Grim Company 02 - Sword Of The North (32 page)

Yllandris waited outside the great building, lurking in the shadows while Yorn went inside to fetch the children. The big warrior was herding them out of the door, the blond-haired Corinn at the front of the group, just as Braxus arrived.

Yllandris tensed, readying herself for whatever she must do to silence the old blacksmith. But he merely stared at her. His eyes widened slightly when he saw the wound on her face. He turned to Yorn.

‘Gonna be a nice day, by the looks of it.’

‘Aye,’ replied Yorn.

‘Good day to take the little ’uns for a walk, I reckon.’

‘Aye.’

Braxus raised a meaty hand to his mouth and stifled a yawn. ‘If anyone asks, they were gone when I arrived.’

‘Thank you,’ said Yllandris. The old blacksmith merely nodded. Then he glanced up at the rising sun and went inside the Foundry.

Yorn led the way towards the west gate. Yllandris pulled her soiled shawl up to hide her face as they neared the exit.

‘How did you get that terrible wound?’ whispered Corinn beside her. The fifty children they’d gathered at the Foundry trailed along behind. Most of them were still sleepy. A few looked excited at the prospect of going on an adventure, such as Milo – the boy who had roused her in the Foundry the day all hope had died.

‘That doesn’t matter now,’ Yllandris replied. ‘We need to get as far away from Heartstone as possible. You’re the oldest child. I’m going to need your help. Can you do that? Can you help me?’

Corinn listened. When Yllandris had finished speaking she nodded, her expression focused and determined.

The guards on the gate recognized Yorn as he approached. While they eyed the children suspiciously, they knew better than to challenge a Kingsman. They opened the gates, closing them behind the group afterwards.

There was still a slight chill in the morning air as they passed the pit where the dead had been piled and left to rot. Yllandris waved at the others to continue while she descended to look for the bones of the foundlings that had been sacrificed to the Herald. She gathered them up and placed them carefully into a sack, which she slung over her shoulder. They would be her burden to bear and hers alone. The children watched curiously, all except Corinn too young to make the connection between the bones in the pit and the recent disappearance of their three friends. Yllandris had told them they had gone to a better place. The lie still made her want to curl up and die.

As they turned south towards the Green Reaching, which lay so many miles distant, Yllandris glanced at Heartstone one final time. Like many sorceresses, she possessed a very faint gift for foresight.

Just then her gift was telling her she would never see Magnar or the capital again.

Sir Meredith’s back was killing him. The four men sitting at the King’s table in the Grand Throne Chamber had been locked in discussions for hours.

And by ‘locked in discussions’, the knight thought sourly, what he really meant was the ignorant posturing of feral dogs barking at one another. The art of civil discourse was lost on his countrymen.

He didn’t say as much, of course. He was paid to guard the King, not offer his insights into the uncouth politics of this damnable country.

Things had been so very different back in the Lowlands. After he had helped the Rag King win back his throne Sir Meredith had accompanied his liege lord on many a diplomatic mission throughout the Shattered Realms. The unpleasantness with the Duke certainly couldn’t be blamed on Sir Meredith – and yet because of that series of unfortunate events he found himself back in the High Fangs, standing guard over a one-eyed loon while his armour chafed him raw and his lower back sent throbs of agony racing up his spine.

The words shot out before he could stop them. ‘A pox upon the whoresons responsible for this debacle!’

‘What was that, iron man? You say somethin’?’ grunted the warrior beside him. Red Rayne’s nose was half-ruined by the endless
jhaeld
he snorted. A terrible habit, Meredith reflected – the sign of a man lacking both self-control and confidence in his own prowess. He himself had never felt the desire to partake of the resin of the infamous fireplant. A knight such as Sir Meredith triumphed through superior swordsmanship and a cool head, not berserker savagery brought on by mind-altering substances.

He was relieved to see that none of the other men around the table had heard his latest outburst. ‘I was merely clearing my throat,’ he told his counterpart testily. It was difficult to keep his feelings locked inside sometimes. Hard to stomach the injustices he had suffered without giving voice to his frustrations.

He gazed around the chamber one more time. His eyes narrowed as they swept over the rustic accoutrements that decorated the hall. Stuffed heads of primitive beasts, ancient swords and shields, helms of decorated heroes… all the trappings of a people stuck in a benighted existence. He doubted his kinsmen would know real culture if they were given a guided tour of the Royal Museum of Carhein by the Grand Curator himself. It galled Sir Meredith. In fact, it infuriated him.

‘Bloody barbarians!’ he blurted out.

The King’s eye swivelled to regard him. ‘Something the matter?’ he grated. The right side of his face was a sight to behold, a mass of terrible bruises and disfigured flesh. Even the efforts of his sorceresses hadn’t been able to fix the damage.

‘No,’ Meredith replied. Though he made an effort not to let the scorn show in his voice, he refused to add the honorific Shranree and the others used when addressing this barbarian king. Oh, Krazka paid well for his services, in gold as well as in other things promised to him, and Sir Meredith had to concede that the usurper knew how to use a sword. But when it came to the heart of the matter, he was just another bloody barbarian.

Even if he
had
cut down that fool Vard with such astonishing speed. Even if he
had
demonstrated impeccable swordsmanship against the Shaman: swordsmanship to rival that of a knight.

‘Where’s Yorn?’ Krazka barked, interrupting those troubling thoughts.

Where
was
that big, stinking bastard? Meredith looked questioningly at Rayne, who merely shrugged and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. On the opposite side of the king, Bagha and Ryder stared at each other dumbly.

Krazka spread his hands in a gesture of wounded incredulity. ‘See, this is what’s wrong with the world. You give a man something he’s always dreamed of, a position of honour that any Highlander worth his salt would die for, and he decides to knock off when it suits him. I’m starting to regret murdering his predecessor.’

‘He went to feed the prisoners,’ Wulgreth said from over where he stood guarding the entrance to the chamber. ‘He should have been back hours ago.’

‘What prisoners?’ growled Orgrim Foehammer.

The largest of the four men seated around the table – though still some way smaller than Bagha looming nearby – Orgrim Foehammer was the only man present whose name Sir Meredith had already been familiar with before his return to the High Fangs. For many years the High Commander of Watcher’s Keep, Orgrim had grown fat since assuming the mantle of chieftain. Still, he cut an impressive figure. For an old man.

‘You’ll see soon enough, Foehammer,’ the King replied. He slid gracefully from his throne at the head of the table. ‘It’s time to choose,’ he said, walking slowly around the circumference of the table. ‘You’re either with me or you’re against me. I ain’t one for half-measures.’

Sir Meredith shifted slightly. About bloody time, he thought. He could hardly wait to remove his damned armour.

‘I’ll send word of my decision when I’ve discussed it with my sons,’ growled Hrothgar. The chieftain of the Blue Reaching stroked his grey-blond beard and scowled. He had travelled far to be at this gathering – all the way from the desolate tundra on the edge of the Frozen Sea.

‘And you?’ Krazka asked Narm Blacktooth. The Deep Reaching was key to the King’s plans, Meredith knew. If Krazka could win Narm’s support, he would have a powerful ally positioned directly between the King’s Reaching and the now-hostile Black Reaching.

The Blacktooth spat out a mouthful of the foul substance he was fond of chewing, the root of some plant native to his Reaching that left his teeth as black as tar. The vile stuff hit the table and splattered over the wooden surface. Sir Meredith bristled with anger. Any man who had dared showed such disrespect at the Rag King’s court would have lost his teeth and most probably his life. Meredith would have seen to it himself.

‘If this war drags on much longer my people will starve come the winter. You don’t leave me much choice.’

Krazka nodded, and for a moment he seemed lost in whatever glorious future he was seeing in his mind’s eye. ‘When we march on the Lowlands, Blacktooth, you won’t ever need worry about bellies going empty again. There’ll be food enough for every Highlander.’

Narm got to his feet. ‘Who said I’m marching anywhere? Naw, I’m thinking the Shaman will retake Heartstone. No man crosses a godkiller. Not even you, Butcher King. May as well throw my sword in with him and Carn Bloodfist and help speed things along.’

The King’s face darkened. ‘Maybe you ain’t heard, but the Shaman’s dying.’

‘So you say. Don’t reckon it’s that easy to kill an immortal. I heard what happened to Mehmon and his town when they thought they could defy the Shaman’s will. Can’t say I fancy burning on a pyre when this all goes tits-up.’

Krazka’s lone eye bored into the chieftain of the Deep Reaching with an intensity that seemed almost otherworldly. ‘You’re making a mistake, Blacktooth.’

Narm turned his back on the King and walked away.

‘Where d’you think you’re going?’ Krazka’s voice was a deadly whisper.

Narm Blacktooth paused halfway to the door. ‘The Code forbids a man to attack a guest in his own home. Even kings don’t break that rule.’

‘That so?’ said the Butcher King. ‘Well, the times are changin’. Wulgreth, stop that weasel-faced cunt!’

At that, all hell broke loose.

Hrothgar surged to his feet, roaring in protest. Sir Meredith and Red Rayne moved to restrain him while Wulgreth closed on Narm Blacktooth, levelling his deadly spear at the chieftain.

‘You treacherous fuck!’ Narm snarled. ‘I brought a hundred men and three sorceresses with me from the capital. When I don’t return to camp this night, they’ll send word to Underfort. You kill me and the armies of the Deep Reaching will boil out of the valleys seeking bloody vengeance!’

‘Nobody’s gonna send word,’ Krazka said. He glanced behind him. ‘Shranree, tell your sisters to begin razing Blacktooth’s camp to the ground. I want every man and woman reduced to ashes. No survivors. No one left alive to tell a tale.’

The air shimmered behind the King and suddenly Shranree melted out of the air. Her face was coated with sweat from the effort of maintaining her cloak of invisibility. ‘They’re already in position, my king.’

Sir Meredith met the sorceress’s eyes, and a moment later he felt himself go hard beneath his armour. The woman was larger than his tastes usually veered towards, but she was a competent conversationalist and her preferences in the bedroom had come as an unexpected surprise. It was because of her appetites that he had put his back out the night just past.

‘They’ll find out eventually!’ Narm was screaming now. ‘You won’t be able to keep your crimes a secret forever!’

‘Who said anything about forever?’ Krazka replied evenly. ‘I just need to keep ’em quiet until the Herald’s opened the hidden ways beneath the Spine. Shouldn’t be long now, not once I’ve sent a bunch of innocent souls his way
.
’ He nodded at Wulgreth, and the Northman drove his spear through Narm Blacktooth’s stomach, giving it a vicious twist. The chieftain of the Deep Reaching sank to his knees, black drool dribbling down his chin.

‘Foehammer!’ cried Hrothgar. ‘We can’t let this stand! This is a violation of the Code!’

Orgrim Foehammer couldn’t meet his counterpart’s gaze. ‘The Code’s a thing for a different age,’ he said quietly.

Krazka stalked over to Hrothgar. ‘Orgrim’s a man who knows how to move with the times. Why drown fighting against the tide when you can ride with it?’

‘You’ve thrown in with this… this lunatic?’ Hrothgar’s face was disbelieving.

The Foehammer’s shoulders slumped. ‘The demons grew too many. I couldn’t sit by as Watcher’s Keep fell. I couldn’t see my people overrun, be torn apart and defiled in ways you couldn’t imagine.’ Orgrim’s voice was heavy with despair. ‘I had no choice, Hrothgar. Do you understand me? Imagine if it was your sons staring into the face of a demon horde.’

‘Speaking of sons,’ Krazka cut in smoothly. ‘How’d they find the trip here, Hrothgar? I hope they’re enjoying the sights of Turthing.’

Hrothgar flinched as if struck. ‘How’d you know I left them up in Turthing?’

‘I’m paying someone in your entourage. Loyalty ain’t what it used to be.’

‘If you’ve harmed them… you… you fucking—’

‘They ain’t been harmed. Yet
.
But here’s the situation as I see it. You’re gonna head back to the Blue Reaching and start marshalling your forces. For every five hundred warriors you send, I’ll let one of your boys go. If a month passes without any reinforcements arriving… Well, I’ll still send a son back, ’cept this time he’ll be in a box. And more than likely in pieces. Depends on the size of the box, I guess.’

Hrothgar looked as though he had aged ten years in a single minute. ‘The Code… my honour…’

‘Aye, you’re old school. Just like Orgrim here, until he saw sense. Like I said, the times are changing. And just to prove I’m serious, I got something to show you.’

Sir Meredith’s nose wrinkled with distaste as he held the torch out over the cesspit. If his peers at the royal palace could see him now, why, they would soil their own robes laughing. Once he had been the Sword Lord, a champion of the Circle and First Knight of the King. Now he was aide-de-camp to a mad barbarian who was currently scrabbling around in a literal shithole. How the mighty had fallen.