Grim Company 02 - Sword Of The North (12 page)

‘You should arrive at Thelassa by nightfall,’ Eremul called up. ‘Hurry to the palace. As fast as your legs will carry you.’

‘That’s rich coming from you, Halfmage,’ shouted Cyreena as the sails unfurled and the ship slowly turned to face the south.

Eremul was surprised to find that he had a faint smile on his face. ‘Just bring my message to the White Lady. Do it for Dorminia, if not for me.’

It was hard to be sure, but he thought Cyreena might have raised an eyebrow at that. ‘You’ve grown,’ she said grudgingly, the words almost swallowed by the wind.

He watched the ship drift slowly out of the harbour, gathering speed as the wind buffeted the sails. He was taken aback by Cyreena’s final words. They had sounded almost complimentary. He thought about giving the sisters a wave to send them on their way, but decided that would be a conciliatory gesture too far. Instead he turned his back on them and began to make his way across the docks.

What a night that was. The screams. The stench of scorched flesh wafting on the air. Alarming discoveries
made in the middle of the night.
All in all, some remarkable similarities to the night Salazar had had him taken to the Obelisk dungeons and burned his legs away.

He yawned and decided that he would return to the depository before paying a visit to the morgue. Tyro needed feeding.

‘Excuse me! Hello?’

It was a woman’s voice, slightly accented. He ignored it. No woman ever hailed him unless the salutation also included a curse of some kind.

‘Please! Wait for me! I would like to speak with you.’

He heard footsteps behind him now, the
tip-tap
of a woman’s heels hurrying towards him. He turned his chair to see who approached.

It was the lady from the reception, reading lenses perched on her delicate nose. She slowed before she reached him, smoothed down her skirts and fiddled with her sleek black hair. ‘My name is Monique. I saw the way you handled that awful secretary. She kept me waiting almost an hour before you arrived. Those two ladies with you – they were your mistresses?’

Eremul became aware of the woman’s perfume. She seemed to lean into him slightly, or perhaps that was that just his imagination. ‘My mistresses? I fear you are mistaken. They were but friends,’ he lied.

Monique favoured him with a smile, a quirky twist of the mouth that he couldn’t help but find agreeable. He noticed her lips were painted a striking shade of violet. ‘Well... a man like you, a hero, it is hard to know if a female companion is a friend or a lover, no? You must be surrounded by beautiful women.’

‘That... may be a slight exaggeration.’

‘Ah, but you are modest.’ Monique leaned forward, giving him a perfect view of her bosom, the tight corset she wore highlighting her slender yet shapely body. He felt himself respond, and glanced down in rising panic.

‘You saved the city from the tyrant.’ She seemed to caress the words, her accent turning every sentence into something musical.

‘I did what I had to,’ he mumbled. ‘With magic comes a certain responsibility.’ He cursed himself even as he spoke the words, knowing he sounded like an utter buffoon. The woman’s fragrance was overpowering. He felt as though his brain was smothered in it. He folded his hands strategically over his lap. ‘Well, I should really be getting back now.’

Monique seemed to blush, her high-boned cheeks reddening slightly. She bit her top lip softy, watched him nervously from behind her glasses. ‘I wonder if you might wish to join me for dinner one evening?’

‘Er, what? I mean... ah...’

‘I am but a simple florist, hardly worthy of the attentions of a man such as yourself. Yet I am also lonely, and my mother always taught me a woman must be bold. I am sorry if I offend you.’

‘No... ah... no offence taken.’

‘Excellent! Then let us say... the Rose and Sceptre, near Artifice Street, two weeks hence?’

‘I will check my diary.’ Eremul’s mouth was so dry he could hardly speak. ‘But I’m sure I could fit it in.’

Monique’s long nails brushed his arm. ‘Then it is a date,’ she said, giving him another smile. She turned and sauntered away, the heels on her shoes
tip-tapping
across the street. Eremul watched transfixed until she disappeared from sight.

Then he heaved a ragged sigh, repositioned his treacherous wizard’s staff beneath the folds of his robes, and wheeled himself back to the depository as fast as his arms could manage.

He awoke to the sensation of rain sliding down his cheek.

Memories flooded back to him: a chaotic torrent of images. Dancing flames in the night; an old man’s dying gasp; the
tick tock tick tock
of a pocket watch in his trembling palm.

Hard steel driving into his gut. Blood everywhere. Running down his legs, through his fingers.

He reached gingerly for his stomach. It felt strange beneath his fingers. He probed some more, pushed and prodded until he realized his stomach was wrapped in a stiff dressing. The wound beneath still burned, but the pain was nothing compared with the searing agony he remembered from the night he was betrayed.

He stared up at a grey sky ruptured by dark clouds and let the rain run into his mouth. It tasted foul. Slowly he became aware of other sounds besides the soft roar of the downpour. He turned his head and bright lights exploded in his vision. Once the scattershot bursts of colour finally cleared, he blinked rainwater from his eyes and took stock of his surroundings.

He was lying on the side of a grassy hill. Closer inspection revealed the grass to be blackened and brittle. Leafless trees dotted the side of the slope, their trunks white and sickly-looking.

At the bottom of the hill, spreading over the plain like a virulent skin disease, was a small town that resembled something from a junkie’s nightmare. Broken-down buildings cobbled together from wood and tar leaned against each other, looking likely to collapse at any moment. Great cracks split the earth the length of the town, a cobweb of fissures that belched up noxious fumes. Even at this distance, the stench of sulphur was heavy on the air. Sulphur and something else. Something that stank of death.

‘Have I died?’ he croaked. ‘Is this hell?’

‘Not hell,’ someone whispered right beside him. ‘The Blight.’

He made a strangled sound and would have jumped out of his skin had he the strength to do anything except piss himself a little.

The speaker was sitting on the hillside just below him. Big watery eyes bulged from below a heavy brow and bald head that looked oddly misshapen in the murky light. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. Didn’t think you’d pull through. Had old Bessie ready just in case.’

‘Bessie?’

The strange fellow gestured to a huge metal cleaver resting on the grass next to him. It was stained with old blood.

He shuddered again and tried to roll away, but the sudden pressure against his wounded stomach sent fresh waves of pain pulsing through him.

‘Easy. You almost died. Here, let me help you up.’ The bug-eyed fellow moved to take his hands and helped him slowly to his feet. ‘What’s your name?’

‘I...’ He thought he heard a bird cawing, somewhere far away. The bird from his dreams? It couldn’t be. That was impossible. ‘Cole,’ he said at last. ‘My name is Davarus Cole.’

‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Derkin.’

Cole took a hesitant step and almost fell. Derkin reached out to steady him and Cole saw that the man’s hands were gnarled and twisted, his legs unnaturally short and bowed. Derkin wore a big overcoat, but beneath it Cole could make out the odd curvature of his spine, the way his back hunched over as if he carried a great weight on his shoulders.

‘I’m glad you pulled though,’ Derkin said. ‘My wrists have been bothering me the last few days. Didn’t fancy cutting you up.’

‘Sorry?’ Cole wasn’t sure he had heard the man correctly.

‘I’m a corpse-carver. Here in the Blight the dead don’t stay dead for long unless they’re dismembered. Last thing we need is a bunch of shamblers wandering through town.’

Cole frowned. He felt as if he were stuck in some kind of twisted nightmare, but the pain in his midriff was real enough. ‘I thought no one lived in the Blight. It’s inhospitable.’

Derkin grinned. He had good teeth considering the rest of him was so bent and crooked. ‘Newharvest is the first mining town to be founded here. We’ve been doing the Mistress’s good work for a year now.’

‘The Mistress?’

‘You know. The White Lady. The Mistress decided the magic in the Blight was too valuable to ignore. Course, now the Celestial Isles are hers she doesn’t want to give up Newharvest either. That’s wizards for you.’

At the mention of magic, Cole recalled his confrontation with Salazar atop the Obelisk; the moment Magebane had slid into the ancient wizard’s wrinkled body. ‘Have you seen my dagger?’ he asked. ‘The blade is curved slightly, and it has a ruby in the pommel.’

‘A ruby?’ Derkin looked doubtful and shook his head. ‘Someone must’ve stolen it while you were unconscious. There were thirty men aboard the ship that brought you down from Thelassa.’

‘Thelassa,’ Cole repeated. ‘I need to get back there. Take a ship across the channel to Dorminia. There’s someone I need to find.’ He began to climb down the hill. The effort was extraordinary, but the image of Sasha’s face in his mind drove him on until finally he reached the bottom, sweat and rainwater running down his filthy, bloodstained leathers.

‘Wait! You can’t leave!’ Derkin called down.

‘Why not?’

‘You’re Condemned.’

‘I’m what?’ Cole paused and stared back up at Derkin. The corpse-carver retrieved his huge cleaver and began to descend the steep incline, but his stunted legs slipped on the wet ground. He thudded painfully down onto the blackened grass and proceeded to roll all the way to the base of the hill.

Cole hurried over. ‘Are you hurt?’

Derkin grimaced and rolled onto his belly. ‘No harm done. No, don’t help me, I need to do this for myself.’

Cole’s stomach rumbled loudly and he became terribly aware of just how hungry he was. ‘What did you mean by Condemned?’ he asked, once Derkin was back on his feet.

‘A big group of you were transported across the channel from Dorminia. They brought you here in chains. You’re a criminal.’

‘I’m no criminal! I’m a—’

He stopped before he could say
I’m a hero
. He wasn’t a hero, he was a bastard raised by a merchant kind enough to take pity on him. His true father had been a ruthless assassin; his mother a street whore. He would never allow himself to forget that. ‘I don’t understand why I’m here,’ he said instead. ‘I did what the White Lady wanted. I killed Salazar.’

Derkin’s laugh sounded uncannily like a horse braying. ‘Ha ha, that’s a good one. And I’m the White Lady’s secret lover!’

Cole stared at the corpse-carver, at his mud-covered face and bulging eyes. ‘That doesn’t seem very likely,’ he said slowly.

Derkin gave him a puzzled look. ‘I was being sarcastic. Are you feeling okay? You’re very pale.’

Cole examined his hands. It was true, they were paler than he remembered. He ran his fingers over his face and scalp, surprised to find how little his hair had grown. ‘How long has it been since the night Salazar died?’

Derkin shrugged. ‘About six weeks.’

Sasha will think I’m dead. Or worse, that I abandoned her.
‘I need to leave,’ Cole announced.

Derkin shook his head. ‘That’s not a good idea. The Whitecloaks or the Trinity will catch up with you, and when they do... I don’t want you to end up like Mockface.’

‘Who’s Mockface?’

‘You’ll find out soon enough. The execution is due to start any time. Come on, let’s find you something to eat. You look half-starved.’

Cole hesitated. He was wounded and in no shape to attempt to cross the Blight alone and unarmed. Getting himself killed acting the hero wouldn’t help anyone. ‘You’re right,’ he said dejectedly.

Derkin gave Cole a friendly pat on the shoulder. ‘It’s a short walk to the centre of town. I’ll keep the pace slow. You’re probably still a bit unsteady on your feet.’

As it turned out, after the first handful of uncertain steps Cole was surprised at the strength in his legs. Soon he was forced to check himself to avoid surging ahead of Derkin, who walked in an ungainly hobble that was painful to watch.

‘How are you holding up?’ asked Derkin for the third or fourth time as they made their way down the muddy road into town.

‘Fine,’ Cole replied.

‘Not far now.’ It scarcely seemed possible but somehow Derkin slowed another step. ‘Phew, I didn’t realize I was moving at such a fast clip. I’ll leave you behind at this rate.’

‘Honestly, the exercise is doing me the world of good,’ Cole said hurriedly. His stomach rumbled again.

‘Want to rest for a minute?’

‘No, I just want to eat. I’m really hungry.’

‘Hungry and weak as a kitten, I expect. And there’s me forcing you halfway to a sprint. It’s fine, there’s no rush.’

Cole tried not to let his frustration show as Derkin stopped to massage his joints. He stared glumly at Newharvest, peering down into the crevices that scarred the ground. Most were only a few feet deep. Rainwater pooled at the bottom, bubbling due to the underground gases that rose beneath the town. One or two cracks were deeper and held nothing but impenetrable darkness below.

A stray dog suddenly dashed past Cole and kicked up a shower of mud, which splattered all over his face. He wiped it away angrily.

‘Why are there cracks everywhere?’

‘They say... the Blight was formed... when the Black Lord’s body fell from the heavens,’ Derkin replied, sucking in air.

Cole realized he had picked up speed and that Derkin was struggling to keep up. He felt suddenly embarrassed at the shame on the little man’s face. It couldn’t be easy getting around on those horribly bowed legs. He slowed down, feigning exhaustion himself in an effort to salvage the corpse-carver’s pride. ‘The gods don’t die easily,’ he said wearily. ‘And they really hate their corpses being harvested.’