Grim Company 02 - Sword Of The North

by Luke Scull

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. There was something in the handmaiden’s expression that brought tears to her eyes, something very much like gratitude.

  Sasha’s anger returned, fiercer than before. The dagger she clutched still dripping with black blood, Sasha kicked open the doors to the throne room and stormed through to confront the Magelord of Thelassa.

  The object of her fury was sitting on a delicate throne carved of ivory on a dais overlooking the chamber. Overhead, a mosaic of heavenly figures stared down majestically from the vaulted ceiling. Directly above the throne itself, a large circular window set into the ceiling revealed a violent blue-grey sky beyond. Streaks of rain crawled down the glass as the tempest continued unabated above the city. As Sasha marched towards the Magelord, a flash of lightning lit the chamber and the White Lady’s head shot up. She fixed her with those violet eyes. Despite the numbing effect of the hashka and the cold, hard anger knotting her stomach, the weight of that immortal gaze stopped Sasha in her tracks.

  ‘Sister?’

  She was only distantly aware of Ambryl’s astonished voice amongst the crowd of attendants seated on the benches arranged before the raised throne. A devastating tide of hopelessness swept over her. The utter contempt on the Magelord’s face dug up old memories; painful memories she’d sought to bury with moon dust and devil’s breath and anything else she could get her hands on. Always the memories returned, fiercer than before, seeking to drag her down to a place where she was worthless, barely human. Hardly a person at all.

  The White Lady rose from her throne with consummate grace. She raised a flawless hand to halt the pair of Unborn that had melted from the statues beside the dais. The Magelord’s voice was curious. ‘It is forbidden to bring naked steel into my presence, child. You test the limits of my forbearance. Explain yourself.’

  Sasha opened her mouth, but despite the anger that had driven her this far, no sound emerged. She was once again helpless before the ruinous sight of the ruler of Thelassa. A girl once more, knowing she was too weak to fight back. Too weak to do anything except squeeze her eyes shut and hope it would soon be over.

  ‘Mistress.’ Ambryl hurried over to her sister. ‘Please, forgive my foolish sister. She has lapsed again. Allow me to escort her away from here and I promise to fix her.’

  Fix me? You can’t fix me. I’m broken. The dagger quivered in Sasha’s hand.

  With supreme elegance, the White Lady descended the handful of stairs leading from the dais and approached the two sisters. Her purple eyes lingered for a second on the bloody blade Sasha carried. ‘You claim your sister is weak, and yet somehow she slew one of my Unborn.’

  The White Lady gestured and the dagger was torn from Sasha’s grasp. It floated slowly towards the Magelord, murky droplets of putrefying blood rolling off the steel blade to hang suspended in the air. ‘The punishment for destroying my property is death,’ she finished calmly.

  ‘Your property?’ Sasha managed to whisper, aghast. ‘That was a person once. A… a baby.’

  ‘Mistress,’ said Ambryl. ‘I beg you. Don’t hurt her.’

  Sasha stared at her sister. For the first time since they’d been reunited, she had heard a glimmer of the old Ambryl. The Ambryl who would fix her hair and joke with her about boys and comfort her during a thunderstorm.

  The White Lady tapped the dagger against her perfect fingernails and frowned down at Sasha. ‘You know too much. I could have you taken for correction. Some, such as Cyreena here, see the light with their eyes wide open. Others require… encouragement.’

  ‘No,’ Ambryl gasped, white-faced. ‘Please. Not that.’

  The Magelord reached out a hand and laid it upon Sasha’s brow. ‘Bow before me, child,’ the White Lady said serenely. ‘Swear to serve me and you shall arise as one of the Consult, your indiscretions forgotten.’

  Sasha looked up at the ceiling, at the assorted gods depicted there – deities murdered by the wizard whose hand was upon her head. She thought of the poor and starving on the streets of Dorminia, of the families torn apart as husbands and wives were forced to board ships to the Celestial Isles because of a crisis the White Lady herself had engineered. She thought of mothers and fathers so heavily drugged they couldn’t recall the horrors that had been visited upon them. Couldn’t even remember what it was they’d lost.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘No?’ The White Lady withdrew her hand. A terrible anger flared in her purple eyes. ‘I saved the world from the depredations of the gods. I overthrew the tyrant that ruled your city. I am the light that keeps the darkness at bay! And yet you, you worthless little junkie, you stand before me and refuse my patronage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’ The Magelord’s voice was a deadly whisper.

  ‘Because…’ Sasha met the White Lady’s gaze and her courage deserted her. She looked away.

  Looked away to see the two Unborn by the throne. Remembered the tiny body in the tank and the woman tied to the chair, blood pooling around her ankles.

  ‘Because you’re an evil cunt,’ she snarled. Her hand shot up and caught the immortal wizard a stinging slap across the face, the sound reverberating through the chamber like the dying breath of a god.

  A moment of utter silence followed. Then shocked gasps erupted from the Consult, a few of them fainting on the spot. Very slowly the White Lady raised a disbelieving hand towards the ugly red mark on her cheek.

  Sasha’s head was yanked painfully back. ‘You fool!’ Ambryl screamed at her, dragging her by her hair. ‘You’ve ruined everything!’

  Sasha tried to twist around, but suddenly the White Lady loomed before her and all the hashka in the world wouldn’t have lent her courage in the face of the Magelord’s fury. She closed her eyes, praying for a quick end.

  The world seemed to explode.

  Ten Years Ago

  The first thing he noticed were the overgrown fields. If it hadn’t been for his boots, the grass might’ve tickled his ankles as he dismounted his old mare and stretched the stiffness out of his legs. The ride back from the Blue Reaching had taxed him more than he cared to admit. He was getting old, an unpleasant realization that was driven home as he unpacked the knife he’d fashioned for Magnar and saw his reflection in the cold steel. There was a good deal more grey in his hair than when he’d departed with a heavy heart for the Sky Reaching six months past.

  He tethered his horse to a post and walked somewhat stiffly to the front door of the house. Truth be told, the Shaman’s summons hadn’t been entirely unexpected. The border dispute between the neighbouring Blue and Sky Reachings had been threatening to erupt for years now. Even so his heart had sunk when the transcended eagle had landed, a sealed note signed with Jagar’s increasingly erratic handwriting tied around its leg.

  He didn’t want this any more. Not the travel. Not the endless bickering about boundary lines or fishing rights or a hundred other finer points of the Treaty. Not the knowledge that another family would be mourning the loss of a husband and father when diplomacy failed, as it always did. Torm had been a decent sort, a chieftain who had genuinely cared for his people. But he had proved too stubborn, and now, like Targus Bloodfist, his life had come to an abrupt end on the inexorable edge of the Sword of the North.

  He recalled Torm’s last staggering steps. The way the chieftain’s hands tried desperately to cover the gaping wound in his throat while his guards died noisily nearby. The awe on the faces of Hrothgar’s men as Kayne had left the tent, fresh blood painting his new armour, the wyvernscale the Shaman had gifted him. He hadn’t wanted their admiration. He didn’t want the songs the bards had composed about him, songs they’d decided he might want to hear as he turned his back on them and mounted his horse and tried to shut out the horror of what he’d just done.

  He just wanted to be left alone.

  Kayne walked straight through the hall and out into the garden at the rear, expecting to find Mhaira there. He stopped in astonishment when he saw the garde
n. His wife’s pride and joy was in just as bad a state as the fields to the front of the house. The grass was long and wild, and the flowers Mhaira tended so keenly were dying from lack of water. Even the apple tree near the bench was overgrown. It looked as if no one had touched the garden for weeks.

  Brow creasing in confusion, Kayne went back inside – and almost walked straight into Magnar.

  ‘Son!’ he exclaimed happily. He moved to embrace his boy, but when Magnar made no move to return the gesture he turned it into an awkward pat on the shoulder instead. ‘Spirits above and below, lad, you’ve grown.’

  Magnar’s grey eyes were almost on a level with his own now. His son still possessed a boy’s frame, but he was beginning to fill out.

  ‘Pa. You’re back.’ Magnar’s voice was deeper than he remembered, and it sounded uncertain. Kayne reckoned he knew why.

  ‘Happy naming day, son,’ he said lamely. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be here. I rode as hard as I could. The King wanted me to bring him a report and, well… you ain’t interested in that, I’m guessing. I made you this. Braxus himself forged the blade.’ Kayne held the knife out. Magnar looked at it but didn’t move.

  ‘I never forgot,’ Kayne said pleadingly. ‘You know I wouldn’t forget. I’d have given anything to be here. Here, take it. It’s yours.’

  ‘I don’t want the stupid knife,’ Magnar blurted out. His grey eyes were clouded with anger. ‘Keep it. You might need it to kill someone.’

  Kayne blinked in shock. ‘I said I’m sorry, son. I ain’t claiming to be the greatest father in the world, but I did what I could.’

  ‘You weren’t here! You’re never here. My tutor told me they’re singing songs about you now. The others look at me like I’m lucky to have the Sword of the North as a father. I’d rather it was anyone but you.’

  Kayne found himself shaking. He and Magnar had argued before, but never in a fashion this ugly. He thrust the knife back in his belt. ‘It’s on account of your old man you got one of the best tutors in Beregund. You might want to remember that.’

  ‘How can I forget? Everyone always says how great you are, but you never cared about being a father. You never cared about my mother. You’re not around for her.’

  Kayne felt his fists clenching at his sides. ‘Well, ain’t that some gods-damned gratitude. You got no idea about the sacrifices I make to keep the Shaman happy. You think it was my own choice to travel all the way to the Blue Reaching just to cut a good man’s throat, you ungrateful little shit?’

  Magnar flinched, but then a moment later his anger seemed to return twofold. ‘You’re good at cutting men’s throats. It’s about all you can do. Are you going to hit me like you hit her?’

  Kayne staggered as if he’d been punched. ‘What did you say?’ he rasped. ‘What did you fucking say?’ He realized he had his hands on Magnar’s shoulders, saw the sudden fear in his son’s eyes. The fear of a boy faced by the fury of the most feared killer in the High Fangs. The realization hit him like a hammer. ‘I’d never strike you,’ he said, almost choking in shame. ‘You know that. What happened that afternoon, I wasn’t myself. I promise you I’ll never do anything like that again. You and your ma are everything to me. Where… where is she?’

  ‘Sleeping,’ Magnar said. His voice seemed to crack a little. ‘Pa…’

  Kayne paused with his hand on the door of the room he and Mhaira shared. ‘Aye, son?

  ‘She’s sick. Ma’s really sick.’

  He froze. The world seemed to rock around him. ‘Sick?’ he repeated, dumbstruck.

  ‘When I returned from Beregund a few months ago, she wasn’t herself. She kept coughing. She tried to hide it, but I saw blood. I think… I think she might not make it, Pa.’ His voice became a sob.

  Brodar Kayne closed his eyes, feeling as though a pit were opening beneath him and he were seconds from oblivion. It took all the courage he had to push the door open, to walk slowly over to the bed. In the dim light he could make out a shape beneath the thick furs. Too many furs for the height of summer.

  ‘May?’ he whispered. There was no response. Mhaira didn’t seem to be moving. He couldn’t hear her breathing. Sudden, animal terror filled him.

  ‘May?’ he whispered again, voice breaking. He was shaking, the pressure building in his head until he thought it might burst. He reached towards her with a trembling hand. He couldn’t remember when he’d last told her he loved her. What if she’d heard them arguing and it had proven too much for her, what if—

  ‘Brodar…?’

  Mhaira’s voice was a faint whisper. She shifted slightly, and then opened her eyes to stare up at him. Not with anger or bitterness or accusation. Only honest, heartbreaking love. ‘You’re back,’ she said. Her face was thin, much too thin. She was shockingly frail.

  But despite everything she smiled up at him, a heartfelt expression of such happiness that all he could do was fall to his knees and gather her gently in his arms, tears streaming down his cheeks, his body racked by silent sobs.

  He didn’t move from her side for two weeks. Not until the worst had eventually passed, and she was strong enough to rise from the bed.

  Sundered

  ‘Milo, leave his ears alone!’

  The little orphan grinned at Corinn and finally let go of Grunt’s big flapping ear. On the big mute’s opposite shoulder, Tiny Tom was babbling excitedly to his new best friend about everything under the stars. Every so often Grunt would nod or stifle a sigh or just cast a despairing look around. In truth, he had volunteered to carry the smallest of the orphans upon his broad shoulders and Kayne reckoned he was secretly enjoying being the centre of attention.

  He caught Brick glancing at Corinn while she scolded Milo. The flame-haired archer and the blue-eyed girl kept looking at each other when they thought the other wasn’t watching. Kayne smiled mischievously and leaned in close to Brick. ‘Pretty lass, that one,’ he whispered. ‘Reckon she’s about your age.’

  The youngster feigned a look of surprised disinterest. ‘Is she? I can’t say I’d noticed.’

  ‘She likes you.’

  Brick’s face began to flush crimson. ‘She doesn’t! Besides, she’s a Highland girl. I thought they were all crazy.’

  ‘That ain’t just Highland women, lad, that’s women in general. But take it from someone who knows – I’ve been married to a Highland lass for over twenty years and there ain’t a day gone by I regret it. You’d do well to find a wife like Corinn there.’

  ‘A wife?’ Brick said, aghast. ‘I don’t want to get married!’ He slowed his pace, falling back to walk alongside Jerek.

  ‘Nice to see you two getting along,’ Kayne muttered. Behind the three of them, the band of orphans clambered over the broken ground in a snaking line, Jana Shah Shan bringing up the rear. Their progress was torturously slow. The fact they were turning back the way they had come hadn’t gone down well with some, even though Corinn had tried to explain that they were being taken to a safe place. A few had cried or thrown tantrums until Jana went into her packs and handed them her remaining nana fruits, which quieted them for a time.

  The stars in the night sky shone like diamonds overhead as they inched towards the Greenwild in the distance. It was a dark blur on the horizon now, growing larger with each passing hour. They saw more standing stones on the way, though Jana no longer took the time to translate the runes carved onto them. All her efforts were focused on ensuring the children made it across the dangerous terrain safely.

  Appalling visions of Magnar trapped in a wicker cage occupied Kayne’s thoughts constantly. He felt his muscles tighten and forced them to relax. Whatever hurt that bastard Krazka had done to him Kayne would return tenfold. He’d made a promise to Mhaira once: a promise he would keep or die trying.

  ‘Ain’t long now. We’re almost to the Greenwild.’

  Jerek was right beside him, keeping pace with Kayne as the old warrior trudged on lost in his thoughts. The Wolf gave him a small nod. He’d never say it outright but Kayn
e knew that Jerek was concerned for him. The grim Highlander never showed any sign of weakness, would rather walk across hot coals than admit to feeling sympathy. But the Wolf knew all about promises. His word was his bond, and depending on where a man stood it could be either a death sentence or the greatest gift. He might be the angriest, surliest son of a bitch Kayne had ever known, a fearless warrior seemingly without peer, but Jerek was also the truest friend anyone could wish for. When it came right down to it, that was how you judged a person: not through their words but through their deeds.

  Kayne cleared his throat as they walked together. ‘I’ve been meaning to thank you. I couldn’t have made it this far without you.’

  Jerek merely grunted, his eyes betraying nothing.

  ‘When everyone else abandoned me, you stayed true. I don’t know what it cost you to free me from the Shaman’s cage and drag me away from the Fangs. I don’t know what you had to leave behind when we fled south. But words can’t express how grateful I am.’

  Jerek glanced at him then. ‘Shit, Kayne,’ he grumbled, ‘I said you was turning into a right old pussy.’ He hesitated for a moment – and then, much to Kayne’s shock, the Wolf reached across and gave him a companionable pat on the shoulder. ‘I made you a promise on account of what you did for me,’ Jerek said quietly. ‘Besides, friends watch out for one another, aye?’

  ‘Aye,’ Kayne said. And then the two men said nothing, walking side by side in that easy silence of brothers-in-arms who had been through hell together.

  Milo’s small voice reached them from somewhere up ahead, interrupting the peaceful calm. ‘Who are those men?’