by Luke Scull
‘Shit,’ Brodar Kayne muttered. ‘Help me up.’
Jerek reached down, grabbed hold of his wrists and then hauled him roughly upwards. He tottered for a moment, a hundred little niggles assailing him like a pack of wolves trying to bring down a bear. The old Highlander breathed deeply. His knees ached like buggery and his chest felt as if it had been bludgeoned by a giant’s club, but he could tough it out. You had to, when you were stupid enough to keep doing this kind of shit at his age.
‘The others?’ he asked. Jerek nodded over his shoulder in reply, and Kayne turned gingerly to survey their surroundings.
They stood on a mushy grass slope overlooking the coastline hundreds of yards distant. A little further down, Vicard lay motionless on the edge of a wide shingle beach covered in pools of saltwater. Sasha was kneeling over him. He couldn’t tell if the alchemist was alive or dead.
The wreckage of their boat littered the hill around them. The upturned hull rested a mere dozen yards away, its keel broken and sagging in the middle.
‘Isaac?’ he asked, fearing the worst. Jerek said nothing, simply shook his head and spat. Kayne sighed and began to make his unsteady way down the slope towards the other survivors. ‘Evil luck to lose one of the group so early on this expedition,’ he said. ‘Don’t bode well. The Halfmage ain’t going to be best pleased-’
‘Bastard’s over there,’ Jerek interrupted. He pointed down the coastline to a rocky outcrop that marked the beginning of a promontory in the distance. Kayne could just make out a figure sat perched over the edge.
‘Is he… fishing?’ he wondered aloud. The blurred shape seemed to notice him staring and waved an arm in greeting. ‘I’ll be damned. He’s tougher than he looks.’ Or maybe I’m just old and brittle.
The two Highlanders climbed down the sodden hill until they reached the girl and the figure at her feet. The alchemist was still breathing. He was also making pitiful whimpering sounds, much to the disgust of the Wolf.
‘How’s he doing?’ Kayne asked. Sasha had a nasty cut on her forehead, but aside from that she didn’t seem too much the worse for wear.
‘Bruised ribs,’ she replied. ‘Twisted ankle. One of his shoulders popped out of its socket but Isaac managed to tease it back into place. I didn’t know he was a physician.’
‘And an angler,’ the old barbarian replied. He was beginning to understand why the Halfmage kept the man around.
Sasha held a strip of wet cloth and was wiping at Vicard’s brow. He made a soft moaning sound and reached weakly for her hands, taking them into his own and holding onto them as if for dear life. Jerek shot him a baleful glare. Even Sasha pursed her lips in distaste.
‘Wolf, go fetch our talented friend,’ Kayne said, thinking it best to give Jerek something to do before he ended up throttling the alchemist where he lay. His friend grunted his assent and stalked off towards the distant crag.
Kayne glanced up at the sky. How long had it been since they’d washed up on the pebbly coast? He reckoned two, maybe three hours. The sun still rode low in the scattering clouds, bleeding golden light into the newborn day and reflecting serenely in the now-calm water of Deadman’s Channel. All in all, the morning was shaping up to be a glorious one. It reminded him of another morning, many months past. That had turned out to be the darkest of days.
‘Do you still have Magebane?’ The girl’s question brought him back to the present. He felt around at his belt.
‘Aye, it’s right here. That wave knocked us a few miles off track. I figure we head north and east until we see the Tombstone.’
Vicard whimpered again. Sasha looked down at him doubtfully. ‘He’s going to struggle on one leg. We can’t leave him here.’
The alchemist pushed himself up so that he rested on his right elbow, moaning all the while with the effort. ‘My bag,’ he panted. ‘Where is it?’
Sasha walked over to where Vicard’s pack rested next to the handful of possessions that had survived the wreck. ‘You’re lucky,’ she said. ‘I’ve already checked inside. Most of it is intact.’ She brought the pack over to the alchemist and dropped it down beside him. He rifled through it with his good arm, becoming increasingly frantic as he failed to locate what he was looking for. Pouches and strange containers were cast aside as his hand probed deeper. A sheen of sweat appeared on his face. Sasha watched him anxiously.
Eventually Vicard found what he’d been searching for. With a delighted yelp, he tugged a small brown leather pouch from the bottom of the pack. The alchemist fumbled with the cord for a moment, then lifted the pouch to his face and buried his nose inside, snorting deeply. When he finally removed it from the pouch it was covered in a white powdery substance. He sighed in satisfaction and grinned stupidly.
Brodar Kayne observed the scene with a deep frown on his lined face. He’d seen Highlanders become hopelessly addicted to jhaeld, the fireplant found in the most desolate reaches of the mountains. The powdered resin of that rare plant could cause a man’s blood to feel as though it were on fire, inciting his passions and lending him the courage to smite his enemies as if he were the Reaver, the Lord of Death himself. Such men inevitably died young, attempting feats beyond their true prowess. Overconfidence could get a man killed.
The powder Vicard was snorting was white rather than the rustred of the jhaeld, but the ecstasy on his face was the same, and unmistakable. Kayne cleared his throat. ‘I reckon that’s enough of that for the moment. Can you stand?’
Vicard carefully replaced the pouch in his pack and retied the straps. With another unctuous smile, he stuck his uninjured arm out towards Sasha. ‘Pull me up,’ he ordered. She gave him a dirty look but complied, heaving him to his feet. He hopped around for a bit before risking some weight on his dodgy ankle. It seemed to hold.
‘Don’t look like too much damage has been done,’ said Kayne. ‘But you might want to wipe that smirk off your face. The Wolf’s returning and you don’t want to get his dander up unnecessarily.’
From the looks of it, though, Jerek’s dander was already at neck height and rising. Isaac followed behind him, a faint smile on his insipid face. A rod was hung over his back and in his arms he carried a net teeming with fish. A few still twitched every so often.
‘I caught us some fish,’ he said, stating the obvious. ‘Most of our provisions were lost in the wreck. I thought you might be hungry. No, don’t look at me like that. Of course I don’t expect you to eat it raw! I found some kindling untouched by the wave, and there’s plenty of flint on this beach. We’ll set forth on full bellies. Correct nutrition is essential to any endeavour, as so adroitly articulated in Gnoster’s Food for the Soul.’
Kayne looked at his companions. ‘I don’t know about you, but I won’t pass up the opportunity to get some grub down me. We have a dozen miles to cover before midday. Get your hand out of that pack,’ he added, noticing that Vicard was once again rummaging around for his mystery pouch.
‘The pain!’ the alchemist protested. ‘It’s unbearable! Just one more sniff and I’ll be able to walk on my own. I wouldn’t want to slow you down…’ Kayne fixed him with his best icy glare and the man hesitated and finally withdrew his empty hand. ‘Fine!’ he said petulantly. ‘I’ll need someone to lean on.’
‘I ain’t touching the faggot,’ Jerek growled.
Kayne rubbed at his temples with callused thumbs. ‘Throw an arm around me,’ he said. ‘I’ve travelled with worse baggage.’ Vicard looked at Sasha with a hopeful expression, but she was having none of it.
‘Fine,’ he said sullenly.
They’d been walking for a little over an hour. The sun had cast off its wispy shackles and was well on its way to fulfilling its earlier promise. Brodar Kayne wiped sweat from his brow and tried to ignore the incessant sniffling from the man limping alongside him. He could just about see Jerek in the distance, stalking along by himself. The group had become strung out, with Isaac ambling happily along some way behind Jerek and the girl following a similar distance behind the manservant. Kayne and Vica
rd brought up the rear.
Hardly the merriest of companions. He glanced at the alchemist beside him. Vicard had been eager to engage him in conversation at first, babbling about all manner of topics until it became clear Kayne wasn’t interested in talk. Now he dragged himself along in miserable silence, his good arm thrown around the Highlander’s neck and the other held uselessly at his side. Snot dribbled from his nose and hung in slimy threads from his chin. The barbarian was beginning to regret offering the man a shoulder to lean on.
The monstrous wave of water had flooded the coastline for miles inland. With every step his boots sank into the saturated turf. They’d held a consistent line just above the flooded shingle, but the land rose at a steady pace and it made navigation awkward, especially with Vicard clinging to him like a limpet.
It don’t get any easier. He couldn’t recall a time when he had felt so old. His body protested with every step. In all likelihood, he needed a physician to tend his injuries. Still, there was no point grumbling. You had to grit your teeth and get on with it.
Where did that damn wave come from? He had never seen anything like it. Truth be told, he’d almost pissed himself when he first set eyes on the wall of water barrelling towards them. He couldn’t remember the actual impact, but the terror he’d felt was clear enough in his mind. It was a miracle they’d all survived.
Jerek had stopped far ahead. Kayne saw him glance back at the rest of the group, point to the north, and without further ceremony begin climbing the shallow promontory that overlooked the coast. The ascent was difficult, but the headland rose up sharply a little further on and if they delayed any longer it would become impassable. Vicard groaned when he saw the path they had to take.
‘Chin up,’ the old barbarian said. ‘Once we’ve made it to the top, it’ll be easy going until we reach the Rift. I hope whatever it is you’ve got in store for the mine ain’t been spoiled by damp.’
Vicard managed a weak smile. ‘The powder’s still dry,’ he said. ‘They won’t know what hit them.’
Brodar Kayne nodded in satisfaction. Bringing down the mining operation would be a mighty kick to Salazar’s balls. He didn’t have anything personal against the Tyrant of Dorminia, but a job was a job.
Sudden movement caught his eye. Thirty yards ahead, behind those boulders. He halted, pulling Vicard back behind him. The alchemist looked at him questioningly and he raised a finger to his lips. Isaac and Sasha were well ahead of them and Jerek was out of sight. Damn.
‘Wait here,’ he ordered. He inched slowly forwards, hands poised to reach behind him and draw his greatsword at any moment.
‘I’m Brodar Kayne,’ he said loudly. ‘Once named the Sword of the North. That’s in the past and I ain’t one to live on old glories, but the title might mean something to you. I don’t like killing but I’ll be damned if there was anything I was ever half as good at. If you want to walk away from here, and I’m guessing you might, best show yourselves now.’
He waited. A hawk burst from a clump of bushes near the largest boulder and screamed loudly before soaring off towards the sea. Maybe I was mistaken. Bloody eyes. He shook his head in disgust. Spooked by a bird.
And then they emerged from behind the rocky outcrop. A tangle of furs and shields, bristling with weapons of murder. Faces as hard as the stone of the High Fangs, five of them. His breath caught for a moment. He recognized one of the men.
Borun.
He drew his greatsword slowly, rested it point down on the moist earth and leaned upon it. ‘It’s been a while,’ he said evenly.
The largest of the five men raised his hand and the others halted, hands on their weapons. They eyed him warily. He could hear Vicard’s breath quicken and smell the alchemist’s fear.
‘It has,’ Borun replied. ‘Two years, I reckon. You look much better than the last time I saw you, though age gets to us all.’ He had more grey in his beard and a few more lines on his face, but Borun looked as hale as ever. He was younger than Kayne by a good handful of years, the same height but plenty broader.
‘Ain’t that the truth.’ He drew deep, even breaths. Borun was one of the finest warriors in the High Fangs. He should know, he’d fought alongside him often enough. His palms tightened on the pommel of his greatsword. ‘How long you been watching us?’
Borun shrugged. ‘Half an hour. I see you got the Wolf with you. He marched right on by us. The two of you make strange companions.’
It was Kayne’s turn to shrug. ‘Funny thing, that. You never really know a man until he’s called upon to keep his word.’
Borun had the decency to look ashamed. ‘It was nothing personal, Kayne. You know that. I got a wife and three daughters. Krazka-’
‘Raped Mhaira so bad she couldn’t walk, then grinned as the Shaman burned her alive. My wife, Borun. The woman you gave away during our joining.’ He paused. He could remember their wedding ceremony as if it were yesterday, every detail. Proudest moment of his life, with maybe one exception.
‘I called you brother,’ he said. He tried to keep his voice level. As well try holding back a river with his bare hands.
‘Aye, you did. Don’t think it ain’t a weight I carry about my neck every moment of every day.’ The two men stood in silence for a time. Borun’s men shifted uneasily. Probably expected to be knee-deep in blood by now. Not listening to a couple of old men reminiscing about the past.
Borun blinked and then hefted his great two-handed battleaxe. Its oak shaft was covered in notches. ‘You gonna try and add one more to that?’ Kayne asked, nodding at the brutal weapon.
‘Aye,’ Borun replied. ‘The deepest cut of all, I reckon.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘Only one of us can walk away from here.’
One of the warriors next to Borun, a young heavy-browed fellow Kayne didn’t recognize, jabbed his spear in the air and spat. ‘We’re gonna fuck you up good, old man. Don’t expect any help. Not unless that streak of piss knows how to handle a blade.’ He leered at Vicard, who had slowly begun backing away. In the distance Kayne saw three more Highlanders emerge from behind rocks and shrubbery to cut off Sasha and Isaac.
Borun gestured and his men moved forwards, weapons raised and eyes eager for blood. ‘You still got it after all these years, Kayne?’ he taunted, his massive axe glittering cruelly in the sun.
Brodar Kayne didn’t respond. He simply waited, hands on the pommel of his greatsword, his body perfectly still. ‘You’ll want to run, I expect,’ he hissed to the cowering figure of Vicard behind him. No sooner had the words left his lips than he heard the alchemist break into a scrabbling half-hop, half-sprint punctuated by pained gasps.
The ugly fellow with the spear suddenly thrust the weapon at Kayne’s head. He shifted his neck, felt it brush past his ear. The jagged edge of a half-rusted longsword slashed at him from the right and he swivelled, watched the blade whistle through the empty air. All right. Now it gets serious.
He forced a smile onto his face. ‘That the best you got?’ he said. ‘I might be old, but I ain’t dead. Put some effort in. Come at me.’
The spear-wielder duly obliged, lunging forwards and aiming for his chest. With lightning speed, Kayne thrust his body to the right to avoid the jab, grabbing hold of the shaft with his left hand and pulling it towards him. He glimpsed the surprised look on his attacker’s face a split second before his head shattered the man’s nose.
Still with one hand on his greatsword, he grabbed the stunned Highlander by the neck and pulled him to one side, positioning the warrior between his own body and the descending blade of his other opponent. Blood spurted as the rusted blade tore into the spot right between the neck and shoulder of his human shield and then stuck there.
Silently thanking his luck, Kayne raised his greatsword and buried it in his shocked opponent’s sternum as he struggled to free his snagged weapon from the other man’s body. It burst through his back in a splatter of gore. He slid the blade free and watched as the dying Highlanders sank to the earth in a tangle of limbs
and iron.
Borun stared at the carnage with a look of consternation. His two remaining men suddenly seemed a great deal more wary, the eager looks on their faces draining away with the lives of their comrades. ‘You told me age had caught up with you!’ Borun said accusingly.
Kayne shrugged. ‘I ain’t what I used to be. Can’t piss in a straight line, if at all. I got aches in places I didn’t know could ache. But if there’s one thing I still know how to do,’ he added, moving towards the three men, ‘it’s killing. You never really lose the instinct for it.’ He nodded at Borun’s axe. ‘There was a time when I thought to record my kills,’ he said quietly. ‘When I ran out of room on one weapon, I’d choose another, a different kind. It’d be rough going for a while.’
He was opposite the three Highlanders now. They spread out and moved to surround him. He met the eyes of each in turn, and then focused his attention on Borun. ‘You remember me back in the day. All fire and thunder and fury. Fact is, a year spent caged like an animal changes a man. Seeing your wife get burned alive changes a man. You learn to accept what can’t be undone and bend so you don’t end up breaking. You adapt.
‘For example,’ he said, as Jerek finally reached them and his axe split the head of the Highlander to his left, ‘you don’t pass up an advantage when it presents itself. What’s honour to the kind of men who’ll rape a woman and then burn her alive? The Code ain’t worth two shits as far as I can see.’
Borun and the remaining Highlander had spun the instant they became aware of Jerek among them, but it was too late. The Wolf was already stalking towards the warrior on Kayne’s right flank, twin axes raised.
Borun snarled in anger. ‘Coward’s tactics that, distracting us for your dog to sneak up behind.’
‘Like I said, the Code don’t mean anything. I reached that conclusion long before the Shaman stuck me in a cage. Couldn’t stomach the hypocrisy no more. Course, I was stupid enough to tell him that to his face. Just goes to show that it don’t matter how well a man thinks he understands something. He never really does, not until he’s taught the lesson at first hand.’