Grim Company 02 - Sword Of The North (10 page)

Shranree tutted softly, a ghost of a smile in her cruel eyes. ‘You poor creature. You are like a snow-flower wilting in the harsh light of the sun. You had best toughen up. There is no cunt-struck fool of a king to shelter you now.’

Yllandris reeled back as if struck, shocked at the venom in the woman’s words. In her mind she saw Magnar’s mutilated body again. At first she had wanted him for the power that he represented, but now she realized that somewhere deep down she had loved him. At least a little. What had Shranree called him?
A cunt-struck fool of a king
.

‘You evil hag,’ she whispered. ‘I hate you.’

This time Shranree made no effort to conceal her contempt. ‘Silly girl. Your whorish behaviour shamed the circle. Those days are over. You
will
learn to obey.’

The senior sorceress raised her hands. Yllandris took a step back, suddenly afraid. A familiar tingling sensation filled the air. Everyone who possessed the gift could sense magic being evoked. ‘What are you—’

Her words were torn from her mouth in a gasp of agony. Her joints suddenly felt like they were on fire. Every muscle in her body seemed on the verge of ripping apart. She collapsed to her knees, clawing at the mud, tearing up great clumps of grass in her fists. She opened her mouth and screamed until her throat was raw.

‘Sister... is this necessary?’ queried one of the sorceresses from the Black Reaching in a small voice.

‘She must be disciplined. I take no pleasure in this.’

Yllandris managed to twist her neck to stare up into Shranree’s satisfied gaze, which exposed the lie for what it was. She could hardly breathe; her body felt as though it was going to implode.

Seconds passed and the magical assault did not relent. In desperation Yllandris prepared to evoke her own magic and unleash it against Shranree. She knew such an act would force the elder sister to kill her, but she would rather die struggling than meekly accept death.

‘What’s going on here?’ boomed a male voice.

Shranree’s eyes narrowed. ‘This is none of your concern, Kingsman.’

A big warrior Yllandris recognized – his name was Yorn – had arrived on the hilltop and was watching the spectacle with a deep frown on his bearded face. She had never much liked him, for he had never shown her the attention she was accustomed to from men, but just then Yorn seemed like a blessing sent by the spirits. ‘Please,’ she mouthed at him through the agony. ‘Please... help me.’

‘Last thing the King needs is to waste any of his sorceresses,’ Yorn rumbled. ‘Release her.’

Shranree huffed and tutted but eventually snapped her fingers. Instantly, the magical pressure vanished. Yllandris gulped in air, wiping at her bloody nose with her shawl. Yorn walked over and reached down a weathered hand. Yllandris grasped it and he pulled her to her feet with surprising gentleness. Her limbs felt as heavy as lead.

‘I trust you will heed this lesson,’ said Shranree. The leader of the King’s circle dabbed at her perspiring face with the sleeves of her robe and gave Yllandris a look that chilled her blood. ‘Do not force me to rebuke you again. I will not be so forgiving next time.’

The harsh cry of a horn thundered up the hill. Yorn placed a hand on the hilt of his broadsword. ‘The King comes.’

The gathered sorceresses fell to their knees as the self-proclaimed King of the High Fangs crested the summit, moving with the grace of a dancer, his magnificent white cloak billowing behind him.

King Krazka placed a gloved hand on the hilt of the sword at his hip and grinned. His dead left eye wept and rolled madly in its socket, but it was the right that unnerved Yllandris, leering at the assembled women as if they were meat rather than the most powerful practitioners of magic in the land.

Behind the Butcher King trailed his Kingsmen. Krazka’s champions made a mockery of a tradition that had endured for centuries. The Six were expected to be the most stalwart men in the Heartlands; warriors of renown who had proven themselves in battle countless times. The ragtag collection of killers the usurper King had brought with him from the Lake Reaching looked formidable, but they seemed as likely to stab the King in the back as take a sword thrust for him. They weren’t even wearing the ceremonial armour and closed helms. Most likely Krazka wanted to be certain the armed men who spent countless hours in his shadow were who they said they were. After all, he had seized the throne by dint of a similar deception.

Yllandris felt her skin crawl as the King’s roving eye settled on her. ‘Huh. You used to be a pretty little thing. Looking rougher than a dog’s arse these days.’

Shranree’s voice was sickly sweet. ‘My apologies if her screams displeased you, my king.’

Krazka drew his sword and stared at his reflection in the grey metal. A few spots of blood ran down the blade, which appeared to have seen recent use. ‘Ain’t the first time I’ve heard a woman shriek,’ he said wistfully.

That drew sharp intakes of breath, followed by an uncomfortable silence. Shranree’s smile stayed fixed on her face but now there was something like fear there. Yllandris remembered the severed head of the sorceress Thurva rolling on the ground, seeming to take forever to come to a halt. Krazka’s deadly sword had devoured her magic like a hungry wolf. Slid through her neck with hideous ease.

‘We await your command,’ Shranree said quietly. The blustering leader of the largest circle of sorceresses ever assembled in Heartstone appeared cowed, as if she were a young maid seeing her lover’s exposed cock for the first time.

‘I’ll make this short and sweet,’ Krazka growled. ‘I’ve just received some unfortunate news.’

‘My king?’ queried Shranree.

Krazka scowled and pointed his sword towards the north. ‘The Shaman has won the support of the Black Reaching.’

There were gasps from the circle. ‘But Mace already declared for you,’ said Shranree. ‘He sent six of his sorceresses.’ She gestured behind her, where several women now wore very worried expressions.

‘He changed his mind.’

There was an explosion to the west and smoke rose from a large hole that had appeared in the ground. Bodies were strewn around the hole, though it was hard to be certain of the identities of the dead at this distance. Krazka stared at the carnage for a moment. ‘How many sorceresses has Carn Bloodfist got?’ he asked conversationally.

‘I believe there may be upwards of twenty in the West Reaching,’ Shranree answered.

Krazka nodded. ‘And how many do you reckon are out there now?’

Shranree shook her head. ‘I cannot be certain. They cloak themselves in magic. Samaya, the leader of their circle, is a skilled illusionist.’

Krazka turned and faced the circle, finally sheathing his magic-devouring sword to sighs of relief. Yllandris watched it all with dull eyes. She felt empty. It would scarcely have mattered to her if the Butcher King had strolled over and cut her throat right then.

‘The Herald’s returning to the Spine,’ Krazka grunted. ‘He won’t be back for a while.’

Shranree looked flustered. ‘But, my king, the Shaman...’

‘Aye, he’s out there somewhere.’ Krazka cracked his fingers absently-mindedly. ‘I reckon our one-time Magelord will see this as a good time to show his ugly face again.’

Shranree’s double chin wobbled nervously. ‘This is ill news. We are thirty in number, the greatest circle ever assembled in my lifetime. But between the Shaman and Samaya’s own circle, we may yet be overwhelmed. I fear they will marshal their forces for an all-out assault once they learn of the Herald’s departure.’

The Butcher King grinned suddenly. ‘I’m counting on it.’ He turned and beckoned to his Kingsmen. They stepped forward, and Yllandris saw that one carried a small bundle wrapped in cloth. Krazka gestured and the Kingsman – a pale-faced warrior with bloodshot eyes who seemed vaguely familiar – tugged the bundle open, revealing an assortment of rings. They glittered grey in the sun.

‘The Herald brought me these,’ said Krazka. ‘They’re abyssium, same as my blade. They can only absorb so much magic before they break, but I reckon they’ll serve the purpose I have in mind.’

Yllandris watched as the King’s Six each took a ring from the pile. There was something else there, a larger steel object with a strange cylindrical barrel, but Krazka quickly folded the cloth back and it disappeared from sight.

Yorn walked over to join the Six. She noticed Vard was missing and recalled that he been sent to the Black Reaching and was due back any time now. As she stared at Krazka and remembered the fresh blood on his sword, it was then she realized what had happened.
The mad bastard killed his own Kingsman. Vard brought him the news about Mace and he murdered him in a fit of rage. Yorn is his replacement.

The King was facing his men now, his back to the sorceresses. The sun was beginning to set, bathing the hill the colour of blood. ‘When the Shaman makes his move,’ Krazka said, ‘we’re gonna spring a nasty surprise. Mace wants to throw his sword in with that fucker? I’ll burn his entire Reaching to the ground. Just as soon as I’m done with Carn Bloodfist.’ He turned slowly, and the look in his eye pierced even the apathy that had settled over Yllandris.

‘First we need to test that these rings work,’ Krazka announced. ‘All you sorceresses from the Black Reaching, raise your hands.’

None of the women did so. Krazka sighed and gestured at Shranree. ‘How about you just point them out? Save us all some time.’

Shranree hesitated for only a moment, then spun and began pointing at women and calling out names. ‘Henetha. Marella. Quinell...’

Krazka’s Six moved forward, weapons raised. The circle parted, sorceresses stumbling away to leave the women from the Black Reaching utterly exposed.

Don’t watch,
Yllandris told herself. She met Yorn’s eyes for a moment. Was that disgust on his face? She remembered his words.
Last thing the King needs is to waste any of his sorceresses.

A monster of a man barged past her, taller than Yorn and near as wide as an ox, face split in a wide grin. He was joined by another of the Six, a middle-aged man wearing heavy plate-metal armour like the knights of the Lowlands her mother used to tell her stories of.

A moment later the screams began as the Six went to work. Yllandris focused on Krazka, at the bloodlust in that lone eye. She had hated the Shaman once, plotted to end his life so that she and Magnar could rule free of the whims of a ruthless immortal. It had been a childish notion. As she stared at Krazka, the man who had disfigured her lover and taken his throne and sacrificed innocent children to a demon, she would have given her own life to watch the Magelord crush this mad king.

Krazka caught her watching him. He shot her an obscene wink. ‘At least they’ll die fast,’ he drawled. ‘Better than the fate your boy’s stuck with.’

Yllandris swore then that she would see Krazka dead.

Whatever it took.

The Collectors were out in force, wraith-like in the early-morning mist with their charcoal robes and featureless hoods. Corpse wagons strained under the weight of dozens of bodies. Some were blackened things charred beyond recognition, but it was the corpses that still had flesh clinging to them that really made the Halfmage’s stomach churn.

Jobs might be scarce, the poor desperate enough to volunteer for a voyage into the unknown just to fill their bellies. But the Collectors, the shepherds of the dead, they never want for work.

He glanced at the women beside him as he wheeled himself over the cobbles. Sasha had offered to push his chair for him, the earnestness in her voice surprising him enough that he forgot to feel patronized. It was an easy journey to the harbour from the depository and the road sloped gently downhill much of the way. Though he was tired from the night’s activities, he thought it better than to sit back and catch some sleep, lest he never wake again. He knew the mind of the older sister scowling at him all too well.

Imagine the awe on the faces of the drunks who witnessed the three of us entering the depository together in the early hours of the morning. I would help spread a scurrilous rumour, but I suspect my legend is already stretched to the very edge of plausibility.

‘What are you smiling at? I’m still not sure I buy your story, Halfmage.’

Eremul’s amusement drained away. He frowned back at Cyreena or Ambryl or whatever she was calling herself these days. He was still struggling with the bizarre circumstances in which the sisters had been reunited – a turn of events that could rival any of the hero’s tales he had read for sheer absurdity.

‘You’ve seen the evidence,’ he replied. He patted his robe, where the page he had removed from the tome back at the depository lay carefully wrapped beside the grisly trophy they had cut from the rebel’s corpse earlier that night.

‘I’ve seen an illustration in a dusty old book. A book that is more than likely a flight of fancy, intended to mislead gullible fools into believing in some mythic past rather than facing the mundane truth.’

Eremul frowned. ‘Mundanity is a matter of perspective, especially when one is a wizard. Besides, Saltierre was no Kenats.’

Kenats had been a historian who had gained fame for presenting previously unknown facts about the Age of Legends. Later it had been discovered that he had fabricated almost everything he had written, employing an army of stooges to ‘corroborate’ his research. The fraud had ended up in a prison in Kingsport, and was eventually stabbed to death by a disgruntled inmate distraught to learn that the many-breasted wandering succubus did not in fact exist.

‘I distrust the word of any man who chooses to isolate himself with nothing but a quill and his imagination for company,’ Cyreena stated. ‘I can think of no vocation quite so emasculating.’

‘Then
you
of all people should have no issue with scribes of every stripe,’ Eremul snapped back. The woman was starting to grate on his nerves. ‘We have irrefutable evidence that the rebels are connected to the Fade. The script on that tattoo is a perfect match with the ancient Fade script Saltierre transcribed in his book. I only wish he had recorded the meaning. With any luck, the White Lady will possess the means to translate it.’