The Grim Trilogy 01 - The Grim Company

by Scull, Luke

  The crowds grew thicker as they neared the great structure that dominated the centre of town. Yllandris caught up with Thurva and pushed her way through the press, ignoring the dirty looks and muttered oaths thrown her way. The anger soon faded once they realized she was a sorceress.

  The rabble eventually parted and she stepped out to join her circle. They stood alone, just inside the wide ring of humanity that had formed before the Great Lodge. The sun was high in the sky, a brilliant white orb that reflected off the thawing snow to blind the pathetic figure at the centre of the ring. Mehmon was as thin as a skeleton, his emaciated body supported only by the rope that bound him to a thick wooden stake driven deep into the ground.

  Shranree raised one fussy eyebrow when she saw that Yllandris had joined them. ‘I do believe you were summoned almost two hours ago. It is troubling that I needed to send Thurva to retrieve you. It behoves a sister to show some respect for her superiors.’ Her voice was sickly sweet and her chubby face wore a friendly smile, but there was no disguising the anger in her eyes. Yllandris drew back a fraction.

  This is a woman who would hum cheerfully to herself while she burned you alive, she thought. She remembered the utter ruthlessness Shranree had displayed back at Frosthold. The senior sister had handled the task of massacring women and children as calmly as if she had been preparing dinner.

  ‘You have much to learn from your betters,’ Shranree continued. ‘It breaks my heart that Old Agatha was so cruelly taken from us before fully imparting her wisdom to you. I hope you will one day prove worthy of her tutelage.’

  Thurva smiled in a manner that was possibly intended to be smug but merely looked ridiculous. Even so, Yllandris wanted to slap her irritating face. She was seething inside. You’re all a bunch of tools. Puppets of the Shaman, doing his bidding like a herd of sheep. Old Agatha got what she deserved.

  She forced herself to look abashed and lowered her head slightly so that Shranree wouldn’t see the lie in her eyes. ‘My humble apologies, sister. I am still young and have much to learn.’

  That seemed to satisfy the rotund sorceress. She brushed at some imaginary dirt on her robes. ‘Indeed you do,’ she huffed. ‘The road is going to be a long one, but we will get there eventually, I am sure.’

  Yllandris gritted her teeth and nodded. She stared across to where King Magnar sat upon his mighty throne. His steely eyes met her for a moment and the ghost of a smile passed across his lips. Then it was gone as he turned his attention back to the chieftains either side of him.

  Orgrim Foehammer and Krazka One-Eye would return with their men to their respective Reachings once Mehmon had been brought to justice, but for now they awaited the arrival of the Shaman. Orgrim appeared troubled, while the Butcher of Beregund’s lone eye positively glittered with anticipation.

  Yllandris had been present the last time the Shaman ordered a public trial. She had been with the circle only a short time, and she still remembered the screams of the accused. The woman’s wails had been unearthly, like those of the banshees that were said to haunt the highest peaks. She recalled the poor old bastard in the wicker cage and the indescribable torment on his face as he watched his wife burn.

  There was a sudden commotion behind her. Shranree jabbed a thick finger in the direction of the Great Lodge. ‘There he is,’ she whispered reverentially. ‘The Shaman comes.’

  Yllandris looked up see a large black raven perched on the edge of the roof high above. It regarded them all with its beady eyes for a second and then leaped off, plummeting down towards the ground. Crash and die, she wished fervently, but the bird checked its fall at the last possible moment and hopped down to land unharmed on the snow. It shimmered and then began to stretch, first one way and then the other, unfolding like a sheet of parchment in an expansion of mass that made her brain hurt to watch. When the coruscation finally faded, the Shaman stood before them.

  The assembled Highlanders went silent. As always, the Magelord was naked except for a tattered pair of breeches. His olive skin glistened with sweat despite the frigid conditions; he seemed not to feel the cold. That blunt, angry face stared across the open circle with blue eyes as harsh as a glacier. Yllandris felt herself wilting when his gaze passed over her, as if his stare was enough to bare her soul for the world to see.

  The Shaman turned to the sagging figure that was Mehmon. Yllandris realized she had forgotten to breathe. Had she really considered plotting to kill this immortal? This Godkiller? The thought now seemed as absurd as reaching out and plucking the moon from the sky.

  ‘Mehmon,’ growled the Shaman. ‘I find you guilty of disobeying the will of your king and rejecting the terms of the Treaty under which all Highlanders abide. The penalty for rebellion is death by fire. Speak your last words.’

  The old Highlander raised his head and coughed once. ‘Rebellion?’ he managed. ‘That’s a joke. I’m guilty of nothing but looking after my people.’

  The Shaman crossed his massive arms over his chest. His muscles were like knotted steel. ‘You refused tribute. The fish that swim the Blackwater? The deer that roam the forests? This is my domain,’ he growled, revealing his teeth. ‘You rejected the Treaty and you stole from me. I care not for your excuses. The weak deserve only death. This is how it has always been.’

  ‘Crazy,’ Mehmon muttered. ‘You’re crazy. I should have thrown my sword in with Kayne when I had the chance.’

  There was a collective gasp from her sisters and those townsfolk close enough to hear Mehmon’s words. The Shaman said nothing, but Yllandris could see the vein throbbing in his neck as his jaw clenched. All in Heartstone knew the subject of the Sword of the North was taboo. The miraculous escape of his infamous champion still gnawed at the Shaman, for it was his failure that the man had got away. Weakness was something the Magelord would not tolerate – most especially, it seemed, in himself.

  ‘How many of the Brethren did you send after Kayne?’ Mehmon continued. He forced an ugly chuckle out from between parched lips. ‘I heard he led them a merry chase. It’s a shame that bloodless puppet on the throne never inherited any of his father’s balls.’ He spat in the direction of the King, though it was a weak effort and most of the frothy saliva dribbled down his chin.

  There was another gasp from the crowd, who as one turned their gaze to Magnar. Magnar Kayne, the youngest man ever to rule the High Fangs in the name of the Shaman. He had sided with the Magelord against Brodar Kayne, the Sword of the North.

  His own father.

  Magnar’s loyalty to the Shaman had won the respect of the ten chieftains of the Reachings. Respect as well as fear – for if he could condemn his own mother and father to death, what would Magnar Kayne do to a chieftain who betrayed him?

  The anguish Yllandris had seen in both father and son’s eyes the day the woman Mhaira burned would haunt her forever. She remembered the terrible shame on Brodar Kayne’s face as he pleaded with the King to refuse his immortal master and end the horrible spectacle of his mother being burned on the pyre.

  Magnar had not done so. He had watched in silence as she was consumed by flame.

  At the time, Yllandris had admired him for his pragmatism. He had done what was necessary. He had passed the Shaman’s test. After what she had witnessed at Frosthold, however, she was no longer certain Magnar had done the right thing.

  There was a scraping sound. It was the Shaman’s teeth grinding together. The Magelord gestured at one of the Six standing beside the King. The warrior had a torch in one hand. ‘Burn him,’ he ordered. The bodyguard moved forwards to ignite the kindling beneath Mehmon.

  ‘Another one put to the fire, eh? Heard a funny tale about that, from a Lowland trader no less.’ Mehmon’s words came quickly as the flames began to take hold. ‘See, as the story goes there was once a powerful wizard who fell for the daughter of another. He loved her more than anything in the world. The Age of Strife had never seen two stars shine so brightly together—’ He gasped suddenly as the flame licked at his boots.


  Yllandris watched her sisters turn to one another in confusion. What is he doing, she saw Thurva mouth to Shranree. When she looked back at the Shaman, however, she knew. His face had grown ominously dark, like a towering thunderhead in the moments before an epic storm was unleashed.

  ‘So the tale goes, the Divine Inquisition eventually got hold of the girl. They did things to her no man should bear witness to. Urgh.’ He gasped again. His feet had caught fire. The pungent smell of burning leather drifted through the chill air.

  Agony filled Mehmon’s voice as his words poured out in a torrent. ‘The wizard couldn’t do a damned thing. The Inquisition blocked his magic somehow. The experience fucked him up good. He exiled himself to the mountains, far away from his peers, burned everything that reminded him of the man he had been and how he had failed— Fuck, fuck—’

  Mehmon’s curses turned into incoherent screams. The smell of burning flesh reached her nostrils and Yllandris felt as if she was going to gag.

  There was a blur of motion followed by the sound of tearing and suddenly the Shaman was directly before the pyre, clutching Mehmon’s detached head in one hand, the top half of his spinal cord trailing out like a glistening white snake. Blood gushed from the neck of the headless body and sizzled down into the flames.

  Yllandris turned away and this time she was sick, heaving her breakfast onto the thawing snow. She heard others doing the same. Even Shranree had gone pale. The Shaman raised Mehmon’s head up near his face and stared into its lifeless eyes.

  She suddenly felt very scared.

  ‘Are you done, Mithradates?’

  There was a collective gasp from the sisters beside her, as well as those at the front of the crowd just behind. An old man had appeared near the King’s throne, seemingly from nowhere. He wore crimson robes that were overly large for his slight frame and his thin beard and moustache made him look like an elderly fop. He supported himself on a slender cane, and was the very picture of weariness.

  One of the Six immediately sprang towards the intruder, his longsword raised high to smite this strange Lowlander.

  The elderly man raised one eyebrow and suddenly the warrior’s sword was plucked from his hands. It floated up into the air and rotated slowly around so that its tip was pointing down at the man. The bodyguard grimaced but did not move, keeping his body between the sword and Magnar.

  There was movement to the side of Yllandris. ‘Sisters, attend me!’ cried Shranree, and she spread her hands towards the interloper. Golden light leaped out from her outstretched palms, raced towards her target – but then, instead of striking him, the arcing light bent around him to dissipate harmlessly. The old man crooked a finger and suddenly Shranree was clutching her throat. Her ruddy face turned purple as she struggled desperately to breathe. The other sorceresses prepared to launch their own magic as some Highlanders went for their weapons and others turned to flee.

  The Shaman finally spoke. ‘Enough, Salazar. Release her.’

  Salazar? Yllandris recognized that name: the Magelord of Dorminia, one of the original champions of the Godswar uprising and perhaps the most powerful man in the north.

  The crimson-robed figure did as he was asked. Shranree dropped to her knees, sucking in deep breaths, tears rolling down her face. ‘Sheathe your weapons,’ ordered the Shaman. ‘All of you.’

  Those Highlanders who had pulled steel put their weapons away, though the King’s guards kept their hands close to their hilts. The hulking form of the Shaman walked slowly across to the crimson-garbed man. Yllandris watched, filled with awe. Despite his frail appearance, if this wizard really was Salazar, he possessed enough power to collapse the very mountains around them.

  ‘Why have you come here?’ the Shaman asked. His voice was unusually quiet, almost apprehensive.

  The old man stared down at his counterpart’s hand in distaste. The Shaman saw the look, grunted and tossed Mehmon’s head backwards into the fire which now blazed behind them. The chieftain’s body was already engulfed in flame. Mehmon had saved himself several minutes of intense agony with his desperate story. Whatever one might say about the former chieftain of the North Reaching, he was wily until the end.

  Salazar leaned on his cane and tried to blink the tiredness from his eyes. ‘You once made me a promise,’ he said simply. ‘A promise to repay a vow you broke. The time has come to honour it.’

  The Shaman narrowed his eyes. ‘What do you need of me?’

  ‘You know of events in the Trine?’

  ‘I care not for the outside world.’

  ‘I destroyed Shadowport. I believe Marius perished within.’

  ‘Marius,’ the Shaman muttered. ‘He was ever the slyest among us. I would not consider him dead until I saw proof.’

  Salazar nodded. ‘Be that as it may, Thelassa now moves against Dorminia. The White Lady has three companies of mercenaries from Sumnia in her employ. They plan to invade. Without help, we cannot hope to win – and my magic is near spent. I lacked the reserves even to Portal here. My journey has taken the best part of a week, using what little power I have available to me.’

  The Shaman growled low in his throat.

  Salazar stared boldly back. ‘We once fought side by side, Mithradates. United in our tragedy. United in our desire for vengeance. Do you remember that much, at least?’

  ‘I remember. There are some things I cannot forget. I try – but I cannot forget.’

  ‘It is our curse, Mithradates. Our curse and our blessing. I would speak somewhere more private.’

  The Shaman shot the King a glare and Magnar rose from his throne. ‘Go back to your homes,’ he ordered loudly. ‘Anyone still here in the time it takes a man to piss will spend a night in the stocks.’

  At once relieved and disappointed to be dismissed, the assembled Highlanders began to depart. Yllandris was preparing to follow her sisters when a strong hand seized her firmly by the shoulder. She spun around to stare into the steely gaze of King Magnar himself.

  ‘Walk with me,’ he said softly. He seemed uncertain – and, Yllandris thought, at that moment, very young.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. Her smile couldn’t quite reach her eyes, however.

  How can a son watch his mother burn?

  Grim Tidings

  ‘Hurry this up. I have things to do.’

  Eremul shot the hard-eyed woman a look of undisguised anger. She smirked slightly in response.

  You believe you can read my thoughts. I see that glowing bauble beneath your ear. Well, you conceited harpy, I have ways to guard against unwelcome intrusions.

  The effort of maintaining a mental shield to defeat the Augmentor’s probing had given him a splitting headache. In fairness, that was almost a welcome distraction from the throbbing lump protruding from his arse, which had swollen to the size of an orange. All in all, he had seen better days.

  Recent events in the city had done nothing to improve the Halfmage’s mood. The Tyrant of Dorminia had been absent for a week, leaving that damnable Supreme Augmentor to assume temporary command of the city while Grand Magistrate Timerus regained his strength. The golden-haired commander of Salazar’s elite enforcers had wasted little time in putting Eremul to work, employing him in the dual role of both adviser and errand boy. His latest task was to gather every book he could find containing information about the distant nation of Sumnia. At first he had been secretly pleased with the assignment, thinking he might get a few hours’ respite back at the depository. He had not counted on being shadowed at every turn by Goodlady Cyreena, whose company was about as welcome as a poker up the arse.

  Still, much as he despised the malevolent bitch glaring at him from across the room, the true depths of his loathing were reserved solely for himself.

  He had held Salazar’s very life in his hands. He could have liberated Dorminia and its people from the grip of its tyrannical, murderous lord and ushered in a new age of justice and prosperity for all. Oh, the city would have been seized by Thelassa in short order, h
e had no doubt, but life under the White Lady’s banner would surely be better than the random executions and systematic terrorization that were part of everyday life in this festering heap of shit.

  He could have been a hero, or at the very least an unsung martyr. Instead he had chosen to save his own skin, as befitted the coward he undoubtedly was. He only hoped the Magelord of Thelassa never learned of his actions. In one fell swoop, he had ruined the White Lady’s plan for liberating the Grey City without the need for a bloody war.

  Preparations for Dorminia’s defence were well under way. The Crimson Watch had already begun sweeping the poorer districts and conscripting young men into the makeshift army that would defend Dorminia from Thelassa’s hired mercenaries. Eremul doubted the forced enrolment of the city’s dregs would prove to be of much benefit. When given a choice between a known tyrant and a potential saviour, only a fool would fight tooth and nail for the former.

  The Halfmage had seen enough of the White Lady’s agents up in the abandoned lighthouse to predict a swift end to the conflict – especially with half the city’s Augmentors forcibly retired and probably suicidal. Dorminia was slipping from Salazar’s grasp, and there was little the ruthless old bastard could do about it. Even a Magelord has limits, and Salazar had exhausted himself destroying Shadowport. And no one knew quite what the White Lady herself was capable of.

  ‘What do we have so far?’ he asked irritably. There was a small stack of books on a table next to Goodlady Cyreena. She glanced at the spines.

  ‘Before the Fall: A History of the Events Leading up to the Godswar. A Grand Tour of the Sun Lands. The Soaring Spires: An Examination of Thelassan Society. The Warrior Princes of Sumnia. What’s this one?’ She picked up a small tome covered in purple leather. ‘Staring into the Abyss: The Planar Convergence. What does this have to do with the war?’

  ‘It doesn’t,’ he snapped in response. ‘It’s something I’m studying in my spare time. That book shouldn’t be in the pile.’

  The Augmentor flicked through the pages, her lips pursed in concentration. He had thought her pretty, he recalled – until it became clear she was a barely functioning sociopath. That had killed any latent desire he might have felt.