on the left leaped at him, thrusting towards his chest. Kayne knocked aside the stabbing steel tip, kicked away the man’s legs and sent his weapon skittering across the snow with a flick of his foot.
That left one spearman remaining, at least as an immediate threat. This bastard was good, much better than Kayne might’ve expected. He seemed to waver a little as if drunk, and in fact Kayne could smell the mead on the man’s breath – but his spear batted aside Kayne’s every attack, thwarted his every effort at subduing the fellow.
The apparent leader of the band, the big one with the cleft in his chin, clambered to his feet and turned to his men. ‘Kill him!’ he roared.
Out of the corner of his eye Kayne saw Brick fumbling for an arrow and Jana Shah Shan taking up a fighting stance. ‘Call your men off!’ he tried to yell. ‘I ain’t no Kingsman!’ But the damned spearman kept coming at him, and any second now the other warriors would reach him. He and Jana and maybe even Brick were going to die here, all because of one hot-headed young fool with fire in his blood who’d mistaken him for someone else. He snarled and redoubled his efforts until he drove the spearman to his knees. He lined up his greatsword for a killing blow. There was no point pulling his punches; it seemed they were beyond that.
‘Kayne?’
The disbelieving gasp reached his ears at the last possible moment. He turned his blade aside just before it cleaved through the man’s neck, staring down in disbelief as the warrior reached up and pulled back his hood.
‘Taran?’ he said dumbly, once his brain finally caught up.
It’d been many years since he’d last seen that face, and it had changed for the worse. Taran had been handsome once, but now his skin had the ruddy, vein-threaded complexion of a man who’d drunk far too much. His eyes were yellowed and dull and his teeth, where he still had them, more brown than white.
Taran scrambled up and twisted to face the advancing warriors. ‘Stop,’ he shouted. ‘He’s not lying. This ain’t no Kingsman!’
‘Then who the fuck is he? He sure as hell fights like one.’ The leader scowled and held up a hand, halting his men.
‘This… this man here is the Sword of the North.’
That brought gasps and incredulous laughter from the band of warriors. ‘You taking the piss, Taran?’ said Cleft-chin angrily. ‘The Sword of the North’s ancient history. Borun hunted him down.’
‘Aye,’ Kayne said, reaching up and sheathing his greatsword. ‘He hunted me down. But I’m still here, and Borun’s dead.’
It turned out the leader’s name was Carver. He was the eldest son of Brandwyn the Younger, chieftain of the Green Reaching, and he and his band had set out from Southhaven as soon as his father’s council had voted in favour of war against Krazka. The atrocities committed in the King’s name could not go unanswered.
Kayne listened as Carver described the events that had led to the Butcher King seizing the throne whilst the Shaman and th
e Brethren were elsewhere, summoned down to the Trine by the Tyrant of Dorminia. Kayne himself had witnessed the moment the Shaman had received news of Krazka’s audacious coup, though at the time all he knew was that Heartstone was in grave peril. The revelation that Mhaira yet lived had stunned him. It was only after he considered what Heartstone’s peril actually meant that he had begun to fear for Magnar.
‘Demons,’ he said again. ‘What kind of man bargains with demons?’
‘A madman,’ Carver replied. ‘You never saw the things Krazka did at Beregund.’
No, Kayne thought bitterly. I was trapped in a cage while my friends were murdered and the capital was burned to the ground.
‘What you gonna do, Kayne?’ Taran asked. The one-time Warden was a broken man. Red Valley had done to him all those years ago what the horrors of the Borderland couldn’t. Soon after returning from the war, Taran had been exiled from Heartstone for beating his wife to death in a drunken rage. Kayne had wanted nothing to do with his old friend after that. As Taran sat there now, breath stinking of mead, Kayne just felt pity for him.
‘Krazka’s placed my boy in a wicker cage,’ he said quietly. ‘I got no love for the Shaman, but if I’m gonna get Magnar out of there, he and the Bloodfist are my only hope.’
‘Rumour is the Shaman’s not long for this world,’ Carver said. ‘He’s dying, if such a thing’s possible. Hasn’t been seen in months. Most of the Brethren were slaughtered outside Heartstone’s walls.’ The young warrior shook his head and spat. ‘We can’t count on the Shaman’s help. Still, my father will be pleased to know the Sword of the North stands with us. We’re rounding up the last of the fighting men down south before we move north to join my father’s army.’
Kayne nodded slowly, still taken aback by the news about the Shaman. It scarcely seemed possible. ‘Someone ought to send word to Eastmeet. Watcher’s Keep’s likely fallen, but Orgrim Foehammer might yet live. If it’s demons we’re fighting, there ain’t no man more experienced.’
Taran stared at him. There was something like shame in his bleary eyes. ‘Kayne… Orgrim threw in his lot with Krazka.’
