Dead Man's Steel

by Luke Scull

  ‘They are poison,’ Melissan added. Her voice was soft yet seethed with a great anger. The nearby thralls heard her fury and flinched away. ‘A poison that must be purged from the land. How can a race so short-lived ever rise above the mud from which they crawled?’

  ‘They are not all as you say,’ Isaac replied. ‘Not all. There are some worthy of our respect.’ He knew whence his sister’s anger came. She still blamed herself for the deaths of her kin. For saying ‘yes’ to Aduana and Feryan. That decision would haunt her for eternity.

  Melissan brought her face closer, locked him with her gaze. ‘You should dispose of the Halfmage, dear brother. I fear your fondness for that particular human clouds your judgement.’

  Isaac returned his sister’s stare. ‘It is true he fascinates me. But I have known others among his kind who surprised me also. Warriors loyal enough to die for each other, as any of our kind would. Is that not worth something?’

  He recalled Brodar Kayne and his friend the Wolf. Very different men, but they had shared a bond that had seemed to him as strong as the steel deck now beneath his boots.

  ‘Humans know nothing of true loyalty,’ said Melissan. ‘They are creatures of convenience, motivated only by greed and fear. They do not feel as we do. Their “love” is but a poor imitation of ours.’

  At the mention of ‘love’, Nymuvia’s eyes seemed to shine. ‘I have news for you, brother. It is why we summoned you here. The Second Fleet’s work at the Celestial Isles is finished. The general is coming. My betrothed is on his way.’

  The smile on Nym’s face almost chased away the shadow her words cast over Isaac’s heart. ‘Saverian,’ he repeated. The general was a living legend among his people.

  Isaac remembered the massacre of the humans at the Isles. A necessary act. One that Saverian had not shied away from. ‘He will lead us to victory,’ he said, though the words sounded inexplicably hollow.

  ‘As he always has.’ Melissan pointed towards the south. ‘This “White Lady” is all that stands before the next part of our crusade. Her city will fall swiftly once the general arrives. When the last remaining Magelord of the Trine is dead, Thelassa will serve as our gateway to the continent.’

  Isaac nodded. Magic was the one question to which the fehd had no easy answer. Their people stood outside the Pattern, outside the plan the Creator had designed for this world. Magic was as alien to Isaac’s kind as their own abilities were to humanity.

  But the fehd had equally deadly weapons. Weapons that had broken worlds. ‘They will be Reckoned,’ he said softly.

  Nym’s smile was proud. ‘Like the elves before them.’

  A thud and a scream shattered the brief silence that followed. One of the thralls had fallen from a mast. He lay groaning on the deck, his right leg clearly broken by the impact. Isaac recognized the man. It was one of the thralls he had captured near the city of Carhein in the first year of his return to these shores: a farmer who had been working the fields, oblivious to the true nature of the stranger approaching down the old dirt road.

  ‘I will have a thrall bring him down to the medic deck,’ Isaac said. ‘That leg can be fixed—’

  Melissan reached for her hip and drew the deadly weapon holstered there, the motion a blur. There was the harsh crack of a shot being fired and an instant later the injured man’s head exploded in a splash of red spray. His body twitched a few times and went still. A puddle of crimson spread from the ruin of his neck, steaming in the winter air.

  ‘Clean it up,’ Melissan ordered, gesturing at the nearby thralls with her smoking hand-cannon. She replaced the weapon in its holster at her waist and turned to stare out across the city of Dorminia. ‘That was an act of mercy,’ she said. ‘The Reckoning will not be as swift.’

  Despite his unease, Isaac couldn’t argue with his sister’s assessment. When the general arrived, the time remaining to the humans in these lands would be measured in days.

  Then again, to the fehd, such had always seemed the case.

  The Greater Oath

  ✥

  THE WORLD NEVER stopped changing, in Brodar Kayne’s experience. Faster as the years went by. As he rode into the midst of Carn Bloodfist’s great army camped west of Heartstone’s walls and saw the unfamiliar faces of the young warriors sitting around the fires, most of them young enough to be his son, he felt like a relic belonging to another age.

  He drew his mare to a halt and tried to ease the stiffness out of his legs. Then he dismounted, boots crunching on frozen ground, every breath sending out thick clouds of mist in the deepening gloom. He’d forgotten how cold it was in the High Fangs in the middle of winter. Forgotten how the bitter chill would force its way into his ageing bones and make it hard to crawl into his saddle in the morning and even harder to crawl back out.

  He raised a hand to shield his eyes and squinted through the falling snow. His eyesight was worse than shit, but he thought he could make out the dark shadow of the chieftain’s tent up ahead. He reckoned there were maybe fifty yards separating him and Carn Bloodfist. Fifty yards before he came face to face with the man whose father’s head he had separated from his shoulders all those years ago.

  Chances were Carn Bloodfist would attempt to do the same to Kayne before he could get a word in edgeways. Before he could explain that he was here to throw his sword in with the army of the West Reaching and retake the capital from that mad bastard Krazka. Chances were, Kayne was about to walk headlong into his own death.

  That should have caused him to hesitate. To scramble right back on his horse and ride away before any of the faces peering up at him recognized the old greybeard who had just appeared among them. Instead he adjusted the greatsword strapped to his back and drew his filthy cloak tighter around his shoulders, fixed his blue eyes straight ahead.

  Some things you just had to do, when the alternative was no alternative at all.

  The smell of mutton cooking in the fire-pits nearby made his stomach growl like a Highland cat. There were other scents carried on the icy breeze: old leather, stale sweat, the acrid stink of piss. And underneath it all the familiar stench of war, the sickly sweetness of flesh gone rotten, of bad wounds festering and inviting death’s shadow in.

  Kayne knew all about death’s shadow. He’d been living in it for the best part of his fifty-odd years. As he focused on the tent up ahead, he tried not to let his apprehension show. Ten yards passed. Twenty.

  He almost made it. At the last moment, one of the warriors sitting in a half-circle around the furthest fire turned to utter something to a man behind him. His gaze settled on Kayne. For a second all was perfectly calm and the world seemed to hold its breath.

  Then the warrior’s eyes widened and the chicken wing he was chewing on slipped from his grasp, falling into the flames with a sizzle.

  ‘You.’ The word grated like a sword scraping against steel, shushing the chatter of the men around them. Silence descended like a shroud, broken only by the crackling of the campfires.

  The warrior clambered to his feet. He was a little older than his compatriots, a tall man in his early twenties with a wine-coloured mark discolouring his right cheek. In his eyes glittered cold fury.

  ‘You,’ he repeated, his voice a harsh whisper now. ‘You came back. Why the fuck would you come back? Here, of all places.’

  Kayne spread his palms and held them out before him. ‘I just came to talk. To speak with Carn.’ He noted with despair that half the camp seemed to be watching them now.

  ‘After what you did to his father?’ The fellow was breathing hard, nostrils flaring. ‘My brother was murdered that day. One of the thousands you ordered put to the sword.’

  Kayne sagged a little. ‘They were the Shaman’s orders.’ The words sounded pitifully small even as he spoke them.

  A voice called out, ‘Finn, what’s this about? Who is this old shitbeard?’

  The one called Finn took a step forward and spat. ‘This man is the Sword of the North. Once the most feared killer in the H
igh Fangs.’ He paused a moment, weighing up his next words for maximum effect, and the undeniable truth of them was like a dagger in Kayne’s heart. ‘He led the massacre of Reaver’s Gate fourteen years past.’

  ‘I don’t want no trouble. I just want to talk,’ Kayne repeated. But an angry muttering bubbled among the warriors close enough to hear what was being said, and he knew nothing he could say would calm their rising fury.

  Finn took another step forward. ‘Someone hand me my sword,’ he growled. Kayne could hear movement behind him, men rising and spreading out, inching closer.

  He reached over his shoulder and drew his greatsword, three and a half feet of steel glittering red in the firelight. Then he knelt down, knees groaning in protest, and placed it carefully on the ground. ‘Ain’t a day goes by I don’t regret what happened at Red Valley,’ he said slowly. ‘I got no intention of fighting you or anyone else in this camp. Well, excepting the Shaman if he’s still around, but our feud can wait till after the war’s over.’

  Strong arms seized him, forced his arms painfully behind his back. He didn’t protest. Didn’t try to fight. He could smell the stinking breath of warriors behind him, feel the heat of their anger as they grasped him tight. Most were too young to have fought in Targus Bloodfist’s rebellion, too young for their lifeblood to have joined that of their fathers and brothers and uncles in the great basin in the shadow of Reaver’s Gate. The massacre at Red Valley was a scar that had yet to heal, a scabbed wound from which the hurt of a thousand sons of the West Reaching still bled. Especially now, with the man who had given the order to Krazka and his lieutenants standing right there before them.

  Finn sneered, the birthmark on his cheek ugly against the paleness of his flesh. ‘The Shaman’s still useful to Carn. Don’t reckon he’s got any use for a washed-up old coward though.’

  ‘I’m many things but a coward’s never been one of ’em,’ Kayne said, though the memory of Jerek’s final goodbye surfaced to mock that claim, and his voice grew hoarse. ‘Do what you have to do. Just be sure you keep your blades sharp for Krazka. Him and any who stand with that butcher.’

  Kayne reeled as Finn punched him hard in the face. He spat blood and then a moment later heaved bile as a fist to the stomach doubled him up, or would have if his arms weren’t pinned tight behind him. He tried to say something, managed only to slobber red drool over his chin and grunt as a vicious kick collapsed his legs, leaving him slumping forward, upright only on account of the men who had hold of his elbows.

  Finn was standing over him. He’d finally found his sword and was pointing the sharp end right at Kayne’s face. ‘The Butcher King will get what’s coming to him, don’t you worry about that. As for you, it’s time you answered for your own part in Red Valley, old man. You came back for vengeance? Looks like vengeance found you.’ Finn grabbed a handful of his grey hair and Kayne’s head was forced back, the edge of the sword shoved roughly against his neck. Could be the angry Westerman just wanted to give him a nice close shave, but the look in Finn’s eyes suggested he had something more sinister in mind. Kayne blinked blood and snow and sweat out of his own eyes and waited for the end.

  ‘Stay your hand, boy.’

  The voice that thundered from the tent was deep and powerful. A hulking silhouette emerged into the waning light and Kayne felt his muscles tense, fought the urge to twist away from the men restraining him, pluck the blade from Finn and make his own bloody bid for revenge on the newcomer. As the light from the nearest campfire fell over him, though, Kayne saw that it was not the Shaman whose feet crunched over the snow towards them.

  Carn Bloodfist was a hulking giant of a man – taller than Kayne by the entirety of his huge forehead, which jutted out above a visage that might’ve been carved from the jagged stone of the West Reaching’s deepest valleys. His black hair had receded halfway down his massive skull and was gathered in a thick braid that reached as far as his beard, which was similarly braided. Whereas the Shaman was pure chiselled muscle, stretched to the limits of what his body could achieve, Carn was massive in that way of men who were simply born freakish big.

  The chieftain of the West Reaching and leader of the resistance army loomed over Finn, who seemed to wilt in his colossal presence. Flint-dark eyes stared out from a face wreathed in shadow. ‘I swore an oath fourteen years ago,’ he rumbled. ‘An oath to kill the man who slew my father.’

  ‘Best get to it then,’ Kayne rasped, hawking out a mouthful of blood. ‘Before some other bastard with a grudge stakes his claim. This camp don’t seem short of ’em.’

  Carn gestured at Finn with a meaty hand, deep scars reciting a history of violence, a testament to countless battles won. ‘Return to your fire,’ he boomed. ‘I will speak with the Sword of the North alone. Any man who dares disturb us or raises a weapon against him shall face my wrath.’

  Finn’s eyes narrowed, his jaw quivering in rage, but he dared not disobey his chieftain. Kayne finally drew breath as the blade was grudgingly withdrawn from his neck. The warriors behind him released his elbows and he toppled forward, swollen face thudding painfully into the frozen earth. Some remnant of the man he used to be wouldn’t let him lie there; wouldn’t allow further humiliation to be heaped upon him while warriors who once feared his name sneered, mouths twisting in contempt. He forced himself to stand, every joint screaming, until he looked up at Carn.

  The great chieftain rolled his shoulders and pointed down at Kayne’s feet. ‘Pick up your sword,’ he rumbled.

  *

  The tent was larger than it looked on the outside and smelled faintly of mould. It was near pitch black within, a single candle set on an upturned crate in the centre providing the only illumination. Kayne scanned the makeshift table, hardly seeing the ink-stained map covered in scrawl, or the empty, half-cracked tankard. Instead his eyes were drawn to the broadsword gleaming orange in the flickering light. Carn walked slowly to the table, bent down and retrieved a battered shield propped against a travelling chest beside the crate. He strapped it around his wrist, then reached for the weapon.

  ‘Here?’ Kayne said wearily. ‘You want to settle this here?’ He still felt groggy from the beating he’d received a moment ago. Still couldn’t seem to focus properly after that last punch. Nonetheless, the midnight runes covering the length of that gleaming blade were familiar to him.

  ‘You recognize this?’ said Carn.

  Kayne stared at the weapon in Carn’s hand. ‘Aye. Your father’s sword.’

  ‘My father,’ Carn echoed. ‘Called the Bloodfist after he broke every one of his knuckles killing a giant with his bare hands. This weapon was a gift to him from a Lowland wizard just before he declared the West Reaching’s independence. With it, it was said no man could face him in battle and live.’ Carn was silent for a moment, stroking his great beard with fingers as thick as most men’s wrists. ‘They found it beside his body the morning he challenged you to a duel. I named it Oathkeeper.’

  Kayne said nothing.

  ‘Tell me how he died,’ Carn growled, the words carrying a menace that seemed to chill the air within the tent.

  There’d been a time when talk of past deeds swelled Kayne with pride. Now it just brought pain. ‘He died like a warrior,’ he replied honestly. ‘Gave me a few scars to add to the others. One of the toughest fights of my life.’ Not the toughest: the golden-armoured swordsman back in the Lowlands had been a true master of the blade.

  And the toughest fight of all, one he wasn’t sure he would’ve won, wasn’t certain he’d wanted to win in any case – the memory of that fight was still as raw a wound as any of the physical hurts he carried.

  If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you. Jerek’s words.

  His hands were suddenly trembling, tears threatening his eyes. Carn must have seen his moment of weakness. Before he knew it the massive chieftain was barrelling towards him, faster than any man his size had a right to be. Oathkeeper hissed down, seeming to thrum with power as it sliced through the empty space whe
re Kayne’s head had been an instant before. The sixth sense that had saved his life on countless occasions saved him again then, and he rolled away just in time, coming back to his feet with his greatsword suddenly in his palms. The trembling of a moment before was gone. He was utterly still, as calm as the surface of Lake Dragur on a lazy summer morning.

  The enormous figure of Carn Bloodfist faced him, seemed to fill half the available space in the tent. But Carn did not press the attack. Instead he grunted and gave a small nod, then turned and walked back over to the upturned crate. He removed his shield and placed it against the chest. Then he laid Oathkeeper carefully down beside the map and sat on the chest, staring into the darkness, a deep frown on his heavy brow. The flickering candlelight sent eerie shapes dancing over his craggy cheek. ‘You remember how to fight, at least.’

  ‘Ain’t something you ever forget,’ Kayne replied warily. ‘If you’ve a mind to see me dead I reckon there’s easier ways of going about it.’

  ‘The Kayne I knew would never have submitted to my men so readily outside this tent,’ Carn rumbled. ‘I had to know if you were still the man I remembered. You are no use to me otherwise. Not if you have lost your appetite for killing.’

  ‘I lost it long ago.’

  ‘But not your skill.’

  Kayne shrugged. ‘I ain’t what I once was. I’m old. The world leaves all men behind eventually.’

  ‘Not just men,’ Carn replied absently. ‘Magelords also.’ He raised a hand and pointed towards the deepest shadows in the corner of the tent. ‘Witness the Shaman.’

  ‘The Shaman’s here?’ Kayne rasped, his throat suddenly raw. He squinted into the darkness, thinking perhaps the Magelord had been observing them in one of his many animal forms. But as he strained his failing eyes, all he could make out was the vague outline of a hooded figure huddled on the ground. He took a few small steps closer, greatsword raised, fingers white from gripping the hilt so hard.