by Luke Scull
Kayne sliced the head from a stroller. Then he spun and cut another in half at the waist, black blood spraying all over his leathers. He looked around for more of the creatures but they were all accounted for, bloated torsos and flopping limbs making an unholy soup of the swamp around them. The approaching horde slowed its advance.
‘Something’s wrong,’ said Brick. ‘They’re not attacking. Maybe we should hold off—’
Jerek’s axe glittered through the air and split the head of the stroller at the front of the nearby group. Together he and Grunt charged forward and hurled themselves into the corpses.
There was another splash behind Kayne. He turned to stare into the mouldy face of a boy around Brick’s age. This newest stroller wore a black tunic that was still in good repair. To Kayne’s surprise, the corpse opened its mouth and spoke.
‘Enough of this.’
Kayne stared at the creature. The deep, cultured voice that had just sprung from that broken-toothed pit of a mouth didn’t belong to any dead child. The words seemed to come from far away, as if they had travelled through a long tunnel before spilling from the stroller’s rotting maw. ‘You can talk?’ Kayne asked uncertainly.
‘This corpse is but a conduit for my words. I am Nazala, the master of this swamp.’
‘The necromancer,’ Brick whispered.
Kayne’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you want with us?’
The corpse gestured towards Jerek and Grunt, who looked to be having a hell of a time brutalizing the unresisting corpses. ‘My tower is not far from here. I offer safety from those that mean you harm. But first you must cease destroying my minions!’
Kayne hesitated. He’d learned the hard way that wizards weren’t to be trusted. But they had forty bandits hot on their heels and he reckoned the swamp held enough of the dead to drag them all to a watery grave if this necromancer willed it so. Better to take a helping hand when it was offered, even if the hand in question was decidedly slimy and missing half its fingers.
‘Hang on.’ He waded across to Jerek and Grunt. The greenskin twisted around, a severed arm hanging from his mouth. He relaxed when he saw Kayne and let the arm drop with a splash, something like shame in his amber eyes.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ the old Highlander said. ‘I’ve done worse when my blood’s up. Turns out the strollers want to help us. Could be why they’re not slavering after our flesh like the dead usually do. You hear me, Wolf?’
Jerek had one of the corpses in a headlock and was punching it repeatedly in the nose. ‘Yeah.’
Kayne waited patiently for a moment. ‘You can probably let go, then.’
‘Huh.’ Jerek released his grip on the stroller, half the corpse’s face now smeared over his knuckles. ‘That’s for my boots,’ he spat.
They splashed back to where Brick waited with the horses and the necromancer’s undead mouthpiece. The boy had done an admirable job of keeping their mounts calm despite the fear in his green eyes. The youngster had some steel in him, Kayne thought. It was to easy to forget how terrified he himself had been the first time he had come face to face with a stroller.
If a corpse could look peeved, this one managed it. Nazala’s voice sounded unmistakably cheesed off. ‘You destroyed twenty of my minions.’
‘Sorry. We got carried away.’
The necromancer was silent for a time and Kayne feared he might be reconsidering his earlier offer. But eventually the corpse raised a putrid hand and gestured towards the horde. ‘My minions will intercept your pursuers. I hope the Bandit King’s men are not so nonchalant in the face of death.’
Kayne shrugged. ‘Death’s face ain’t the ugliest I’ve seen. It’s the living you need to worry about, in my experience.’
Another slight pause. This time there was a note of melancholy in the hollow voice. ‘Night will soon arrive and with it horrors beyond even my authority to command. My grandson will show you to my tower.’
Kayne glanced at Jerek, who only scowled down at his boots. Grunt seemed preoccupied with checking that his sack was in order. Brick stared wide-eyed at the talking corpse before turning to Kayne.
‘Did he just call this thing his grandson?’
It turned out the necromancer’s tower was in fact an ancient keep set atop a hill, surrounded by ruins that appeared to have once housed living quarters before they flooded. Here and there debris poked up above brackish water. The roof had collapsed around most of the perimeter, but there was a section of building to the right of the decaying gatehouse that seemed mostly intact. Their cadaverous guide slowed as they passed through the crumbling archway. ‘The stables are still serviceable. You may leave your horses within.’
Kayne peered into the stable building. The thick walls were green with algae and the smell was awful, but several enclosures contained livestock and there was fresh horse feed in a sack in one of the stalls.
Brick secured their mounts. Grunt was reluctant to leave his mysterious burden behind, and after a brief exchange with the red-haired youngster he decided he would remain with the horses. Their guide led them out of the stables and up the overgrown path that curved up the hill. The tower loomed ominously above them, reminding Kayne of the great citadel that dominated Watcher’s Keep. ‘Seems a bit out of place in the Badlands,’ he observed as they neared the entrance.
‘This castle was once an Andarran outpost,’ Nazala’s mouthpiece explained. ‘The lord of the castle had it constructed to keep watch on the Yahan, and to pursue relations with the underfolk of Mal-Torrad to the north. During the Godswar the sea rose and flooded the coast. All here perished.’
They reached the huge iron doors. They were free of rust, and Kayne wondered if the necromancer had placed some magic on them to guard against the depredations of the swamp. Without warning the doors creaked slowly open – and out stepped Nazala.
‘Not one of you bastards,’ Jerek muttered.
The black-skinned southerner staring back at them raised an eyebrow.‘Don’t mind him, he just don’t like wizards,’ Kayne said hurriedly. He was about to ask what a Sunlander was doing this far north when he heard Brick gasp behind him.
‘You… I’ve seen your face before…’ The young bandit’s voice trailed off; his brow creased in confusion.
Now that it was no longer projected through the decaying throat of a corpse, Nazala’s voice was welcoming, pleasant even. ‘Ah. You’ve met my twin, Shara.’
‘The Seer is your twin?’
‘Only by way of blood. Everything else we once shared is as dead as the bodies that litter this swamp. Tell me, child. What did she say?’
‘She said I was a catalyst. That I would bring blood and fire to the north. I was only four years old, I don’t remember much. My uncle stole me away soon after.’
Kayne didn’t like the sudden hunger in the wizard’s bloodshot eyes as the southerner stared at Brick. ‘Why are you helping us?’ the old warrior demanded.
‘The four of you… interest me. Two Highlanders, far from home yet casting shadows long enough to stretch to the Trine. A green-skinned humanoid the nature of which even I am unfamiliar with. And this child of prophecy.’
‘I’m not a child,’ said Brick.
Nazala ignored that. ‘I have had dinner prepared within. Join me and we shall discuss how we might be to able help one another.’ The necromancer turned, black robes trailing behind him, and strolled back inside the keep.
Kayne hesitated. He was hungry and tired and if the wizard spoke true the bandits giving chase wouldn’t be bothering them again in a hurry. But trusting a necromancer seemed akin to putting your chin on an executioner’s block and expecting him to give you a nice head massage. He was still deliberating when Jerek barged past him.
‘You coming?’ the Wolf rasped. ‘Reckon I might be able to salvage these boots if we can find a fire.’
‘Your boots will be the death of me,’ Kayne muttered. But he nodded at Brick, and together they entered the necromancer’s tower.
The Iron Man
‘Dead.’
Sir Meredith stifled a sigh. Bagha had a penchant for stating the obvious that never ceased to irritate him. Almost as much as that ridiculous bear-skull headdress he wore. It was as if the stupid brute was trying to mock him, parading his buffoonery like one of the clowns from the travelling circuses that passed through the kingdom of Tarbonne in early autumn.
‘Kingswood is just ahead,’ he said impatiently.
He stepped over the corpse, disturbing a buzzard that had been enjoying a leisurely dinner. By the look of it the wolf had only been dead a short while. With all the recent fighting around Heartstone, carrion birds had grown as ubiquitous as the bad food and toothless women his compatriots seemed to relish in equal measure.
‘Looks like it was demonkin what did for it,’ Ryder said, pointing to the deep gouges in the wolf’s hindquarters. Ryder was the oldest of the three men, tall and rake-thin and with a long face that reminded Meredith of the coyotes that haunted the Badlands. To further add to the effect, he was also missing the top half of his right ear.
‘That did for it,’ Meredith replied, unable to stop himself. ‘Not what did for it.’
‘What’s your point?
‘Correct grammar, Ryder. We’re Kingsmen, not cock-waving savages. We should treat our words with the same care we place in our martial prowess.’
‘I ain’t got no martial prowess,’ Bagha rumbled. ‘That’s what my wife used to tell me. Before I chopped her head off.’
Meredith shot the enormous warrior a hateful glare. ‘If I didn’t know better I might suspect you were mocking me.’
‘Huh?’
Sir Meredith spread his gauntleted hands. ‘I don’t ask that you recite Balcaz or comport yourself with the dignity of the great warrior-bards of the Garden City. That would clearly be a bridge too far. But, damn it, you could at least not confuse simple words. And the occasional bath wouldn’t go amiss either! Standards in this accursed backwater are even worse than I had feared.’
Ryder snorted up a mouthful of phlegm and spat it out. He smiled nastily, revealing sharp yellow teeth. ‘What’re you even doing here, iron man? You went south over twenty years past. Why come back?’
Meredith grimaced and stared off into the distance. That was a subject he had been pondering a great deal of late. ‘I fail to see how it’s any of your business. But if you must know, I was the victim of a tragic misunderstanding. There are men that want to kill me. Powerful men.’
‘So you fled back north?’ Ryder gave a barking laugh that grated on Meredith’s nerves like a spear point shoved down his earhole. ‘The Sword Lord himself, turning tail and scarpering home like a scolded dog.’
Sir Meredith felt the blood rush to his face. ‘It was a tactical withdrawal, you bloody cretin!’ he roared. It took all his considerable strength of character not to draw his sabre and challenge the man to a duel right there and then. Ryder might be a dead eye with a bow, but Sir Meredith had learned the art of swordsmanship at the hands of the Old Masters in Carhein. He was no simple barbarian like his countrymen.
He was a knight.
Ryder yawned and scratched his neck. If he had taken offence at Meredith’s insult, it didn’t show on his stubbly face. ‘Getting late in the day. Let’s finish our business here.’
They resumed their journey, following the road east from Heartstone and heading deeper into the King’s Reaching. Just behind them Lake Dragur gleamed in the afternoon sun. The road would continue for hundreds of miles, through the Lake Reaching and then the East Reaching until finally it terminated at Watcher’s Keep. At this very moment Orgrim Foehammer and his entourage would be making the journey in the opposite direction. The chieftain of the East Reaching had been summoned along with his counterparts from the other undeclared Reachings. The one exception was the Green Reaching, whose stated neutrality Krazka had yet to address. The forthcoming meeting between the four chieftains could well decide the fate of the High Fangs.
Another hour passed before the trio came within sight of Kingswood, a small village on the side of a hill with a shallow brook gurgling just below. Shranree had provided Krazka with the names of every known sorceress in the King’s Reaching. Those who had not yet travelled to the capital and presented themselves to Shranree, such as the two that were reported to dwell in this small settlement, were to be escorted back to Heartstone forthwith. Either they agreed to join the King’s circle or they would be feeding the worms before the day was out.
The Kingsmen halted just before the village. Sir Meredith was grateful for the respite; he was sweating heavily beneath his armour, which these days felt a little too tight around the stomach. Standing around guarding the King wasn’t doing much for his waistline, which was why he had volunteered for this undertaking in the first place.
‘Want me to scout the area?’ Ryder asked. He had good eyes, the Lakeman. All the more galling when one considered he was at least ten years Meredith’s senior and carried not an ounce of fat on his lean frame.
‘No,’ replied Meredith. ‘If they try to escape, or offer any resistance, we’ll put the village to the torch.’
He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He had witnessed enough smouldering flesh when he and Wulgreth had burned the corpses of the Black Reaching sorceresses on the hill outside Heartstone. The disappointment on Wulgreth’s face as he had watched the corpses burn might have been a curious thing to many, but Sir Meredith had known the truth of it. He had always been able to read a man. It had been obvious in the Northman’s ravenous, bloodshot eyes; he had been imagining all the pleasure he could have had with the bodies of those freshly killed women.
‘Degenerate bastard,’ he swore bitterly. The foulness of the human spirit never ceased to repulse him.
‘Who’re you talking to?’ Bagha rumbled.
‘No one,’ Sir Meredith snapped. ‘Men of intellect often have cause to curse when contemplating the iniquities of the world.’
Bagha turned to Ryder. ‘You got any idea what he’s talking about?’
The rangy old Lakeman shook his head. ‘Not a clue.’
‘Pah!’ Sir Meredith drew his sabre. It slid from the scabbard with a satisfying hiss. ‘If the pair of you are done revelling in your ignorance, it is time we took care of the King’s business.’
They climbed the hill and made their way past the short wooden fence that surrounded the village. Kingswood was little different to the other small settlements that dotted the King’s Reaching. The buildings were constructed from timber cut from the adjacent woodland, and they lined a dirt path running from one end of the village to the other. An ancient well stood in the centre, the stone overgrown with weeds and beginning to crumble. A boy and a girl played nearby, chasing a chicken that had escaped from its coop, while a dog sunned itself on a rock. It eyed the three men warily as they approached the children. Sir Meredith had always hated dogs: the damned animals seemed to dislike him on sight.
The children stopped chasing the chicken and stared up wide-eyed as Meredith clanked towards them. Bagha loomed on his left, while Ryder slunk along to his right.
‘Is that a bear skull?’ the girl asked, after a moment of silence. She pointed a grubby finger at the monstrous helmet Bagha wore.
‘Yeah. I killed it. A big brown bear up in the Pinewood.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Bagha.’
‘You’re funny! What about these old men? Are they your friends? They look mean.’
Sir Meredith bristled with righteous indignation. Old man? He was barely forty! ‘Mind your tongue, girl,’ he barked. ‘You don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. We’re looking for two women. Leyanne and Minerva. You will tell us where they can be found.’
The children looked at each other. ‘We don’t know,’ said the boy.
He could tell by the child’s eyes that he was lying. Back when he had fought under the Rag King’s banner, Sir Meredith had won a small fortune at card games in the taverns and gambling halls on the roads betwe
en the Shattered Realms. He could call a bluff twenty feet away.
‘Lies!’ he said sternly. ‘Don’t treat me like a fool.’
A door opened and a well-muscled man stormed out. He wore a woodcutter’s axe at his belt. ‘What’s going on? Who are you?’
Ryder drew his long hunting knife and made a show of picking his teeth with the tip. While Meredith appreciated Ryder’s intent to intimidate the fellow, he couldn’t resist a grimace at the sight. The Lakeman’s dental hygiene was frankly deplorable.
‘The sorceresses,’ Ryder said. ‘Where are they?’
The woodcutter frowned. ‘They live just over there, in the big cabin. Don’t go causing no trouble, you hear? Leyanne and Minerva are two of the sweetest women a village could wish for. Besides – you don’t wanna make a sorceress angry.’
Sir Meredith sneered at that. His sabre had tasted the blood of no fewer than four sorceresses atop the hill twelve days past. He grunted at Bagha and Ryder and the three of them barged past the woodcutter, who disappeared back inside his hut, ushering the children before him.
The cabin in question was bigger than Kingswood’s other buildings – closer in size to the houses one might find in the poorer districts of Carhein. Meredith gave the door a shove and found it locked. He rapped on it with his iron gauntlets, leaving small dents in the wood.
Bagha unharnessed his huge war mace, four feet of solid steel. ‘I’ll break the fucker down,’ he growled.
Sir Meredith raised his eyes towards the heavens. Fortunately, the door creaked open before the brute beside him could indulge his latest bestial impulse. A full-figured woman in a green gown stared back at him. Behind her, another woman was sitting at a table in front of what looked suspiciously like a book. She got to her feet immediately.
‘Which one of you is Leyanne?’ Meredith demanded.
‘I am,’ said the larger woman in the green gown.
‘In that case, I must assume you are Minerva.’ Meredith stared at the willowy woman standing by the table. She was dark-haired and fine-boned. Quite unusual in a Highlander woman. He cleared his throat. ‘The two of you will accompany us back to Heartstone. There can be no more hiding. The King expects every sorceress to do her duty and defend the capital from our enemies.’