Grim Company 02 - Sword Of The North (40 page)

‘Make me proud.’

Her mother’s voice came to her again, chasing away her doubts, stilling the trembling that had threatened to overwhelm her. She evoked all her power and hurled it at the armed warriors, hoping beyond hope that it might work, that it would reduce them to ash—

Nothing. Her magic died as soon as it left her, absorbed by the absyssium around the fingers of the Kingsmen.

Sir Meredith glanced down at his gauntleted hand. ‘Any warmer and that may have actually hurt. Impressive. Ryder will enjoy breaking your spirit, as befits his squalid nature.’

Yllandris stared down at her hands. Her magic had failed, as she knew it would. She remembered the massacre outside Heartstone, the awful fate of the sorceresses from the Black Reaching.
I’m going to die
, she thought dully.

But then the spirits stirred.

A gust of wind rustled her hair. The pool rippled slightly. The ground seemed to tremble beneath her. Like a geyser erupting from the earth, magic surged to fill her. Immense magic, greater than any she had ever known, more potent even than the binding spell the King’s circle had worked on the Shaman. She wrestled with the sudden eruption of power, but it was uncontrollable, a raging torrent that threatened to tear her apart.

With a great scream, she let it burst free. It flowed from her, refusing to relent, a river gaining ever more momentum. A second passed and nothing happened. Another second passed, and a third, and then Sir Meredith shrieked. Rayne’s scimitar clattered to the ground and he stared dumbly at his ruined hand, blood dripping from the stub where his ring finger had been a moment before.

An instant later her spell took effect. A raging column of fire exploded from her hands. The two Kingsmen were fast enough to dive out of the way, but the warriors behind them weren’t so quick. The fire engulfed them and they died screaming.

Yllandris reached for more magic. It seemed as if the spirits would oblige, and she felt the power fill her once more – but just then there was a sharp pain in her side.

She looked down.

An arrow jutted from her waist. The twang of a bowstring sounded again, and this time something hit her in the throat. She reached up slowly to feel the wooden shaft lodged in her neck.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. The world began to blur. The iron man stalked towards her, though she was on her knees now and couldn’t see his face. It was too much of an effort to lift her head, so she focused on the dancing flames reflected on his breastplate. They reminded her of her parents’ hearth, of the days long gone when she would sit beside the fire while they talked and dream of all the things she would do when she was a woman grown.

Her head felt so heavy. As it began to droop, her failing eyes settled on the sack on the ground in front of her. There’d been something she was going to do with that sack, she thought dully. She couldn’t remember what it was now. Voices drifted to her, from somewhere far away…

‘I think she’s ready.’

‘It’s okay, we’re not angry. We forgive you.’

‘You can come with us now. There’s nothing to be afraid of. We’re taking you to the better place.’

Sir Meredith washed the blood from his sabre and stared down at his reflection in the water. He flinched at the face that gazed back at him. At the receding hairline and weak chin, at the ugly lines that marred his once handsome face. When had he aged so damned gracelessly?

He slammed his blade into its scabbard in cold fury, tore the damaged gauntlet from his hand and tossed it away. He examined his wounded hand by the orange glow of the fire spreading through the trees behind him. His finger was half-severed, white bone poking through where the demonsteel ring had shattered.

‘Bitch,’ he swore bitterly. ‘Whore!’ He knew he sounded like a barbarian, and his lack of erudition in the heat of his rage only made him angrier.

Rayne stumbled over, cradling his own wounded hand. ‘The fire’s spreading. If we don’t move fast, we might not make it out. Shit, what the hell happened?’

Sir Meredith roared in frustration. He gave Yorn’s head a vicious kick, sending it soaring into the pool with a splash. ‘Where’s that dog-faced bastard Ryder?’ he bellowed.

‘Here,’ the tracker said, slinking out of the shadows. He flashed a yellow smile. ‘Looks like I just saved your knightly arse. That sorceress would have turned you both to ash if I hadn’t shot her.’

Sir Meredith stared at the smouldering remains of the three warriors they had brought with them from Heartstone. ‘Our noble quest is a failure,’ he said bitterly.

Ryder rolled his narrows shoulders and ran a callused thumb down his bowstring. ‘You and Rayne head back to Heartstone. Get some healing. I’ll finish the job.’

Meredith glanced at his mangled hand again and had to swallow a howl of anguish at the terrible sight. If he could find a sorceress in time, perhaps she could still save the finger. ‘This forest will soon be a raging inferno,’ he told Ryder. ‘Your bravado will get you killed.’

The wiry tracker shrugged. ‘I know the Greenwild better than anyone. Plus I got some friends nearby that might be willing to lend a hand. I might need to double back a-ways, but I’ll catch ’em. Don’t you worry, iron man.’

After a moment’s thought Sir Meredith nodded. The loss of the handful of nameless warriors smouldering on the forest floor could be a written off as a small mishap, but if this mission ended up costing him his sword hand… why,
that
would be a bloody debacle.

‘King Jagar is waiting.’

The warrior’s voice was muffled beneath the ceremonial helm covering his face. Brodar Kayne adjusted his cloak and tried not to let his nerves show as he followed the Kingsman, their footsteps echoing down the entrance hall. The floor was solid stone, the walls darkwood felled from the forests of the Black Reaching to the north. The Great Lodge was said to be the oldest building in town, built long before the coming of the Shaman to the High Fangs.

The weapons and shields of celebrated heroes and Wardens lined the walls, and Kayne allowed himself to wonder if his own blade might one day hang there in recognition of his service. Maybe that was why the King had summoned him to Heartstone: to congratulate him on ten years’ service and honour him with a spot in this hall of heroes.

Then again, maybe his hopes were wide of the mark. He thought of his wife and son back at Eastmeet. Kayne had tried to reassure Mhaira that there was nothing to worry about. Her grey eyes seemed to suggest he was talking a heap of horseshit, and he couldn’t rightly blame her for that.

He ought to be settling into his new life right about now. He didn’t have the first clue about shepherding, barely knew one end of a sheep from the other, but Mhaira was looking forward to teaching him and just hearing the enthusiasm in her voice had been enough for him to go along with her plans. He reckoned he owed her that much, after all the years she’d waited for him, never knowing when or even if he might be coming home. Truth be told, though he sorely missed his brothers at the Keep, he was enjoying waking up each day beside her. And he relished spending time with Magnar. His son was growing up fast.

The Kingsman stopped before a pair of mighty oak doors. ‘Go in,’ he rumbled. Kayne took a deep breath and entered the throne room.

Jagar the Wise was sitting in his throne at the head of the long table that dominated the chamber. Kayne met the King’s gaze and then almost faltered when he saw the other sets of eyes turning to stare at him. No fewer than seven chieftains of the High Fangs, a gathering of the most powerful men in the realm.

A few chieftains Kayne recognized from their visits to Watcher’s Keep over the years. Mehmon of the North Reaching had been at the citadel the winter just gone. Galma Forkbeard was a frequent guest; the Lake Reaching and the East Reaching were neighbours, meaning Galma had a special interest in the fortunes of the Wardens. The chieftain of the East Reaching, Darnold Grint, had recently fallen ill and was not present at the table. Orgrim Foehammer had travelled to Eastmeet at his request. Rumour was that the High Commander was being groomed as Grint’s replacement. Kayne wondered if he in turn was being lined up to replace Orgrim as High Commander. Was that what this summons was about?

He tried not to feel intimidated by the collective scrutiny as he marched down the side of the table and knelt before the King of the High Fangs.

‘You may rise.’

The King looked much the same as the first time Kayne had laid eyes on him. Jagar’s hair and beard had turned to grey, but his eyes were bright and he remained an impressively robust figure. ‘I’ve heard many tales of your bravery, Warden,’ the King said.

‘Ex-Warden now,’ Kayne replied diffidently. ‘I served my time at the Keep. I’ll always be grateful for the chance you gave me.’

Jagar nodded. ‘I understand you killed Skarn and his gang. Alone, or so the stories go. They were torching a mead-maker’s home when you fell upon them.’

Kayne remembered the burning house, the crumpled bodies on the floor. ‘I did what needed to be done,’ he said, trying not to let the guilt show on his face.

‘The young man you pulled from the fire. Jerek, I believe. You are aware he volunteered for the Forsaken last autumn? Mehmon here took the boy’s oath.’

‘Aye?’ Kayne replied, mildly surprised. The Forsaken was an elite group of hunters and rangers that kept the frontier of the North Reaching free of the strollers and ice ghouls that sometimes crossed from the frozen wasteland beyond. It was a dangerous and lonely path for any man to choose, let alone one so young.

Mehmon raised a thick hand. The chieftain of the North Reaching was said to be a formidable warrior, and it was an oft-repeated tale that he’d once killed a troll on the banks of the Blackwater – though others swore the ‘troll’ was actually a giant born with some kind of disease. Kayne had never met a troll in all his years in the Borderland. They were all but extinct now, though according to folklore they had been a common enough threat in the age before the fall of the gods.

The King nodded at Mehmon, granting him permission to speak. The big chieftain cleared his throat noisily. ‘Jerek’s patrol was ambushed by Blackwater pirates a few months back. The cowards attacked under the cover of darkness. The patrol was surrounded and outnumbered.’

Kayne’s heart sank. ‘Sorry to hear it. After what happened to him and his family I figure the boy deserved a better end than that.’

He didn’t add that it was he who was responsible for leading Skarn’s gang to Jerek’s home. Somehow the passing trader who discovered the two of them lying on the road had got it into his head that the outlaws were burning the house down for their own amusement when Kayne showed up to stop them. By the time Kayne had recovered from his wounds well enough to correct him, the tale had spread through Watcher’s Keep. He could’ve set them straight. He could’ve, but he hadn’t.

Mehmon listened to Kayne’s words with a puzzled expression. Then he grinned. ‘Ah, but you never let me finish. The Blackwater turned crimson with the blood of pirate and patrolman alike. When it was over, one man walked away from the carnage. Just one man.’

‘Jerek?’

‘He struck me as an odd sort from the off. It weren’t just the scars on his face, there was this queer look in his eye too. Anyways, he walks right back to Frosthold that same morning, painted head to toe in gore, looking more like a demon than a man. Hardly said a word about what happened, other than what I dug out of him. I sent another patrol to investigate, to see if his story held up. It did.’

Kayne listened in growing amazement. Jerek was only nineteen winters of age, hugely inexperienced when measured against the demanding standards the Forsaken required; the last man he might expect to survive that kind of tragedy.

King Jagar chuckled and the hall went silent. ‘You and this Jerek have something in common, Brodar Kayne,’ he said. ‘You walk in the shadow of death, and yet somehow you always survive.’

Kayne winced at the King’s words. He wasn’t so sure he wanted to live in that particular shadow any more. He wanted to step into the light, now. Into Mhaira’s light. Into Magnar’s light.

The King clapped his hands together. ‘On to business! It was not I that summoned you to this council.’

Kayne’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. ‘You didn’t?’

‘No. I did,’ said a powerful voice Kayne had heard once before, many years ago.

The gathered chieftains lowered their heads as the Shaman emerged from the shadows at the far corner of the chamber.

The Magelord was just as Kayne remembered, a bronze-skinned, hulking slab of chiselled muscle wearing a pair of tattered brown trousers, wild hair falling around a blunt face. The glacial stare that fixed on him had seen countless kings come and go.

‘The West Reaching has broken the Treaty,’ the Shaman growled. ‘Targus Bloodfist plans for war.’ The Magelord moved to stand before Kayne, who, though he was half a head taller, felt small in the face of the immortal godkiller. As good as Kayne was with a sword, he knew the Shaman could break him in half if he chose. ‘You kill without fear. Without mercy.’

‘Ain’t no use for either when it comes to fighting demons,’ Kayne replied.

‘Or men,’ the Shaman replied. ‘For years I have watched you. I was at your Initiation. I was there at your joining. I needed to be certain you were the one. That you were true.’

‘I hope I am. True, that is,’ Kayne stammered, caught off balance by the Shaman’s revelations.

The Shaman crossed his mighty arms. ‘I made a promise when I came to this land. A promise to keep its people safe. Safe but also strong, for life without struggle is death by inertia. Complacency breeds weakness – and weakness cannot be borne! Yet sometimes struggle must be averted for the greater good. I have been searching for a proxy.’

‘A… a proxy?’ Kayne didn’t know what the hell a ‘proxy’ was, but it sounded like some kind of disease.