by Luke Scull
Kayne charged at the fiend and brought his longsword flashing down to connect with the demon’s skull as it thrashed around. The blow failed to break bone, so he tried again and this time was rewarded with a sharp crack. Black blood bubbled around the hole in the thing’s skull, but it took another few seconds of hacking before the head fell apart and the creature stilled.
Without warning the enormous fist disappeared back into the earth, dragging the slain demon down into the ground. When the dust finally settled, all that remained was a giant mound of dirt.
Kayne glanced back at Moshka, who looked as though he was about to collapse from exhaustion. The ancient veronyi had done the Wardens a great service by agreeing to accompany them this far west; at his age the druid’s body might not survive whatever price the spirits claimed.
‘Kayne! The pen!’ It was Borun’s voice, filled with alarm.
He looked towards the enclosure. Something was emerging. Something dark and feline and covered in blood. Another blink demon.
It padded out of the pen, its single eye fixed on Moshka. It paused for second, and then that great orb snapped shut.
An instant later the demon was halfway to the old man.
Kayne shouted a warning and Moshka looked up. The demon blinked again and then it was right opposite him, razor tongue probing outward to rend the druid. Moshka’s robes fell apart, shredded like wheat, but somehow the man inside them had disappeared. The tattered cloth drifted away, leaving the demon to probe the earth with its tongue, searching around for its prey. It made a horrible hacking sound and began to spew up an entire sheep, skinless and half-digested.
Borun seized the moment and sprinted towards the fiend, axe raised high. ‘No!’ Kayne yelled, but it was too late to stop him. The trainee Warden began to falter as the demon fear assailed him. Finally he stumbled to his knees, the axe tumbling from his shaking hands and a sob escaping his lips. It was a matter of seconds before the blink demon noticed him.
Kayne searched around wildly. There was an abandoned shepherd’s crook on the grass close by. He scooped up the tool and focused on the demon, trying to calculate the distance between them. He guessed there was maybe forty yards. How far could a blink demon travel in a single jump? He reckoned thirty, based on the speed with which the fiend had closed on Moshka.
He shuffled backwards, measuring the steps, and once he reached what he thought was the right spot he hollered at the fiend, trying to get its attention. For a moment its gaze settled on Borun, and Kayne’s heart sank. Then the fiend’s head rotated in his direction. That solitary eye fixed on him. And then closed.
The demon reappeared right where he thought it would.
Kayne tensed. Wait for the eye… Wait for the eye…
His left hand held the crook in the air, the hook pointing slightly downwards. In his right he clutched his sword.
The eye closed again. Kayne took two steps back.
And then he sprang forward, the hook sweeping down, just as the demon’s head melted out of the air in front of him. He caught it around the neck, gave the crook a sharp tug to force the head down. With his other hand, he drove his blade right through that staring eye.
‘That’s for Dannard,’ he said grimly as the fiend convulsed, spraying blood all over him.
Kayne wiped the gore off his blade and walked over to Borun. The young warrior had risen shakily to his feet and was staring at the ground, eyes filled with shame.
‘Brother.’ Kayne placed a hand on Borun’s shoulder. ‘You got closer than most could have without the proper training. First time I met a blink demon I shat myself. Next time you’ll be ready.’
There was a sound from behind them – a soft wheezing noise. It was Moshka. The voronyi was as naked as the day he was born, saggy grey flesh hanging off bones that almost seemed to poke through his skin. He looked even frailer than usual, so brittle he might break at the lightest touch. He tried to open his mouth to speak but only a soft rattle emerged. A thin trail of drool dribbled down his chin.
Kayne removed his cloak and placed it over the old man’s shoulders, wrapping it tight to preserve his decency. ‘Borun, go fetch the owner of that farmhouse. Tell ’em to bring a clean set of clothes.’
Minutes later a trio of women followed Borun out of the farmhouse, the youngest carrying breeches and a woollen tunic. All three looked horrified at the carnage strewn across the field. After a moment of stunned silence the eldest spoke. ‘My name is Lellana,’ she said. ‘We fled indoors when we heard the howling. You… you are Wardens?’
‘Aye, that we are. I’m sorry we didn’t get here quick enough to save your flock.’
The woman shook her head. ‘Rather the sheep than my sister or cousin. Father would like to invite you for dinner. He is sorry he could not come himself, he is sick and confined to his bed.’
The youngest, little more than a girl, held the clothes out for Moshka. When the old man did not move, Kayne took them from her hands instead. He met her eyes briefly and was struck by their beauty. They were silvery grey, like the surface of a lake in the early-morning sunlight. She glanced down shyly and her expression grew concerned.
‘You’re hurt,’ she said, pointing at his leg. He was bleeding just above the shin, where the demon’s tongue must have caught him. ‘I can bind that for you,’ she added timidly.
‘It’s just a scratch,’ he said, though now she had mentioned it the cut was beginning to sting something fierce.
The third woman cleared her throat a little noisily. ‘Lellana and I will show you inside and fix up your wounds. May, you should start clearing up this mess. The smell will attract wolves if we’re not careful.’
The youngest nodded. Then she noticed the body of the dog and let out an anguished cry. She dashed over to the dead animal and wrapped her arms around it, tears streaming down her face. ‘Ruffles,’ she sobbed.
‘It’s just a dog,’ said the slightly older girl. ‘You’re embarrassing us. You’re sixteen, May, no longer a child.’
‘Mother brought Ruffles home when he was a pup. He’s one of the only things I have to remember her by.’
Kayne hesitated. Then he walked over to the girl and the lifeless animal she held in her arms. ‘I had a dog when I was a boy,’ he ventured slowly. ‘I was fond of him. Missed him when he was gone.’ He felt stupid as he spoke the words, certain that whatever he said would only make things worse. He’d always been awkward with women.
But the girl looked up at him, and her tears stopped. Again he was struck by her beauty.
‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we all go inside and eat. Say hello to your father. Then I’ll help you clear the fields, and together the two of us can bury Ruffles.’ He reached down. The girl took hold of his hand. Her skin felt soft in his palm. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked, as he helped her to her feet.
‘My sister and cousin call me May,’ she replied shyly. ‘But my real name is Mhaira.’
Blood Magic
Brodar Kayne took another sip from the wine glass and stared into the flames which lit the grand hall of the necromancer’s tower. The fire sent shadows dancing across the ancient tapestries on the walls. Long-dead Kings of Andarr stared out with severe expressions that were almost a match for the frown on Jerek’s face.
The Wolf hadn’t shifted from the fireplace or uttered so much as a word since they were seated. It seemed as far as Jerek was concerned, being invited to dinner by a necromancer and waited on by a host of grinning skeletons wasn’t worth commenting on. Not when he had the fate of his boots to worry about. Every few minutes he would swap which of the boots he held before the fire, slowly drying his precious footwear with the same care a mother might show her newborn infant.
‘More wine?’ Nazala queried. The southerner raised a hand and beckoned to his minions. Kayne heard the rattling of bone behind him and then a skeletal arm leaned over his shoulder, clutching a bottle of red that was probably worth a small fortune. The old warrior was sorely tempted; the
wine tasted sweet and fruity, and it was the first time anything save water had passed his lips in many a week. Still, he reckoned whatever business this wizard wanted to discuss was best looked at with a clear head. And in any case, Brick seemed intent on drinking enough wine for the two of them. Kayne frowned as the boy emptied yet another glass. His face was flushed, freckled cheeks threatening to turn the same colour as his hair.
‘I’ll pass,’ Kayne grunted. Nazala gestured and the fleshless arm withdrew.
The necromancer sat back in his chair and crossed his hands over his lap. The flowing black robes he wore fell like a shroud to gather on the wood-panelled floor below the big darkwood table. ‘Twenty-six years,’ the southerner mused. ‘And you speak of this woman with the warmth of a man newly wedded.’
‘She’s the only woman I ever loved,’ Kayne replied. ‘Didn’t know I could love like that till I met her. We were married the following year. Can’t say I ever saw that coming. But I don’t reckon I’d change a thing.’
‘Then you have simply not lived long enough. I once loved my twin Shara with the whole of my being. Now? I would bury her alive! Savour her every scream before I filled her mouth with dirt and left her for the worms to feast upon.’
Brick piped up, sounding a little the worse for wear. ‘You must really hate her. I never had a brother or sister but I can’t imagine hating them like you do.’
Nazala gave a melancholy sigh. It was difficult to place the man’s age. Though the southerner had fewer lines on his face than Kayne, his eyes told a very different story. They were tired and bloodshot and filled with the weariness of one who’s seen too much evil in the world. Seen, and maybe done.
‘Love and hate are two sides of the same coin. You must understand, child, we shared everything, Shara and I – until the moment she betrayed me and my heart died in my chest. After centuries of unconditional love I felt as empty as a grave. Hatred is all I have left.’
Kayne raised an eyebrow. ‘I might’ve misheard, but did you just say centuries?’
Nazala nodded. ‘My twin and I were born in the Shining City far to the south. That was almost four hundred years ago, when the magical storms unleashed during the Godswar still ravaged these northern lands.’
Kayne blinked, hardly believing what he was hearing. The necromancer’s claim seemed unlikely, but the expression on his face suggested he was deadly serious. ‘How’d the two of you cheat death for so long? I thought only the Magelords lived forever.’
‘Not just the two of us,’ Nazala replied, almost absent-mindedly, remembering events long ago. ‘We were eight in total. Each of us excelled in one of the eight schools of magic – or at least the eight schools that are common knowledge. Our master introduced us to the hidden ninth school. The forbidden school, of power evoked through pain and sacrifice.’
‘Can’t say I like the sound of that,’ Kayne said warily.
‘It was fear of the ninth school that brought the Congregation’s wrath down upon those with the gift,’ Nazala continued. ‘Of those in the Alliance who would eventually become Magelords, only our master foreswore the oath to never again practise blood magic. We travelled the continent, we Bloodsworn, doing his bidding. And in return he rewarded us with the knowledge we craved.’ The wizard shook his head and gripped the sides of his chair. ‘We did bad things, my twin and I. Terrible things. For power. For life everlasting.’
‘Why’d she betray you?’
Nazala’s eyes narrowed. ‘One day I told Shara that I could no longer serve our master. I could murder no more innocents at his behest. I assumed she would stand with me. After all, we had chosen this dark path precisely so that we could be together for eternity.’ The wizard’s voice dropped to an angry whisper. ‘The following night she tried to kill me in my sleep. I survived and fled here.’
Kayne glanced across the table at Brick. The youngster’s eyes were looking decidedly glassy. ‘Why a swamp? Seems to me a powerful wizard could set up home wherever he chose.’
‘The Pattern is weak here. The barriers between life and death, between reality and the places where demons dwell, are thin. My twin’s magic is greater than my own – but here in the swamp, surrounded by the dead, my necromancy keeps me safe. Both from Shara, and my one-time master’s other… apprentices.’
‘You ain’t told me who this mysterious master is.’
Nazala shifted uneasily. ‘He has gone by many names. Here in the north he uses his true identity. Or at least the persona he chooses to present as his true identity. Marius.’
Kayne’s brow furrowed. He’d heard that name before. ‘Marius is dead, last I heard. Drowned with his city by the Tyrant of Dorminia. I doubt even a Magelord could survive a billion tons of water dropped on his head.’
Much to Kayne’s surprise, Nazala’s slender black hands twitched nervously. There he sat, a powerful and immortal necromancer, suddenly anxious at the mere mention of a dead man. ‘I served Marius for centuries,’ said the southerner. ‘If I learned anything during that time, it is that he operates outside the comprehension of mere mortals. Perhaps even other Magelords. Where Marius is concerned, one should never presume anything.’ Nazala rubbed his hands together as if cleansing himself of unpleasant thoughts. ‘Enough of such matters. I wish to discuss how we might be of service to one another. You wish to return to the High Fangs, no? With my assistance you can be back in the mountains within a few days.’
Jerek shifted slightly where he sat drying his boots by the fire. He didn’t turn, but the way his head raised a fraction betrayed a sudden interest.
Brick waved an arm in Kayne’s direction, accidentally knocking over his glass in his enthusiasm. He was clearly half-drunk. ‘You can go home to Mhaira,’ he said, a big grin on his face.
Mhaira. He thought of her smile, the way she could lift his mood just by walking into the room. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m mighty grateful,’ he said slowly. ‘But I can’t help wondering what you might want in return.’
The necromancer’s gaze settled on Brick. ‘My accursed twin believes this boy is a bringer of prophecy. A marker in the Pattern, if you will. Destined to shape events to come.’
Kayne began to feel a sense of unease. It was an instinct that had served him well over the years.
‘You will bring fire and blood back to the north,’ Nazala continued. ‘That is what she told you, is it not, child?’
‘I’m not a child!’ Brick answered, sounding awfully like one.
The veins threading the necromancer’s eyes seemed to turn a brighter shade of red. ‘You possess power. Destiny runs in you. In your blood. Such potential can be… harnessed.’
A dark foreboding wormed its way into Kayne’s heart. ‘What are you saying?’
Nazala climbed to his feet. Despite the heat of the fire, a sudden chill seemed to wash through the chamber. The necromancer approached Brick, studying the boy as a man might eye an appetizing dessert. ‘The power I shall draw from this child’s sacrifice will bring Shara to ruin.’
Kayne leaped to his feet, reaching for his greatsword.
‘Your steel is useless,’ the necromancer said coldly. ‘No earthly metal has been able to harm me for over two hundred years. The ironguard spell cost me the lives of several cousins.’ He gestured at the skeletons positioned around the chamber.
‘These skeletons were your family?’ Kayne said in horror.
‘Blood magic demands that a wizard gives up everything they hold dear. We sacrificed them all over the years. Our cousins. Our aunts and uncles. Eventually even our children. The corpse that guided you to this tower was once my grandson. He was a favourite of mine. But I required his sacrifice to heal myself after Shara’s attempt on my life, and so I killed him. I grieved for many years.’
‘You’re not having the boy!’ Kayne snarled.
‘Why doom yourself for the sake of a bandit’s whelp?’ Nazala asked. ‘He is nothing to you. And what of your own son? You told me he was in danger. Would you abandon him to an uncerta
in fate while you throw your life away here? I have no quarrel with you, Sword of the North. I will infuse your horses with magic to speed your passage and you and your friend can go home. Back to your family.’
Brick’s face had gone white with terror. ‘Don’t leave me!’
Kayne closed his eyes. What was the life of a bandit’s offspring against everything he still held dear? Against the son and wife who were waiting for him in the north?
‘You and your uncle tried to murder us, lad.’
‘But… we had a deal…’ Brick’s voice cracked.
‘Kayne.’ It was Jerek. The Wolf was out of his chair. He bent down and tugged his boots back on his feet. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.
‘Listen to your friend. He understands the value of pragmatism.’ Nazala placed a slender finger on Brick’s forehead. ‘Calm, child,’ he whispered. ‘The agony will be intense, I fear, but it will not last so long.’
Kayne’s fists clenched. What was the life of a bandit’s offspring against everything he still held dear?
It was everything.
He reached for his sword again, but just then Jerek met his gaze, face a grim mask, and shook his head. The Wolf rose slowly and brought his fists up from his sides.
He clutched a dagger in each hand; the daggers he kept hidden in his boots. They were glowing red-hot.
Jerek flung them at the necromancer, first the left dagger and then the right, a blur of motion. The steel blades sank deep into Nazala’s flesh. But they drew no blood, and for a second or two seemed to cause him no distress. The wizard merely stared at them in amusement. He hadn’t been lying about his immunity to steel.
The heat, though, was a different matter entirely.
Nazala suddenly screamed and scrabbled wildly at the hilts protruding from his chest as the stench of burning flesh filled Kayne’s nostrils. He searched for a weapon that might possibly be of use against the necromancer. There was nothing, not unless he wanted to bludgeon the wizard to death with a chair.