by Luke Scull
With a mighty grunt, he broke the sword over his knee.
‘I’m finished here,’ the general announced, tossing away the shattered blade. He gestured to Brandwyn, and then pointed at Kayne. ‘Finish off your countryman. I will waste no more time on empty legends. As agreed, you will be named chieftain of your people, provided you remember your place.’
Kayne was only dimly aware of the warriors spreading out to surround him. All he could focus on was his son dying in his arms.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered brokenly. ‘I made you come here.’
He saw the Seer in his mind’s eye then, heard her voice echoing in his skull. You sent the Broken King to his death.
He reached down into the bag at his belt. Felt the lock of Mhaira’s hair and wrapped his fingers around it. Pulled Magnar close.
He hardly saw the steel blade flashing towards him. Was only vaguely aware of the axe appearing at the last instant to knock it aside.
‘Get up, Kayne. Get the fuck up. We ain’t dying here. Not without taking as many of them with us as we can.’
The rasping voice seized him as firmly as a strong hand on his shoulder, offering him comfort in his greatest hour of need.
Jerek was beside him, axes in his hands. Kayne met the Wolf’s eyes. The two men exchanged a look they’d exchanged a hundred times before.
Brodar Kayne laid Magnar gently down and got to his feet. Lifted his greatsword. ‘One last time,’ he whispered.
‘One last time,’ rasped Jerek. The Wolf spat, raised his axes.
Then Brandwyn’s warriors were upon them.
They were outnumbered four to one, Kayne only weeks recovered from what could’ve been his deathbed. His arms shook with every swing, his eyes blurry from grief. He was old, weary and broken-down. A man who had lost everything.
And so he shed the man and became the weapon. Became the Sword of the North once more.
He knocked away thrusts from spear and sword, hacked out at unprotected limbs. Steel whispered past his ear, missed him by a fraction. A few glancing blows landed but he shrugged off the pain, ignored the fresh blood running down his arms and thighs. His own greatsword answered the nicks tenfold, cleaving off limbs, shattering arms and legs. He ran one warrior through, the big bastard with the double-headed axe. Another dashed in, seeking to take advantage of Kayne’s temporary distraction, spear point aimed at his chest. Kayne heaved, tearing his own greatsword free in a burst of gore. Suddenly Jerek was there, one axe batting the spear away, the other cleaving through the man’s skull.
The two friends fought back to back as they had countless times before. Relentless fury and lethal precision. Fire and ice. Twin axes and greatsword. The fifth warrior went down with a scream, Kayne’s sword opening his chest. He glanced up to see Brandwyn watching the fighting, concern etched on his face, the treacherous chieftain too much of a coward to find a weapon and involve himself in the dark deeds he’d helped plan. Beside him, the archer who’d stuck three arrows in Thanates was lining up his bow for another shot.
‘Archer,’ Kayne hissed to Jerek. The Wolf spotted him at the last second. His biceps bulged as he lined up an axe and sent it spinning steel over shaft. The archer’s head burst open like a melon, brains spraying all over the shocked face of Brandwyn next to him.
‘Draw your sword, betrothed,’ General Saverian ordered Melissan, who until then had been watching events unfold beside the commander. ‘Bring them to heel. Prove that I chose wisely.’
As Jerek bent to retrieve another axe from the one of the fallen warriors, Kayne saw Melissan advancing up the avenue. She’d holstered her hand-cannons and had her crystal sword raised, hatred twisting her angular features.
Kayne blinked sweat and blood from his eyes and exchanged a grim nod with the Wolf. He and Jerek fought with renewed fury, knowing they had to improve the odds to stand any kind of chance. Another two of Brandwyn’s men fell just as the towering, white-skinned Fade officer stepped over the bodies now piled up around them.
Both Highlanders were covered in blood, Kayne so exhausted he could hardly stand. Age caught up with everyone sooner or later – everyone, that is, except the Fade. On the face of it, the odds were better than before – but there were odds, and then there were damn lies.
This Fade was no Highland warrior. She was a superhuman immortal, better trained and more experienced than any living man. Doubt began to eat away at Kayne’s resolve, but just then he saw Magnar shift on the ground. A tiny movement, but one that stoked the fire within. His son was alive.
Like water into a burst dam, purpose rushed in to fill his empty muscles and wounded heart. The promise he’d made to Mhaira flared, hotter than the sun in the sky above.
He blocked the first thrust of the crystal sword. Ducked away from another. Melissan was fast, faster than anyone or anything he had ever fought in his fifty-odd years. Kayne grimaced as her sword cut a deep gash in his thigh. He threw his head forward and felt bone break, and Melissan stumbled away clutching her nose. He too fell back, bleeding heavily from the wound in his leg. One of the two remaining Greenmen Jerek was currently fighting collapsed to the ground, blood pumping from the gaping hole in his neck. Kayne noticed then that none of the blood covering Jerek appeared to belong to the Wolf himself.
Melissan was suddenly in Kayne’s face again, mouth locked in a snarl, blue cloak whipping around her as she shifted this way and that, thrusting and slashing with incredible speed. He winced as her sword scored a deep cut in his arm. Even at his best he might not have been her match, and his best was twenty years and about a half-dozen wounds ago. He lost a finger on his left hand as he launched an awkward parry, watched it fly away. The greatsword loosened in his maimed grip.
He did the only thing he could do. He let go of the weapon. Took a quick step forward and punched Melissan hard in the face, a right hook. She was taken by surprise and dropped instantly, hitting her head on the marble floor and lying still.
Agony blossomed as something sharp entered his back and he gasped. He twisted to see Brandwyn preparing to stab him again, the chieftain’s shortsword crimson with Kayne’s blood. There was no time to retrieve his own greatsword. Instead Kayne reached down, plucked Magnar’s knife from his belt and slammed it into Brandwyn’s shoulder, giving it a cruel twist. The chieftain of the Green Reaching dropped his weapon and fell back screaming.
A loud bang shattered the silence that followed. General Saverian held a smoking hand-cannon pointing at Kayne.
‘Enough,’ the Fade commander barked. In a daze, Kayne prodded at the hole in his back. Poked at the gaping wound Brandwyn’s back-stab had left. He felt the warm blood leaking between his fingers. The blood might be warm but he was cold now. Cold and getting colder.
Jerek positioned his body in front of Kayne’s. The Wolf stared at General Saverian with a fury like nothing Kayne had ever seen. Not even when he’d learned the truth about his family’s murder in the ruins of Mal-Torrad. ‘Face me like a man,’ he rasped, terrible rage in his voice. Terrible rage, and terrible grief.
General Saverian watched the Wolf stalk towards him. Their gazes locked. Instead of reaching for his sword as he had with Carn Bloodfist, the Fade general hesitated and then levelled his hand-cannon. ‘I am no man,’ he replied coldly. ‘I am a fehd.’
Bang, went his terrible weapon.
Jerek stumbled. Stumbled, but kept on walking.
The hand-cannon fired again. This time the Wolf went down to one knee, crouching beside the headless corpse of Carn, the patter of his blood drumming on the marble avenue.
‘I am no man,’ said Saverian again. ‘I am a legend.’
Jerek’s eyes closed. The Wolf began to waver, his axes trembling in his hands. Despite his own agony, Kayne swallowed, tears rolling down his face as he watched the most loyal friend a man could ever wish for about to die trying to defend him. The Wolf swayed once more.
And then his eyes snapped open. Somehow, impossibly, Jerek rose again.
‘
Die!’ Saverian snarled. His hand-cannon fired twice more, the booms reverberating down the avenue.
The Wolf jerked, blood flowing freely from the holes in his chest. He spat crimson drool. Rocked back and forth on unsteady legs. And still he took another step towards Saverian.
The hand-cannon roared again and finally Jerek fell, his axes slipping out of his hands to clatter to the street. The Wolf crawled on his hands and knees towards the edge of the avenue, every inch of his tortured movements a supreme effort of will. He left a trail of blood behind him.
‘Yes,’ Saverian sneered. ‘Crawl away and die. Like the dog you are.’ He tried to unload his hand-cannon again, but it just made an empty clicking sound. The general tossed it away and drew his sword. He walked straight past Jerek, who managed to twist his head to meet Kayne’s gaze one final time, his dark eyes seeming to offer an apology.
Saverian loomed above Kayne, a white-hired angel of death standing bright against a world beginning to grow dark. ‘The traitor, Isaac, once referred to you as a legend among your people,’ said the Fade commander. ‘But there is only one true legend. Retrieve your sword, if you can.’
With agonizing slowness, the Sword of the North tottered over to where his greatsword rested, almost falling with every step. He stumbled past the bodies of Highland warriors piled high, their weapons scattered around them; the unconscious figure of Melissan; Brandwyn, sobbing like a child as he stared at the knife buried in his shoulder.
Brodar Kayne bent down, sucking in air, clinging to consciousness by his fingertips. He lifted his greatsword from the ground. Turned to Saverian and raised the weapon. One final act of defiance.
‘Why keep fighting?’ the Fade commander asked. He seemed genuinely confused. ‘You are beaten. Broken.’
Kayne tried to speak, blood spilling over his chin. ‘No man’s ever broken till he can’t get back up,’ he whispered.
General Saverian frowned. Then he moved, a silver blur, his crystal sword catching the sun as it dove towards Kayne, faster than the eye could follow.
What happened next was a haze in Kayne’s fading mind. Saverian reached up with his free hand to touch the shallow wound on his cheek, disbelief on his face. ‘Two thousand years,’ he uttered. ‘No one has laid a mark upon me for two thousand years.’
Saverian’s other hand still clutched the hilt of the sword buried in Kayne’s chest.
The Sword of the North sank to his knees and collapsed beside Magnar. The last thing he saw was his son’s eyes. Mhaira’s eyes. Grey like steel. Silver like the ring on his finger.
He raised his wedding band to his lips. Then he died.
*
Davarus Cole was sitting on the steps of a tavern a mile west of the palace when he heard the screams. He looked up from where he’d been holding his head in his hands, and stared in confusion at the panicked faces of the city folk as they scattered like ants. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked a passing woman.
‘Death!’ she screamed back at him. ‘Death has arrived.’
Cole leaped to his feet. He placed a hand on the jewelled hilt of Magebane and hurried through the crowds, back in the direction of the palace. A dozen thoughts danced through his skull, each more terrible than the last.
Has the Herald somehow returned? Or... is it the dragon? Please don’t tell me it’s the dragon.
‘Cole!’ He glimpsed Sasha rushing towards him, his anger forgotten when he saw the fear on her face.
‘What’s happening?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. I came looking for you, and then I heard something that sounded like Fade weapons. I thought I glimpsed Saverian.’
‘The Fade general? What the hell is he doing here?’
Sasha shrugged helplessly. Together the two friends shouldered their way through the crowd until they reached the avenue leading to the palace. There they stopped in disbelief.
Ahead of them lay utter carnage. Dead Whitecloaks were sprawled all the way up the avenue, their bodies punctured by hundreds of tiny holes. But it was the bloodbath just before the steps of the palace that caused Cole to break into a sprint, hurdling the corpses in his desperation to reach his fallen friends.
Thanates lay in a pool of blood, arrows and tiny holes shredding the new coat the wizard had donned for his wedding. Beside Thanates rested the body of the White Lady of Thelassa. Deep cracks covered her withered skin, her youth and beauty fled the moment her stolen immortality had departed her body. The headless corpse of Carn Bloodfist sprawled nearby, the great chieftain’s magical sword broken in half. Smeared across the avenue in a ragged line was a trail of blood. It disappeared just before one of the great cracks in the streets that was still awaiting repair.
‘Those are Jerek’s axes,’ said Sasha, pointing to the weapons resting on the ground near the bloody trail.
A moment later they spotted Brodar Kayne.
The old Highlander lay surrounded by fallen warriors. Cole ran to him, bent down and examined his wounds, hoping beyond hope that there might be a glimmer of life left somewhere within the old warrior. But there was none.
Brodar Kayne, the seemingly indomitable barbarian who had survived demons, giants and Magelords, was dead.
The wound that had killed him had gone straight through his chest. His blue eyes stared sightlessly ahead. The expression on his face seemed strangely peaceful.
‘Who did this?’ Sasha whispered.
Cole stared around him at the bloodbath. The bodies that surrounded Kayne were Highlanders killed by him and Jerek – in a monumental battle, judging by the wounds they bore. But no human blade could have severed Carn’s head so cleanly, nor shattered Oathkeeper like a wooden toy. No human could have slain both the White Lady and Thanates, the greatest wizards in the land. No human could have mown down scores of Whitecloaks.
‘The Fade,’ Cole growled. ‘They betrayed us. After all we went through. After all their promises.’
‘Look,’ exclaimed Sasha, her voice heavy with grief. ‘It’s Magnar. Kayne’s son. They killed him too...’ She fell to her knees, cradling the head of a young man in her lap. He was around their own age, Cole saw. Eyes the colour of iron. Just like his own.
He felt something then. A flicker of life.
‘Wait,’ Cole said urgently. He squatted down beside Sasha and placed his hands on Magnar’s chest. ‘His heart’s stopped,’ he said. ‘But he’s not yet gone. Not completely.’
As he had with Derkin’s mother, and Sasha back in the Fade ruins, Cole summoned the essence of the Reaver. Instead of absorbing life, he surrendered it, sacrificing his own vitality, channelling it into the body of Magnar Kayne. He was already weak – the Reaver hadn’t been fed in many weeks, and he had little enough strength of his own.
‘Stop!’ Sasha exclaimed, panic in her voice. ‘You’re killing yourself.’
‘I’m not going to let them win,’ he rasped.
Just as he was about to pass out, he felt it. A small tremble from Magnar, like the first green shoots poking through the soil after a flood had passed. A tiny heartbeat, weak and fragile, but growing stronger.
Cole gasped and began to topple, utterly overwhelmed by exhaustion, weaker than a newborn kitten. Sasha caught him at the last moment. He remained in her arms for several minutes, summoning his strength. ‘Help us to the undercity,’ he gasped.
‘The undercity?’ Sasha repeated. ‘You think we’ll be safe with Derkin?’
‘Not us,’ Cole replied. ‘Him.’ He nodded at Magnar, who was now breathing steadily.
There was a roar from above and a monstrous shadow engulfed the scene of carnage before the palace gates. Cole glanced up, his heart sinking at the sight.
The Seeker lowered itself to the ground, its metallic body gleaming a brilliant crimson in the sunshine.
‘Prince Obrahim is here,’ whispered Sasha.
At that precise moment, General Saverian stepped out of the palace, the blue-cloaked Adjudicator Melissan beside him.
*
‘B
rother. What is the meaning of this?’
Obrahim and Saverian faced each other on opposite sides of the palace approach. The prince took in the devastation with an expression that hinted at great sorrow.
‘Treachery,’ Saverian said, gesturing at Cole and Sasha. ‘The humans betrayed us.’
Even hot with fury at the massacre before them, Cole quailed slightly before the formidable commander. He quickly recovered himself. ‘Treachery?’ he spat back. ‘You killed dozens of innocents! You murdered the White Lady and Thanates during their own damned wedding! You killed Brodar Kayne – as good a man as any I’ve ever met.’
‘You speak of retribution!’ thundered Saverian. ‘My betrothed and I thought to visit your city before we travelled to New Malaga – a conciliatory act in recognition of our new alliance. When we arrived, we found the city’s rulers had murdered Adjudicator Isaac. Just as the ruler of Shadowport, Marius, murdered Feryan and Aduana.’
Saverian beckoned to Melissan. The Adjudicator entered the palace and returned a moment later pulling a pallet. Lying atop it, hands folded over his chest, the shroud covering him stained with blood, was Isaac. ‘Witness,’ said the general. ‘Cut down by the one named Brodar Kayne.’
Cole hesitated. He looked from Prince Obrahim to Saverian. The prince’s mouth was a thin line. The diamond at the end of his sceptre flickered for the briefest of instants.
Could the White Lady have turned on Isaac? In Cole’s experience the Magelord of Thelassa could be as cruel as winter when the mood took her. The eyeless face of the man she had so briefly been wed to, his body sprawled beside her own, was proof enough of that.
Next to Cole, Sasha stirred. ‘Kayne wouldn’t have harmed Isaac,’ she said. ‘He liked him.’
Saverian sneered. He turned and pointed to Melissan’s face. Her nose appeared to be broken and she had a huge lump on her head, marring her otherwise perfect features. ‘Observe what this “Brodar Kayne” did to my betrothed,’ the general growled.
He raised a hand and pointed to a thin, bloody line on his own cheek. ‘He cut me and I was forced to slay him for his audacity. He and his wretched sidekick, the one who called himself the Wolf. I will give them some credit. For mortals, they were remarkably hard to kill.’