by Luke Scull
‘That’s what bitches do,’ Krazka sneered. ‘They follow their master. Women are like dogs, bearface. You make them fear you; you show them the consequences of disobedience and they’re yours for life.’ He patted his demonsteel sword. ‘You know what happens if you don’t obey, don’t you?’
Rana went white and nodded. Krazka grinned and turned back to Lenka. The thin-faced killer was busy cutting Magnar, his tongue poking out in concentration. The boy gasped a little, but still no scream.
‘Someone’s out there,’ Bagha rumbled. ‘I can see a horse. There’s a man riding it.’
Krazka was on his feet immediately, sword in one hand, hand-cannon in the other. ‘You sure it’s a horse? Not a demon?’ A single man held no fear for him, whereas a demon might be anything. He doubted the Fangs had seen the worst of what the Devil’s Spine would spit out now that the Legion, or whatever the fuck the Herald had called it, was on the move.
‘It’s a man,’ Bagha repeated. ‘He’s getting off the horse.’
As he stared into the blinding snow, Krazka could make out a tall figure walking towards them. There was something about the way he moved that was troubling; when you’d killed as many men as he had, every movement told a story.
‘Boys,’ he grated, waving at the brothers. ‘We got company.’
Lenka and his siblings got silently to their feet and padded over. Rana sat where she was, her eyes fixed on Magnar. On the hilt of the knife sticking out of his ribs.
The figure drew closer. Through the thick sheet of snow Krazka could make out greying hair with a slight widow’s peak, the jagged scar on one weather-beaten cheek. Blue eyes gleamed like a glacier on a cold winter morning, speaking only of death. Unique of all the warriors in the High Fangs, they had more to say on that subject than Krazka himself.
‘He’s old,’ Bagha said, his blunt face breaking into a grin. ‘He’ll die fast.’ The massive warrior hefted his iron war mace.
‘Thing about getting old,’ Krazka said quietly, feeling a tingling excitement in his veins. A promise made long ago about to be realized. ‘It means you’re good at not dying.’ He holstered his hand-cannon and raised his sword in a mockery of a salute. ‘Looks like Daddy’s come for his boy.’
*
Mhaira stumbled again. Her breath rasped in her chest. He saw the blood flecking her mouth and wanted to scream in anguish. He ran to her, pulled her up and hugged her tight. In the distance the howls and grunts of the Brethren were growing nearer. They couldn’t outrun the Shaman’s servants. He knew that. Had always known it.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said brokenly. Tears almost choked him but he knew he had to be strong. This was their only chance. Mhaira’s only chance. ‘Go on without me. I’ll try and slow them.’
‘Brodar—’
‘I love you, May.’ He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. ‘You warned me. This is what comes of killing. But I was too weak to say no.’
‘You were never weak,’ she replied. ‘And you said no. When it mattered, you said no.’
‘I brought us to this,’ he said, cursing himself. Hating himself. ‘I should have just done what he asked. I should’ve gone to Beregund and—’
‘No,’ she interrupted gently. ‘You did what was right and I would have it no other way. Just promise me one thing. Please.’
‘Anything,’ he said, his voice a strangled rasp.
She placed her hands on his cheeks and held his gaze. Her soft grey eyes were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Didn’t seem right they should exist here, in this world of ugliness and violence. ‘Promise to protect our son. He always wanted to be like you. Always feared he would live in your shadow. He is only doing what he thinks is right. Promise you will forgive him. That will you protect him.’
‘I promise,’ he said. He steeled himself for his next words. ‘I have to go now. Run on ahead. Don’t wait for me, and don’t look back.’
‘I love you,’ she whispered.
‘I love you, too’.
*
Kayne blinked snow from his eyes. Snow or tears – it was hard to say which. Either way it wasn’t doing much to help as he tried to focus on the trio of evil-looking warriors spreading out to surround him. Behind them loomed a monster of a man, bigger than Carn, as big as the armoured giant Jerek had killed down in Dorminia months past. The giant wore the skull of a great bear on his head. The mace he clutched in his huge fingers likely weighed as much as Kayne himself.
Behind the giant, grinning widely at the scene playing out before him, was Krazka.
Kayne’s fury rose. That leering eye had haunted his nightmares. One of them wouldn’t be leaving here alive, and a quick glance at the odds arrayed against him told him it was almost certainly going to be Kayne. But he would fight with his every last breath to bring that murdering, raping piece of shit the end he deserved.
Fight or die. There was something in that simple truth that had always sung to him. He could hear it now, the first refrain of a song he’d danced to a thousand time before.
He brought his greatsword up in a fighting stance. The greatsword Braxus had forged for him as a wedding gift half a lifetime ago. A lot of men said you couldn’t fight effectively with a weapon that size, that it wasn’t possible to move fast. But you didn’t need to move fast. You needed to move right.
The warrior directly in front of him, the one with the dozen knives at his belt, sneered and then plucked a dagger free, hurled it in one smooth motion. Kayne twitched slightly and felt it whistle just wide of his neck, then adjusted his greatsword as a second knife flashed through the snow. He felt it bounce off the steel, but any satisfaction he might’ve taken from that was short-lived. The two brothers were on him in an instant, their thin-bladed swords darting in, stabbing and slashing. Moving on instinct, Kayne parried one sword, twisted out of the way of the other, the pelting snow all around them making it near impossible to see. He felt his blade connect with flesh and was rewarded by one of his opponents stumbling away. An instant later he felt a stinging pain in his arm and realized the other’s sword had bitten deep into his own body.
He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even flinch. Instead he twisted with the blow, following the path he knew the swordsman’s momentum would take him along. He swung hard, felt his greatsword cleave through skin and muscle. He heard a wet sloshing sound and blinked snow from his eyes to see the man staring down at his stomach. Snaking intestines were spilling out of the wound, steaming gently where they touched the snow. The man’s sword was dripping with Kayne’s own blood, but the Sword of the North paid it no mind. He grabbed the dying fellow and pulled him close, spun him around just as the knifeman’s third effort came twirling through the air. It hit his brother dead in the chest. The younger man screamed in rage.
White-hot, blinding pain exploded in Kayne’s side and he gasped. He glanced down to see a spear lodged there. The second brother had blindsided him. With a snarl he reached around to the chest of his human shield and yanked out the knife buried there, twisted and hurled it at the limping figure still grasping the spear. At this range he couldn’t miss. The point slammed into his face, burying the knife up to the hilt. The spear went slack as the man died and his hands slipped away from the haft. Gritting his teeth, Kayne tugged the steel head free of his flesh.
He almost passed out from the agony. He didn’t have time to feel sorry for himself though – the sole remaining brother was on him in an instant, thin face contorted in rage, incoherent screams rising above the howling wind. Kayne grabbed his arm an instant before it plunged yet another knife into his chest, twisted it as far as it would go and was rewarded by the sound of bone breaking. The screams of outrage turned to screams of agony and the knifeman reeled away and fell to the snow cradling his fractured arm, sobbing like a child. Only the gentle lapping of Lake Dragur against the shore broke the silence that followed.
Kayne’s breath rasped in his chest. He could feel the blood welling from his arm and leaking down his wounded side
to patter onto the snow. The pain was starting to fade. Somewhere deep in his subconscious he knew that was dangerous. Pain was useful. Pain kept a man alive.
A voice called out, ‘Finish him, bearface.’ Another enemy lumbered through the snow towards him and he knew he needed to focus, but it was hard to care, hard to think at all. Something hit him in the mouth and he heard his jaw crack. Then he was lying on the snow, spitting out blood and teeth. Still, the snow felt pleasant. He needed to rest. Had needed to rest for years, that was the truth.
It’s a good day to die. The words floated idly through his skull. The great bulk of the warrior above him moved closer, mighty war mace raised for the killing blow. Kayne’s blue eyes began to feel heavy. They settled on the campfire, on the woman sitting there.
On the young man tied up beside the fire. Kayne hadn’t noticed him before. There was something sticking out of his chest. Grey eyes met his own, the shadow of death heavy over them. Kayne knew that face.
Like an erupting volcano, hot fury surged up. Pain flooded back. The war mace descended and at the last possible moment Kayne moved, rolled under the mighty arc of the weapon, which struck the ground in an explosion of ice. He snarled, hot blood filling his nose, filling his mouth. He spat it up into the face of the giant above him, then reached out, grabbed the haft of the spear nearby and plunged it straight into the monster’s gut. He gave it a cruel twist and then used it as leverage to haul himself slowly to his feet, every inch pure torture. Fury drove him on until he was standing once again. Gasping, covered in blood from head to toe. He released the spear and tugged the bear skull from the warrior’s head with a grunt, spraying crimson everywhere. He raised the skull and smashed it down onto the pinned giant’s big lump of a head. Once, twice, three times, until the man’s face was a gory mess and he finally toppled onto the snow.
Kayne dropped the broken skull and walked over, swaying with every step, to where his greatsword lay. He bent down and retrieved the weapon. The knifeman was still sobbing nearby and Kayne followed the sounds until he was standing over the youngest of the three brothers. The only one still drawing breath. ‘You tried to gut my son,’ he whispered, blood spraying from his mangled mouth with every word.
The reply was a pitiful sob – but the Sword of the North was out of mercy.
A moment later he turned and tossed the man’s severed head at the feet of the last figure standing opposite him.
Krazka, the Butcher King, who had betrayed his own people to ally with a demon lord, brought his hands together in a slow clap. He stood casually, purple hide cloak fluttering behind him and single-edged sword clutched lazily in a gloved hand. He beckoned Kayne forward, mouth twisting in an evil grin.
Kayne raised his greatsword. Tried to take a step towards Krazka. The world seemed to rock wildly and he had to stop, fighting desperately not to fall. He knew he wouldn’t get back up if he did.
Krazka examined his own wicked sword in the light of the campfire. ‘They say you were the best. You never faced me on an even footing, but after that I might grudgingly accept you as my equal. Don’t matter now, though. Reckon you’re done. You can’t even move.’
Kayne didn’t reply. He didn’t have the breath to waste. Barely had any breath at all. The world grew darker. He was only dimly aware of Krazka striding towards him, sword held with consummate skill. ‘You got close, but close ain’t never been good enough. I ain’t hiding in your shadow no longer, Sword of the North. Time for one legend to die and another to take its place.’ Through his failing eyes, Kayne could see Krazka’s face. That leering eye, making a mockery of the world. Of everything Kayne had ever loved. ‘Fitting you die here with your boy. Don’t you fret – he’ll follow you shortly.’
Krazka went for the killing blow. The sword danced in his hands, quick as a snake. It was an extravagant move. An executioner’s move.
Kayne twisted. The smallest of movements. But sometimes that was all that was needed. The right move. The right move at the right time.
The Butcher King’s demonsteel blade sailed out of his hands, tumbling to the snow twenty feet away. Kayne tried to follow through but his strength was gone and he could barely hold his greatsword aloft. Krazka caught the blade between his palms six inches from his chest. The sardonic humour of a moment ago was instantly replaced by shocked fury.
‘How the fuck did you manage that?’ Krazka spat. He tore the sword from Kayne’s unresisting grip and hurled it to the snow. Kayne sank to his knees, utterly spent. Krazka loomed over him and Kayne felt something cold and metallic pressed against the side of his head. The Seer’s words floated to him from somewhere in the recesses of his fading mind.
You knelt before the Butcher King.
There was a click from above him, followed by a savage curse. ‘That chamber was empty. The next one won’t be. I ain’t leaving no survivors. No witnesses. You humiliated me. I’m the gods-damned Butcher King. I climbed out of a cesspit with my bare hands. No one humiliates Krazka—’
Kayne waited, but only silence followed.
And then a soft voice spoke, feminine and seething with fury. ‘You betrayed our people. You sacrificed the town’s children to a demon. You tortured that poor girl, Yllandris. You murdered my nephew.’
Kayne tried to open his eyes. The silhouette of a woman was moving closer. She carried a torch in her hand. She raised the flame towards Krazka. ‘You thought me your bitch. A coward. But I was waiting. Waiting for the moment I could get close to you and work my spell. The women of the High Fangs are not weak creatures to be raped. To be murdered. To be abused.’
Kayne smelled burning flesh. A moment later something warm and wet struck his brow and trickled down. A tear, perhaps.
‘Now you are the one who is helpless. You will hurt no more innocents. Terrorize no more of my sisters. Shranree was a cruel woman. I am not, but this you deserve. On behalf of Yllandris. On behalf of Polga. On behalf of my nephew and all the victims of your wickedness, may you burn forever more.’
The woman’s hot breath whispered in Kayne’s ear, the words getting fainter as the life slipped from him. ‘I wish I could help you and your son, but your wounds are too great and I am no healer. I will tell them you died well. That whatever your sins may have been, you died fighting to keep a promise to a woman you love. There is nothing more precious.’
Kayne heard footsteps crunching on the snow, moving away from him.
Then, finally, his eyes closed.
Small Blessings
✥
THE HALFMAGE HAD never been afraid of the sea. There was something comforting about the predictability of the tides, the endless cycle of nature at work. Even the Broken Sea, with its natural properties altered by the wild magic that swirled within its depths thanks to the fallout from the Godswar, largely adhered to a familiar pattern. It was something knowable to cling to in a world of uncertainty. Perhaps not for much longer, in this Age of Ruin. But it was something.
No, what Eremul was afraid of wasn’t the sea.
It’s sailing on a ship the size of a small town towards a city governed by the most powerful wizard in the world. A ship carrying enough firepower to blow us all to the Confederation and back.
Eremul glanced at the churning waters far below and tried to steady his nerves. Deadman’s Channel was narrow at the best of times, but it seemed that no sooner had Isaac assisted the Halfmage aboard the Second Fleet’s titanic flagship than Thelassa was drawing into view. It cut a markedly different sight to Dorminia – a pale and beautiful twin to the stunted, grey dreariness of its counterpart across the channel. Given the choice, Eremul would choose the latter every time.
After all, ‘stunted’ and ‘dreary’ are what I’m all about.
Following behind the flagship were the magnificent vessels that made up the Second Fleet. Each was crewed by a small team of fehd as well as a much larger team of thralls. The general himself, Saverian, stood only thirty feet away from Eremul at the very front of the flagship. The white-haired
general’s forbidding presence was a large reason for the Halfmage’s anxiety. He wondered how a Magelord would fare in the face of this legendary immortal.
Perhaps we are about to find out.
As they drew closer to Thelassa’s harbour, a strange sight greeted them. A shimmering wall appeared, rising from the sea to tower hundreds of feet above Thelassa’s fleet just beyond. Eremul could feel the monumental magnitude of the magic emanating from the magical barrier; a colossal undertaking that rivalled the great spell Salazar had cast to crush Shadowport for sheer audacity.
The fehd appeared disconcerted by the unexpected obstacle. The flagship dropped anchor and the rest of the fleet followed suit. A vast cloud of steam hissed forth from the great turrets on the ships, turning the chill winter air momentarily sticky. Following a brief exchange between Saverian and his officers, the flagship turned sharply and the Halfmage was forced to grab hold of a metal railing to stop his chair being propelled down the deck. Having presented its side to the magical barrier ahead, rows of artillery began to click into place on the ship’s weapons deck.
Isaac approached Eremul and pointed at the silvery barrier just ahead of them. ‘I don’t imagine you are able to dispel this?’ he asked, apparently in earnest.
Eremul stared at the ancient creature who had once masqueraded as his manservant and tried not to laugh in his face. ‘This wall was conjured into being by perhaps the greatest living master of magic in the known world,’ he said sardonically. ‘You might as well ask a fisherman to reel in one of the great whales that are said to dwell within the Endless Ocean. I am half a man and half a mage. The White Lady is a repository of the divinity of the gods.’
‘They were never our gods,’ said Isaac. ‘We do not understand this thing you call “magic”. It did not exist in the place from which my ancestors came.’
Eremul’s eyebrows rose. ‘Well, it manifestly exists here,’ he said. ‘Besides, what do you call the feats your people can perform, if not magic? Your agelessness. Your ability to beguile.’