Grim Company 02 - Sword Of The North (17 page)

‘Leyanne? Leyanne! You… you killed her…’ If Minerva had heard his words she gave no indication. That disappointed Sir Meredith, but he wouldn’t give up so easily. At long last, he had found the one. He turned to Bagha and Ryder.

‘Take this woman’s sister outside.’

The two Kingsmen dragged Leyanne across the floor and out of the door, leaving behind a thin trail of blood. Minerva must have seen it, for she screamed again.

‘Hush. Hush now.’ Sir Meredith smiled down at the pretty sorceress. She couldn’t have known it, but the spirits had blessed her this day. He would save her; whisk her away from this place.

And in return, she would fix him.

Slowly he went down to one knee. ‘Minerva. From the moment we met, I felt something between us. Let me take you away from here. I realize this may seem precipitate, but I’ve always believed a man must be guided by his heart as well as his head.’

Minerva stared at him. ‘What?’

‘Marry me.’

A moment of silence followed, and then the sorceress began to laugh. It wasn’t the right kind of laughter, it sounded wrong. ‘Marry you? My Leyanne is dead.’

‘Nonsense. A splash of cold water and your sister will be fine.’

‘She’s not my sister!’ Minerva’s voice was a despairing moan.

Meredith frowned. Whatever did the woman mean?

‘Marry you…’ Minerva repeated incredulously. ‘I don’t even know your name.’

He gave her his best smile. ‘Sir Meredith, my lady. Did I mention I am a knight?’

‘Meredith? That’s a girl’s name.’ Minerva laughed again, hysterical laughter, a high-pitched shriek that seemed to stab him right through the heart.

Something broke again.

He stumbled out of the cabin, trying to wipe the blood off his hands but instead smearing it over his breastplate. It was everywhere, all over his face, on his boots. Some had even managed to soak his undertunic.

Bagha and Ryder were waiting for him just outside. Leyanne’s body sprawled at their feet.

Bagha shifted guiltily. ‘I hit her too hard.’

‘The other one?’ Ryder asked.

Meredith shook his head.

They made their way out of the village in silence. Fifty yards from the cabin the dog began to bark at them, darting and biting at Sir Meredith’s feet as if it wanted to tear his boots off. He gave it a hard kick and the dog yelped and quickly went still. He picked up the twitching animal and dropped it down the well, where it made a small splash.

Half a mile from Kingswood, a group of men led by the woodcutter chased them down.

‘Butchers,’ he spat. ‘You killed those poor women. What you did to Minerva... you’re sick.’

Sir Meredith turned away. ‘Go home,’ he said.

‘You murdered them! They were good women. Never did no one any harm.’

‘I believe what you mean to say is that they never did
anyone
any harm.’

‘Fuck you!’ The woodcutter raised his axe. The half-dozen men behind him followed his lead, clutching cudgels and axes and makeshift daggers.

Sir Meredith killed three of the men before Bagha and Ryder had even readied their weapons, driving his sabre through the woodcutter’s heart himself. Then he let Bagha cut off their heads, which they brought back to the village and placed along the fence posts while the survivors peered out from doorways, sobbing or cowering in terror.

Before they left Meredith had a change of heart. The Kingsmen decided to torch the place after all.

Sasha’s head felt as though someone had used it as an anvil.

She rubbed at her temples and, not looking where she was going, she stumbled and almost fell into a passing merchant, a narrow-faced fellow who smelled faintly of garlic and perfume. He glowered at her and muttered something to the attendant hurrying along behind him. She caught a few words: ‘clumsy’ and ‘bitch’ muttered in a lilting Tarbonnese accent. She swallowed an angry retort and resisted the urge to slam an open palm into his face. Kicking up a fuss in the market would only invite more delays. She was already late; Ambryl would be growing suspicious
.

Not for the first time that morning, Sasha cursed herself for succumbing to that insidious voice in her skull.

She had thought she had it under control after the incident with the moon dust she’d pilfered from the harbourmaster’s office back in Dorminia. They’d been halfway across Deadman’s Channel when a powerful gust of wind had ripped away her cloak and upended the pouch hidden within, coating both the deck and the swarthy captain in the silvery powder. Ambryl’s threat to toss her overboard had forced a promise from her she had kept for the best part of a fortnight.

But yesterday evening the all-devouring need had returned with a vengeance. With the bag of
hashka
gone she was down to the green pills she’d discovered in Cole’s apartment. They were a poor substitute for the moon dust; it had taken half the pills to get a decent buzz. An early-morning trip to the market had seemed like the perfect excuse to clear her head and avoid an inquisition from her older sister.

The white marble streets sparkled beneath Sasha’s booted feet as she made her unsteady way between aisles of perfectly ordered booths. Stalls paraded a range of wares from every corner of the continent: merchants had crossed the sun-kissed sands of the deep south and braved the wild Unclaimed Lands to the east to bring their goods to the City of Towers. She saw traders from places as distant as Shamaath. The Shattered Realms in particular were well represented: there were crates filled with olives and blood-red cherries from Djanka; fine wines from Tarbonne; rows of brass cutlery from Espanda; even a few expertly crafted suits of armour from Grantz, superior to anything forged in the Trine. There were no weapons – the White Lady forbade the trade of such items in her city.

Sasha grimaced as a merchant from the Unclaimed Lands loudly extolled the merits of his patented miracle elixir three feet from her ear. She turned away, only to find herself staring into the face of a Whitecloak.

‘Everything in order, lady?’ The guard’s tone didn’t drip with the hostility Sasha would expect from one of Dorminia’s Crimson Watch. In fact, the Whitecloaks seemed to possess none of the belligerence of their counterparts across the Broken Sea.

‘Yes, officer,’ she replied. The remaining pills were stashed safely back at the inn in which they were staying, the Lonely Siren, and in any case she had done nothing to warrant a search.

‘That man,’ the guard said, nodding at the Tarbonnese merchant now bartering loudly with an Ishari silk trader. ‘Did he harass you in any way?’

Sasha stared at the guard in confusion. ‘What?’

‘I saw him put his hands on you.’

She shook her head and reached up to flick her long brown hair from her eyes. It was beginning to annoy her. ‘I stumbled into him. It was my fault, I wasn’t looking where I was going.’

‘Are you certain?’ The Whitecloak’s jaw clenched slightly. ‘Being unfamiliar with our customs is no excuse. You press charges and that bastard will lose a finger or two. The White Lady takes a dim view of those that go around molesting women.’

Sasha flinched at the mention of severed fingers. Sudden visions of Three-Finger’s scabrous face melting in the fire of the burning warehouse exploded in her mind like an errant firebomb. ‘He didn’t molest me,’ she said quickly. ‘Besides, we’re in a market. Things happen. It’s no big deal.’

She didn’t add that Thelassa’s Grand Market was positively timid compared with the Bazaar in Dorminia. There, customers and merchants alike pressed together so tightly no one could be certain whose hand was on what. And as long as said hands weren’t clutching three inches of steel, no one much cared. On a few occasions a Watchman himself had seen fit to cop a good feel of her. She hadn’t complained. It was just how the world was.

‘In that case I’ll take no further action. Good morning to you.’ The guard nodded and walked off, his spotless cloak falling neatly behind him.

Sasha stared in the direction of the palace and massaged her throbbing temples. The Whitecloaks were seemingly unflappable and, she’d discovered to her annoyance, apparently incorruptible. Despite threats of impending disaster and attempts at bribery, not one of the guards on duty at the palace had allowed the sisters inside to speak with the city’s fabled Magelord. After their third attempt in as many days, Sasha and Ambryl had been forced to admit defeat and plan an alternative approach. A week of bad-tempered bickering had followed with no progress. Sasha was just about ready to take the next ship back to Dorminia. The whole scheme seemed preposterous anyhow.

Turning up on the doorstep of the most powerful wizard in the land, clutching a scrap of tattooed flesh and bringing tales of imminent destruction at the hands of beings that haven’t been seen in two thousand years, if indeed they ever existed at all… No wonder you sent us to do your dirty work, Halfmage.

There had been something different about the wizard, she had to admit. An unexpected gravitas that had convinced her, against her better judgement, to trust him. But it was obvious now that it had all been a crock of shit, a fanciful story put together by a man who in all likelihood wasn’t quite sane. The most surprising thing of all was that Ambryl had bought it, too.

Sasha exited the Grand Market and began the long walk back to the inn, taking the main avenue that led west towards the harbour. The sun rode high overhead, bathing the city in a brilliant glow. Slender towers reached towards the heavens on both sides of the street. Delicate spires cast colossal shadows, dappling the white marble and giving the city an eldritch quality, like a vision from a dream or drug-induced hallucination. Thelassa was as beautiful as Dorminia was ugly, a delicate jewel perched on the east coast of the Broken Sea.

Yet there was something disquieting about this place. The longer she remained, the more uncomfortable she felt. Maybe it was just paranoia. The last time she quit the moon dust she had hidden inside her room for days, convinced a shadowy figure was stalking her. Cole had blundered into her apartment looking to borrow some money and she had almost knifed him in the gut. It was funny now, looking back. Or at least it would be, if Cole were still around.

A flood of memories consumed her then, and she walked the streets oblivious to the crowd that was gathering on the side of the road. It wasn’t until the sound of cheering reached her ears and a line of men appeared in the wide, tree-lined artery leading from the palace that she realized a parade was approaching.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked an old woman fussing with a small boy, likely her grandson. He kept fidgeting and staring at others in the crowd. To Sasha’s mind he was just doing what any other child would do, but his guardian seemed to be growing increasingly frustrated by his behaviour.

‘The Sumnians are leaving,’ the woman replied. ‘Going home to the Sun Lands. The White Lady wants the city back to normal for the Seeding.’

‘The Seeding?’

The woman gave her a peculiar look. It seemed almost...
wistful
. ‘The Seeding Festival. The Mistress herself will walk these very streets and bless those she deems worthy. Lucas, stand still! It’s rude to stare! You don’t want the pale women to see you gawking.’

The child dropped his eyes and stared at the ground. Glancing around, Sasha saw girls playing and laughing while the boys were as quiet as mice as they timidly watched the advancing soldiers. Scattered among the gathering crowd, the White Lady’s handmaidens stood motionless in their virginal white robes.

Sasha hesitated. Ambryl would be growing suspicious at her absence. She ought to hurry back, but she felt an obligation to stay and witness the departing army’s farewell.

She found a place next to the old woman and waited. The boy dared glance up at her, earning him a painful cuff around the back of the head from his grandmother. Sasha frowned at that before her attention returned to the avenue.

The Sumnians marched twenty abreast. Striding along at the very front of the procession was General Zahn: eight feet tall and resplendent in his ornate golden armour, like some mythical being out of the Age of Legend. The general raised his monstrous spear and won an answering cheer from the crowd. His company followed after him, forty ranks of dark-skinned warriors grinning and waving at the onlookers.

D’rak’s company were next. They had suffered the heaviest losses in the fighting, and only a few hundred men formed up behind the flamboyant general with his exotic curved swords. Sasha met his eyes for a moment and the sudden smile on his face reminded her of Cole. He had that same boyish enthusiasm.

She wiped a tear from her cheek, hoping no one had seen her moment of weakness. Cole was the most infuriating person she had ever known. There were times she would have happily throttled him, moments when his foolishness and sense of entitlement had driven her to distraction. He had alienated most of the other Shards with his behaviour. She remembered pleading with her mentor, promising Garrett that one day Cole would repay the faith the old merchant had shown in him.

And he had. Despite his bravado, beneath it all Cole was exactly what he had always claimed to be. He was a hero. Not a coward and a junkie like her. A hero.

And now he was gone.

The parade was almost past. Zolta’s company was the last to march by, a full one thousand men. The Fat General had suffered not a single loss in the conflict. He waddled along at the front of his company, as wide as he was tall, the many-coloured silks he wore dripping with sweat. Behind Zolta, soldiers pushed carts piled high with loot plundered from the Noble Quarter in Dorminia – their reward for their dubious role in the liberation of the Grey City.

The sight angered Sasha. It was Dorminia’s wealth they were stealing away to the south. Riches that could have been used to help the poor and the starving. She was about to turn and cut through a side street when one particular southerner caught her attention. Whereas the other men wore leather vests and marched in formation, this one cloaked himself in a black robe and walked alone at the rear of the company.