Grim Company 02 - Sword Of The North

by Luke Scull

  ‘Then you doom us all!’ Tyrannus snarled. He took a step towards the Reaver. The heavens shuddered beneath the weight of his divine fury.

  ‘Not all,’ the Reaver replied. His skull-face twisted into a humourless grin. ‘I have made plans should the impossible come to pass.’

  ‘And if I choose to end you now?’ Tyrannus roared. He raised his brutal hands and suddenly clutched a great flail forged of utter darkness.

  The Reaver laughed then, a grating sound like a thousand tombstones grinding into place. ‘You threaten to kill death itself? I will still be here when you finally pass through my gates, Black Lord. Until there is nothing left to die and my purpose is fulfilled. It was written in the Creator’s Pattern…’

  ‘… in the Creator’s Pattern…’

  … Pattern…’

  ‘He’s twitching again.’

  ‘Shit! I was sure he was done for. He’s a stubborn one.’

  ‘What’s that in his hand?’

  ‘Looks like a dagger. Is that a ruby in the hilt? Quick, grab it.’

  ‘I can’t. He won’t let go.’

  ‘What do you mean he won’t let go? He’s near dead! Cut off his fingers if you have to.’

  ‘Wait – who’s that?’

  The sound of clanking chains growing closer.

  ‘Hey, you! What are you doing down here?’

  No answer.

  ‘Ha – he’s blind! Probably went looking for a piss and wandered in here by mistake.’

  The other voice. Louder now, and slightly amused. ‘Best turn around, old fellow. This place isn’t safe.’

  No answer. The footsteps did not slow.

  ‘I said turn around, you deaf old—’

  A brief flash of light and the beginnings of a scream abruptly cut off.

  Then silence once more.

  He was floating again. Back on the river of stars. The pain was still there, but it was beginning to fade.

  The incandescent stream that carried him along seemed to gather speed. He was moving faster now. He smiled faintly. His journey was almost done. Soon the suffering would end. He could finally sink into oblivion.

  A voice called out a name somewhere in the endless depths of space. There was something familiar about that name, but he closed his mind to it. Recognition would only invite more pain.

  He was racing along now, the stars beneath him a blur. The voice repeated that word again, louder this time.

  A colossal shadow seemed to envelop him.

  It was a skull, so massive it filled the emptiness like a small planet. A yellow orb the size of a moon shifted slightly to regard him, and he realized with utter horror that it was an eye, rotten and filled with malevolence. The river of stars had turned a sickly colour now, a festering effluvium bleeding into the skull’s cavernous maw.

  Sudden terror. He tried to scream but no sound emerged. He struggled desperately to resist the stream’s pull, to no effect. The skull would claim him at any moment.

  And then he heard that voice a third time. It was quieter now, distant, but he willed himself to understand, to turn the sound into meaning.

  Caw. It sounded like caw. The sound a bird makes? No, that wasn’t it. It had to be something else. It had—

  The sound of beating wings; the unexpected feeling of air buffeting his face. Great talons closing around him. He caught sight of a great bird above, lifting him up and away from the skull-planet. That terrible, luminous eye swivelled upwards, watched his escape with deathly fury.

  The giant bird squawked again. ‘Caw,’ it seemed to say.

  Except that it wasn’t ‘caw’.

  At last he remembered who he was.

  He opened his eyes, whimpering in pain. He could see only darkness. Someone was holding him up. He felt a hard object being pressed against his lips. Cool liquid rushed into his parched mouth, and he almost choked before swallowing it down.

  He became aware of the quiet whisper of water lapping against the side of a hull, the gentle swaying motion of a ship at sea. He had been on another voyage not long past, though it seemed a lifetime ago now.

  ‘Lie still,’ commanded a voice with an edge of steel.

  ‘Who—’ he began, but a rough finger pressed up against his lips, silencing him.

  ‘You will live. But the next time you awaken, you must be prepared to fend for yourself. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ he croaked.

  ‘Good. Rest now.’

  He listened to the sounds of slow, steady footsteps and metal shackles scraping against wood fading into the distance.

  This time, when sleep finally came for him, he did not dream.

  Thirty-six Years Ago

  The oxen had stopped moving again.

  Kayne stared up at the iron sky and watched his breath mist. Any moment now the open-top wagon would resume its rickety journey west, sending fresh eruptions of agony stabbing through his injured leg. His captors had snapped off most of the shaft but the head remained wedged deep in his knee. The furs beneath him were soaked through with blood.

  He had lost consciousness on three separate occasions. Each time he had awoken to a world of fresh misery. He figured a fortnight had passed since the disaster on the banks of the Icemelt, but it was hard to be sure, what with the pain clouding his brain. His stomach growled and he reached down, felt his ribs poking out through the woollen tunic he’d been given. His captors fed him meat and bread of an evening, but it wasn’t enough. He had been hungry before his capture; now he was damned near starving.

  Footsteps crunched on snow nearby and a familiar face stared down at him. It was the big bastard who had saved his life back at the river.

  ‘We’re here,’ the burly Easterman grunted. His beard had grown bushier and was flecked with ice. Kayne felt embarrassed by his own wispy growth. He was a man grown, or close enough. Past time he wore the truth of it on his face, as a Highlander ought to.

  ‘Here?’ he repeated, trying to hide the pain in his voice.

  ‘Heartstone.’ The warrior reached down and placed one meaty hand on his shoulder. ‘You’ll meet the King soon enough. Best keep that temper in check.’

  Two Eastermen hauled him out of the wagon and lowered him to the ground. One moved to support him. As Kayne threw an arm around the man’s broad shoulders, the boot of his wounded leg accidentally scuffed the snow and he almost howled. The Easterman grinned nastily.

  He half-hopped and was half-dragged along a dirt track that was barely visible beneath the blanket of white. Desperate to take his mind off the raging fire in his knee, Kayne focused on Heartstone. The capital dwarfed the small village he had once called home. The sprawl of huts and smaller homesteads around the walled perimeter quickly gave way to larger structures of two, even three floors. Painted signs announced taverns and smithies, fletchers and whorehouses. There was even a shop dedicated to witchcraft. He had only ever known one sorceress, his aunt Namara, who’d kept an eye out for him following the tragic accident that had claimed his mother.

  Curious faces watched the Eastermen and their young captive as they made their way towards the centre of town. Grim warriors in hides and furs and bristling with steel looked up from sharpening their weapons or patrolling to scowl at the newcomers. Womenfolk bustled around performing errands, a few giving Kayne sympathetic glances when they thought no one was watching.

  Sweat stung Kayne’s eyes despite the frigid morning air. He was burning; his skin felt hotter than a furnace. He gritted his teeth and clutched the shoulder of the warrior beside him until his knuckles turned white.

  After what seemed like an eternity a great clearing opened up ahead of them. Just beyond the clearing, looming out of the mist, was the grandest building Kayne had ever seen. He craned his neck, staring up at the summit far above. Whether by fate or chance the sun chose that moment to peek through the clouds and reveal a majestic figure staring down at them, arms folded across his chest. He quickly faded from view as the sun disappeared again.


  There was a large crowd gathered in the clearing. It parted as they approached, and a half-dozen warriors stepped forward. Each wore identical armour and carried steel of the finest quality. All moved with the ease of veterans.

  Even near delirious with pain, Kayne felt a thrill at the sight of the Six. As a boy he had dreamed of growing up to become one of the King’s champions. He had passed many a summer day practice-fighting with his father and old Renek the Lame, who knew how to wield a sword even though everyone made fun of his club foot.

  One hard winter the village of Uthreft had launched a raid. His father had decided that if he was old enough to swing a blade, he was old enough to kill a man. The sight of the thief lying there, the haft of the spear Kayne had just plunged through his neck quivering like an accusation dying on his tongue, had soured him against the warrior’s life for a good while after.

  ‘King Jagar approaches,’ boomed one of the Six from behind his great helm. The Kingsman moved to one side and went to stand by two of his colleagues. The other three did the same, forming a small guard of honour.

  The warrior supporting Kayne went down on one knee along with the rest of the Eastermen. ‘Get down, boy,’ he whispered harshly.

  Kayne swallowed and, summoning his courage, tried to lower himself onto his good knee. He was halfway to the snowy ground when his wounded leg buckled and he almost pitched forward, crimson agony exploding in his brain. There was a ripple of laughter from the onlookers, who quickly fell silent as a shadow descended on Kayne.

  He blinked tears from his eyes and stared into the thoughtful gaze of Jagar the Wise.

  The King of the High Fangs was every inch the man Kayne had imagined him to be. A mantle of red velvet covered his broad shoulders, parting slightly at the front to reveal an iron cuirass underneath. Jagar’s thick head of hair and impressive beard were peppered with hints of grey, but he remained a robust man, still at his physical peak.

  The King inspected the Eastermen with a considered expression, his eyes eventually settling on Kayne and lingering on his wounded knee. ‘Remain as you are, boy. Who leads here?’

  ‘I do, my king. Orgrim, named Foehammer by my peers among the Wardens.’ The warrior who had spared Kayne’s life at the Icemelt bowed and brought his left fist up towards his chest.

  ‘You are a Warden?’

  ‘Yes, my king.’

  ‘Tell me, Foehammer. How do we fare in the Borderland?’

  ‘The East Reaching is besieged by giants and wild creatures down from the Spine. They are a menace but nothing we can’t deal with. The demons are a different matter. We’ve lost twenty Wardens this last year alone.’

  ‘Their sacrifice will not be forgotten.’ The King nodded gravely at Kayne. ‘This one is too young to be a Warden. What is your purpose in bringing him here?’

  ‘The boy is Brodar Kayne, formerly of Skarn’s band. We caught him near the Icemelt.’

  The King rubbed at his impressive beard. ‘The punishment for brigandry is death by the noose,’ he said slowly. ‘Yet the trail of blood left by Skarn and his gang has spread to the Lake Reaching. The survivors say their actions could easily be the work of demons. Women, children… babes… they make no distinction. There is only one punishment befitting such crimes.’ The King raised a hand and gestured to the men behind him. ‘Bring the prisoner.’

  There was a brief disturbance near the entrance to the massive lodge as a wagon was hauled forward. Kayne watched it dully, not at first comprehending what he was seeing.

  A wicker frame was secured to the wagon platform. The cage was barely bigger than the man pinned inside it; there was just enough room for him to twist his head slightly and stare out at the jeering crowd. Weeping sores covered the prisoner’s face and chest. His strength was clearly spent, but there was no space in which to collapse; the wicker frame forced him upright, cutting deeply into his exposed flesh. The sour stench of shit and piss wafted from the cage as the wagon was pulled closer.

  Kayne gasped as he finally realized who was inside the cage. Poking out from a gap between two bars was an oversized ear the colour of meat left too long in the sun. ‘Red Ear,’ he croaked.

  ‘You know this boy?’ asked the King. ‘He was captured near Watcher’s Keep.’

  ‘Red Ear didn’t harm no one,’ protested Kayne. ‘We only joined Skarn the autumn just past. We didn’t know he was a murderer.’

  The King frowned. ‘Yet you were a brigand nonetheless. What crime did you commit to be cast out from your village?’

  ‘I weren’t cast out,’ Kayne replied hotly. He was growing angry now – at the injustice of what had been done to Red Ear, at the mocking faces in the crowd. ‘My village was attacked by demons. Everyone died. My pa and my aunt and my younger brother. Everyone except me. And I ain’t never killed a man save the one my pa made me.’

  The King raised an eyebrow. ‘What was the name of this village?’

  Kayne felt tears threatening his eyes. He blinked them away angrily. ‘Riverdale.’

  The King glanced at Orgrim, who nodded slowly. ‘Riverdale was overrun three years past, my king. There were no survivors.’

  ‘This young man appears to suggest otherwise.’ The King stroked his beard again, staring into the distance as if wrestling with a difficult problem. ‘It’s the noose for you, boy,’ he said eventually. ‘Justice demands you suffer the cage, but I cannot discount your youth or the possibility you may be telling the truth.’

  Orgrim cleared his throat loudly. ‘My king, forgive me, but I would beg pardon for young Kayne. He shows some promise. The Wardens have need of good men.’

  King Jagar shook his head sadly. ‘A Warden must be strong of mind as well as sword arm. At best this boy has demonstrated poor judgement in his choice of comrades.’

  ‘Then let him prove himself.’

  The voice seemed to echo all around them, as deep as a mountain valley. All present dropped to their knees immediately, save the King who inclined his head. Striding into the clearing was a figure who looked as if he had stepped out of the great sagas of Fordor and Grazzt Greysteel, a legend made flesh.

  The Shaman was among them.

  He was shorter than Jagar and several of the Six, but none of them could match the Magelord for sheer bulk. His massive arms were folded over a hairless chest as thick as a log. The Shaman wore only a pair of tattered breeches, and though he carried no weapon there was not a warrior alive who could stand against him. In the High Fangs that marked the far north of the world, his word was law.

  ‘A trial by combat,’ the Shaman declared in a baritone voice that carried the length of the clearing. He pointed a thick finger at Red Ear inside the cruel prison atop the wagon. ‘Release him.’

  At the Magelord’s command, a handful of men began to hack at the cage with axe and sword, breaking through the thick wicker and pulling it apart. It took a few minutes, and there was a great deal of grunting and cursing, but eventually the remains of the cage fell away from Red Ear, who wobbled and would have flopped right down onto the snow had two burly warriors not grabbed hold of his arms.

  ‘A trial by combat,’ the Shaman repeated. ‘One of you will kill the other and prove himself worthy. The loser will perish, as the weak must.’

  Kayne shook his head. ‘Red Ear’s my friend. I won’t fight him.’

  The Shaman’s eyes glinted dangerously. ‘Fear has no place in the heart of a warrior.’

  Kayne stared right back. ‘I ain’t scared of no man. Not even you.’

  There was a gasp from the crowd, which seemed to melt away from the hulking Magelord as if he were one of the great fire mountains in the Black Reaching threatening to erupt. For his part, the Shaman seemed unperturbed. ‘Hand them each a dagger,’ he grunted.

  A jagged blade was pressed into Kayne’s hand. Red Ear was handed a similar weapon. The gangly rustler was a year or two his senior, of similar height but slighter build, though with them both half-starved it wasn’t much of a difference.

 
‘I ain’t doing this,’ Kayne whispered. He tossed the dagger away.

  The gesture didn’t meet with the response he expected. There was a strange look on Red Ear’s face that reminded Kayne of an afternoon long ago. One of the family hounds had suddenly turned on him for no reason. His pa had taken the hound out to the woods and returned alone an hour later, hands flecked with blood. All he would say was that the dog had gone bad.

  As Red Ear staggered towards him, dribble running down his chin, Kayne knew something inside his friend had broken, just as it had with his dog that day.

  Red Ear lunged at him, dagger raised. Kayne tried to hop backwards, away from the probing blade, but he stumbled and fell face first onto the snow. The pain was excruciating, but he managed to roll onto his back in time to see Red Ear skittering towards him. He stuck out a desperate arm, grabbed his crazed friend around the ankle and pulled. Red Ear crashed down next to him.

  ‘It’s me,’ Kayne gasped. ‘The hell you doing—’

  Red Ear stabbed down with his dagger. Kayne stopped the thrust with his forearm, grunted as the steel sank deep into flesh. He pulled his arm away and the dagger was wrenched from Red Ear’s grasp, and then they were rolling around on the snow. Kayne was the stronger, but his opponent fought like a rabid animal. Red Ear rolled onto the arrowhead in his knee, and Kayne bit down so hard he almost severed his tongue.

  Sudden rage took hold. He thrust an elbow into Red Ear’s nose and then head-butted him in the chest. That brief flurry stunned Red Ear long enough for Kayne to roll on top of him, and then he was punching and biting the other man, lost in fury. He spat something out, caught a glimpse of it glistening bloodily on the snow and realized it was his friend’s cauliflower ear. He tasted gristle in his mouth and almost gagged.

  That proved fatal to his sudden momentum. Out of nowhere a handful of filthy fingernails scraped a series of gouges down his cheek. Red Ear jabbed him in the eye, temporarily blinding him.

  Fury surged back.

  Kayne batted Red Ear’s clawing hands away. In a moment of terrible clarity he spotted a rock half-hidden by snow. He reached for it, prised the rock from the ground and smashed it down into Red Ear’s skull. His friend jerked beneath him but Kayne didn’t hesitate. He hit Red Ear again and again, lost in rage, oblivious to everything except the steady crunching progress of bone caving beneath stone.