by Luke Scull
On the far side of the pavilion, illuminated by the light of two braziers positioned either side of the high-backed wooden dining chair serving as his throne, towered Asander the Bandit King.
He was an extremely tall man – a good few inches taller even than Kayne, despite the fact his shoulders were stooped a little with age. He wore a deep blue doublet over his thin frame. No doubt it had once belonged to some rich merchant down in the Trine, but it didn’t look out of place on the Bandit King. Kayne had been around powerful sorts much of his life and he recognized when someone had what folk might call a presence. This Asander had it in spades.
The Bandit King was staring down at a table, stroking his long grey moustache and examining what appeared to be a map. As Fivebellies led the captives forward, he looked up and fixed them with a stare that spoke of a mind as sharp as steel.
‘Cousin,’ Asander said in a clear voice belying his advancing years. ‘Shara told me to expect your return.’
A shadow unfolded from the darkness behind the throne. As it drifted nearer, the light of the braziers revealed the soft curves of a woman wearing tight-fitting silks as dark as her features. Kayne had seen a similar face before; the resemblance was striking. Shara the Seer was every inch her brother’s sister.
‘I serve you as ever, my king,’ she said in a voice like velvet. She drifted closer and placed a hand on Brick’s brow. The dusky scent of her perfume made Kayne’s nose tingle. ‘My divinations informed me of the death of my twin. They also intimated that a prophecy I foretold years ago would shortly be fulfilled. This young man is the catalyst I spoke of. The boy who will bring blood and fire to the north.’
‘He’s but a child,’ Asander said. ‘Are you certain?’
‘The future is never certain. The Pattern can be discerned by those with the talent for divination, but the view it affords is hazy, liable to be misread by the careless eye.’
Asander nodded and turned to Fivebellies. ‘What of these others? Why have you brought them here?’
‘This is Brodar Kayne and Jerek the Wolf, my king – the Highlanders that slaughtered half my band last year. This big green savage was with ’em too. He don’t talk. Someone cut out his tongue.’
‘Where did you find them?’
‘Well now, there’s a funny story. Glaston himself approached us. Offered us a deal. He led them right into our trap.’
‘I trust you gave him a suitable reward.’
Fivebellies’ broad face split into a nasty grin and he ran a thick thumb across his throat.
‘You bastard!’ Brick cried. ‘That was my uncle!’ He made to charge at Fivebellies, but the bandit who had hold of his leash gave it a vicious tug and he was jerked back, choking and spluttering, unable to breathe.
Asander stepped away from the table and raised a hand. Kayne saw that the King was missing his left foot and in its place was a wooden peg. ‘Enough. Let the boy breathe.’
The bandit let the rope go slack and Brick gulped in air, his face near as red as his hair. Kayne forced himself to relax. Another second and he’d have thrown himself at Brick’s tormentor, consequences be damned.
Fivebellies must have noticed his intent. ‘Those two are spirited bastards,’ the fat bandit said, glowering at Kayne and Jerek. ‘I’d kill ’em quickly if I were you, my king.’
‘Your advice is duly noted, cousin.’
A heavy silence followed. ‘What happened to your leg?’ Kayne asked. Fivebellies growled at his impudence, but the King raised a hand to forestall his cousin’s wrath. He didn’t appear perturbed by the question. If anything, he looked faintly pleased.
‘When I was a boy I fell from my horse, breaking every bone in my foot. My family left me behind to die. I would have perished were it not for Shara.’ His eyes went to the Seer and lingered there, a look that Kayne well recognized. This self-proclaimed King was hopelessly smitten with his foreign adviser. ‘She came to me, told me she had divined a glorious future for us. But if I wished to live to see it, I would first need to cut off my foot.’
‘That which has no value must be sacrificed,’ Shara said softly.
Asander nodded. ‘With Shara’s guidance I learned to read, and to influence men’s hearts through words and ideas instead of brute strength. The disparate gangs of the Badlands began to rally to me. In time, all bent their knee.’
‘My uncle never did,’ Brick said, though he sounded weary. Too weary for a boy of his years.
Asander chuckled. ‘Your uncle was among the first to swear allegiance. But he absconded when Shara read your destiny in the flames. Glaston thought himself clever, but he could never accept the lessons Shara taught me.’
‘He was not ready to sacrifice,’ echoed Shara.
‘Nazala told me all about you and your sacrifices,’ Kayne growled. ‘Right piece of work, your brother. Can’t imagine what it took for him to say enough was enough and walk away from you. Far as I can see, there ain’t no crime worse than murdering your own family.’
Shara smiled. ‘I would show you something.’
Kayne stared out across the shadowy lake. Every so often the dark liquid would bubble and pop, as if there were hidden energies at work beneath the surface.
‘What am I supposed to be looking at?’ he asked warily.
Shara turned to the bandit beside her. The man’s bow had been fixed on Kayne from the moment they had left the pavilion. ‘You see that floating object there?’ She pointed to an unidentifiable mass twenty feet from shore. ‘Go. Retrieve it for me.’
The bandit didn’t seem best pleased by the order. ‘What if I get stuck?’
‘You won’t. The tar is thicker nearer the centre of the lake. This close to the shore it is little more than water.’
‘What about him? The King’s orders—’
‘Get in. Now.’ For a second the Seer’s eyes seemed to burn red, as though the gates of hell had been thrust wide open. The bandit paled slightly. Then he carefully laid down his bow and waded out into the lake.
‘Place it on the ground,’ Shara commanded, once the man returned with the dripping thing. The bandit did as he was told, but as he lowered it he seemed to realize what it was and leaped back with a startled yelp.
Kayne stared at the grotesque prize. It was a horse’s head. Most of the flesh and muscle were missing and it was covered in the sticky black substance of the lake, but the shape was unmistakably equine. A few yellow teeth poked out of the mouth where the tar hadn’t quite reached.
He turned back to the lake. Even in the fading light, he began to see that what he first thought were pieces of rock were in fact body parts, and not just horse – he fancied he saw the head of a woman bobbing along not six feet from where they were standing. ‘The hell happened here?’ he whispered.
‘The lake you see before you is a new addition to the land, at least as far as these things are measured. Before it flooded, this site was once a neutral meeting ground for the Yahan tribes. Every two years the horselords would gather from all over the north to trade. They would number in the tens of thousands.’
A terrible understanding began to dawn in Kayne. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Centuries ago my brother and I came to dwell among the Yahan people. Despite their savagery the horselords proved welcoming. Perhaps it was our skin that led them to trust us. We were not like the pale folk of the south, with whom they had skirmished for countless years. We learned much of their culture, even came to enjoy their way of life as we grew old among them. Eventually we became aware of time’s relentless march. We began to realize the truth of our mortality.’
‘Aye,’ Kayne said quietly. ‘I know how that feels.’
Shara reached into the lake of tar and to Kayne’s horror plucked out the severed head as it bobbed past. The seer held it up and regarded it curiously. While the eyes had long ago rotted away, there was enough left of the face to tell that it had once belonged to a young woman.
‘We recalled our master’s instruction in the practi
ce of blood magic. With a large enough sacrifice, even immortality could be bought. And so we waited for the tribes to gather here. Together with another of our master’s students, Wolgred, we fractured the earth below the basin. Black death gushed forth to swallow the horselords. Those that tried to flee, we forced back. Men, women and children – all died, their remains preserved here in this lake. In the course of a few days the Yahan were rendered near extinct.’
Shara tossed the head back into the lake, where it landed with a splash and then sank slowly from sight. Kayne stared at the woman, wondering how such an agreeable face could conceal such evil.
Their escort must have been wondering the same thing. He pointed his bow at the Seer, an arrow nocked and ready to fire. ‘You’re a monster,’ the man whispered. ‘You murdered an entire people.’
Shara raised a hand and the bandit jerked suddenly as if struck. ‘Yes,’ she said smoothly. ‘And I would do it again. In truth, I felt more regret over the loss of the horses. At least they might have served a purpose. The Yahan were an unremarkable people. Their disappearance was no great loss.’ The Seer pointed at the lake. ‘You are not fit to serve. Drown yourself.’
Without a word of protest, the bandit walked into the lake.
He moved in an unnatural lurching motion, as if invisible strings steered his body. Kayne reckoned that was exactly what was happening. The Seer’s eyes burned red as she worked her foul magic and he considered charging her, but his hands were still tied and there was no telling what kind of magical protection the woman possessed. It would go ill for the others back at the tent if he chucked his life away here.
The bandit soon disappeared in the lake of tar. Shara turned back to Kayne and shrugged her shoulders. ‘Don’t feel bad for him. His fate was sealed the moment I chose him to escort us here.’
‘You’re a cold bitch,’ Kayne spat back.
Shara merely smiled. ‘I did not bring you here just to show you this. I received a vision last night. One I have not yet revealed to anyone else. In my vision, I saw four men. Three were kings. The fourth man carried a sword.’
‘What’s that got to do with me?’
‘I understand you were named Sword of the North, Brodar Kayne. A warrior without peer. A killer without mercy.’
Kayne flinched. ‘That was a long time ago.’
‘It was you in my vision, Brodar Kayne. You stood before the Bandit King. You knelt before the Butcher King. And you sent the Broken King to his death.’
As he listened to the Seer’s words, a shiver passed through Kayne. ‘Who were these kings?’ he demanded. ‘You see their faces?’
‘The Bandit King is obviously Asander. As for the other two, who can say? I know only that you will be instrumental in events to come. Asander intends to burn you alive, but the Pattern wills what the Pattern wills. You must be allowed to follow your road to its conclusion.’
It took a moment for Shara’s words to sink in. ‘You’re letting me go?’
‘In a manner. You will conveniently escape.’
‘I will? What about Asander?’
Shara examined her nails. ‘The King knows only what I require him to know. He is a useful tool but a tool nonetheless. I imagine he will send men after you. You should hurry north.’
‘What about my friends?’
‘They were not part of my vision.’
‘I ain’t going anywhere without them.’
Shara raised an eyebrow. ‘You speak as if you do not fear death.’
‘One of the upsides of getting old. The knowledge that death’s always right around the corner. Ain’t no point fearing it.’
A ghost of a smile played around Shara’s mouth. ‘Your friends are worth nothing to me. If they escape too, why, it is no great loss.’
‘What about Brick? You said he was a child of prophecy. That he’d bring back the true rulers of the north.’
Shara waved a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, he already has. I found the egg amongst your possessions. You have no idea what it is, do you? The true masters of the north will indeed return – and they will serve me.’
‘Nazala seemed certain Brick was important.’
‘My twin understood little about the subtleties of divination. The fool is better off a corpse. He was always most comfortable around the dead.’
‘Sounds like we’re done here.’
‘Not quite.’ Shara reached behind her and her silks suddenly fell away, leaving her standing stark naked before him. ‘It is a rare thing to encounter great men. A thing one must cherish while one can, for the threads of your lives are often cut short. I offer myself as thanks for ending my brother’s wretched existence. Ride me, Sword of the North.’
Kayne stared at Shara’s perfect figure, at her ample bosom and smooth skin and bright red lips.
Then he turned away and spat. ‘I’m a married man,’ he said. ‘And even if I weren’t, I’d sooner drown myself in that lake than lie with you.’
‘I could force you,’ Shara whispered. ‘Seize control of your body like I did that fool I sent to his death.’
Kayne’s eyes narrowed. He met Shara’s gaze, stared back unflinching. ‘Maybe you could. But I promise you this. One day I would find you, and no amount of blood magic or sacrificing innocents would save you from what I would do to you.’
Shara was silent for a moment. ‘Very well, Sword of the North,’ she hissed eventually. ‘Let us return to the King.’ She reached down to collect her clothing. ‘I hope the Pattern never wills it that we meet again.’
God-touched
‘Argh.’
‘Oh, you poor thing, it’s leaking again. Let me fetch some ointment for that.’
Cole watched Derkin’s ma shuffle away and lowered his head to the bundle of old rags that passed for his pillow with a pitiful groan. He reached down to his stomach hesitantly, fearing what he would find. Right on cue, his fingers brushed against the wet stickiness and he recoiled in horror.
He was dying, that was the truth. Somehow his stomach wound had opened when he’d been tossed in the shambler pit. As if the broken ribs and cracked skull he’d suffered weren’t enough. As if the things Corvac had done to him that night outside the tavern hadn’t already left him broken, body and soul.
He listened to the sound of rain beating against the tin roof of the little hovel and he thought of all the misfortune that had befallen him over the last year. His whole world had been shattered, everything he believed in revealed to be lies. The fire that once burned so brightly within him was gone forever. The world was a cold and empty place.
A misshapen shadow crawled across the wall in the light of the single candle illuminating the tiny room, and Derkin hobbled through the door.
‘Ma’s just getting her stuff ready,’ he said. His bulging eyes took in the sorry state of his guest. ‘I’m not letting you leave here until you’re feeling better.’
‘I won’t ever get better. I’m done, Derkin.’
‘Now, don’t say that. My ma will get you back on your feet. She used to treat the sick back when… before we left Thelassa.’
Cole raised his head a fraction to stare up at the corpse-carver. ‘Why did you come here? This place is hell.’
Derkin looked away. ‘I’m not supposed to talk about it.’
Cole sighed and his head sagged back down onto the makeshift pillow. His friend would chat for hours about all manner of things, but there were certain topics that made him clam up instantly. Such as his past in the City of Towers.
He glanced down at his wound again. The ripe smell of the yellowy pus oozing out of his stomach almost made him gag. ‘This is the Darkson’s fault,’ he spat with a venom he had never known he possessed. ‘This is all his fault. That treacherous bastard.’
Cole could hear Derkin’s ma pottering around in the next room, taking her sweet time getting the ointment prepared. The shack only had three rooms, and Derkin had surrendered his own room for Cole’s use. The hunchback gave him every meagre comfort he could man
age, a kindness for which Cole tried his best to appear grateful.
‘Try not to dwell on the past,’ Derkin said gently. ‘I know you’re feeling down right now. At least your fever seems to be breaking.’
Since the Whitecloaks had rescued him from the pit, terrible headaches and strange nightmares had tormented Cole. Surreal visions of skull-faced deities plagued his dreams night after night, leaving him drenched in sweat, his heart hammering wildly. He thought back to the talking crow and the shamblers that had somehow obeyed his commands. They too must have been part of his fevered hallucinations. How could they possibly be real?
He glanced down at his hands. They were paler than ever, the flesh as maggoty white as the handmaidens’. Whatever the true nature of the poison coursing through his veins, it was close to killing him.
‘Derkin…’ Cole whispered. It was time.
The corpse-carver moved an awkward step closer. Perhaps it was his imagination, but even with the drumming of the downpour outside Cole could hear the hunchback’s heart beating in his chest. The relentless pulse reminded him of Garrett’s timepiece. That seemed like a lifetime ago now.
‘Yes?’ Derkin asked.
Cole closed his eyes. ‘I want to end this.’
Derkin didn’t reply straight away. In the sudden silence Cole thought he could make out his friend’s mother’s heart beating from the other room. More hallucinations, he thought bitterly. Whilst he’d always possessed a keen ear, there was no way any man could make out a heart beating through a wall, even one near as thin as parchment.
‘Derkin?’ Cole said again, still with his eyes tightly closed. ‘Did you hear me? I said I want to die. I don’t want to suffer any more.’
The slap rattled his jaw and left his face stinging. Cole’s eyes shot open and he stared at Derkin in shocked outrage. ‘Ow! What was that for?’
‘You listen here,’ Derkin demanded angrily, rubbing his deformed fingers. By the looks of it the slap had hurt him as much as it had Cole. ‘I know you’ve suffered some terrible things recently. I heard what Corvac did to you.’