Grim Company 02 - Sword Of The North

by Luke Scull

  ‘What?’ Kayne felt as though someone had stuck a knife in his ribs and twisted it.

  ‘Shortly after the Herald showed up the demons started getting more numerous. They flooded the Borderland, until the Wardens couldn’t hold the Keep any longer. Krazka offered the Foehammer a choice. Stand down and be spared the demons, or… Well, you can guess the rest.’

  Kayne thought back to that fateful moment on the bank of the Icemelt when Orgrim had saved his life. He thought back to the morning of his Initiation, when the Foehammer had volunteered to lead him into the Borderland together with the broken warrior sitting opposite him. ‘But the Foehammer was a man of honour,’ he whispered to Taran. ‘He was true.’

  Taran shrugged helplessly. ‘There’s none that are true any more. We’re old men, Kayne. We bend with the world or we break.’ He hiccupped, still half-drunk, and tried to hide his trembling hands.

  Silence followed. Kayne watched the foundlings playing in the snow. Brick had his arm around Corinn’s shoulders, the two of them staring out at the white hills. Jana was fiddling with the medallion she wore around her neck beneath her black clothing. Apparently the amulet, a gift from the Wizard-Emperor himself, would hasten her return home. According to Jana, its magic would function only for graduates of the Academy.

  Brodar Kayne cleared his throat. This was it. No point putting it off any longer. ‘There’s something I need to know,’ he said.

  Taran and Carver looked at him. Behind the three men the rest of the band waited. Occasionally someone would cast a curious glance in Kayne’s direction. ‘Go on,’ said Taran.

  ‘Mhaira. My wife. I thought she was dead, but the truth… the truth is she was exiled by the Shaman.’ He paused for a moment. Afraid to ask. Afraid to know the answer. ‘I wonder if you got any idea where she might be.’

  Carver looked puzzled. Like the rest of his band, he knew Kayne only by reputation.

  Taran, though, was a different matter. ‘I’ve spent the last eight years in exile,’ he said slowly. ‘Been all over the Fangs. Everywhere save the Heartlands, which were forbidden me by the terms of banishment. I never saw nor heard anything that might’ve led me to think Mhaira was close by.’

  Kayne sagged.

  ‘Except… there was this one evening…’ Taran closed his eyes, as if searching for something buried deep in his drink-scoured mind. ‘I was travelling back south two months ago. Returning home after I heard the Shaman got ousted. I passed near Beregund on the way. Nothing but a burned-out ruin now, but I wanted to see it for myself. Anyways, a few miles on I spotted a field with a couple of houses. I remember being surprised. I couldn’t understand why the army that marched on the capital had left them untouched. I saw light coming from one of the houses, and I thought to myself, this reminds me of the place my old friend told me about at Red Valley. When we was surrounded by Targus Bloodfist’s army and men were dying all around us, and we was sure we’d be joining them any moment. I asked you what it was that made you keep going. That made you fight on. And you answered that it was a vision. A vision of following the long road home after this was all over and stepping from the shadows into the light.’

  As Kayne listened to Taran, he began to shake. ‘Two months? he said, his voice husky. ‘You said it was two months back?’

  ‘Aye, two months. Give or take a week.’

  Kayne hesitated, frozen by uncertainty. He wanted nothing more than to find a horse and ride home and find Mhaira and take her in his arms. But that would take precious days of travel – and lead him away from Heartstone.

  Magnar needed him. His son was in dire trouble. The promise he’d made to Mhaira burned in his chest.

  ‘I need a horse,’ he said, climbing to his feet.

  Carver looked from Taran to Kayne. ‘You’re leaving?’

  ‘I’m going to join your pa and his army. Ain’t no more time to waste.’

  ‘There’s a farm a mile north of here. Place ought to have a horse of some kind.’

  Kayne went to Brick and Corinn. They turned as he approached. Kayne hesitated, then reached out and placed a hand on Brick’s shoulder. ‘I’m going to join the army. My son needs me. Afterwards I’m going home to Mhaira. She’s here, Brick. She’s alive.’

  Brick stared at him for a moment – and then his freckled face folded into an enormous smile. ‘I knew you’d find her!’ he exclaimed, his green eyes bright.

  A snowball hit Brick on the back of the head and he turned. Milo was grinning at them, hands dripping wet. The other foundlings were teaming up to build a big snowman. ‘His name’s Grunt!’ Tiny Tom piped up happily.

  ‘Corinn and me are going to Southhaven with the children,’ Brick said, wiping snow from his red hair. ‘They need someone to watch over them.’

  Kayne nodded. He’d figured as much. ‘Carver says you should be safe in the capital. As safe anyone can be in these dark times. The Green Reaching’s declared against Krazka. The Kingsmen that came through here looking for the younglings will be killed on sight, and so will anyone else proclaiming to serve that butcher. We’re at war now.’ He turned to Corinn. ‘Make sure you look after young Brick,’ he said, trying to keep his voice steady. ‘He ain’t as tough as he thinks he is.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ Corinn said, smiling shyly.

  ‘All right then, Brick,’ Kayne said. He cleared his throat.

  ‘All right,’ answered Brick, not meeting his eyes.

  They stood there awkwardly for a moment. Then Kayne leaned forward and embraced the young flame-haired archer. ‘You keep safe, you hear?’ he whispered. ‘I’ll come check on you once this is all over.’

  He felt Brick nod, and something suspiciously moist trickled down the boy’s cheek and landed on his hand. It might have been melted snow, except that it was warm.

  Having bid farewell to the youngsters, Kayne went to say goodbye to Jana. She nodded at him and adjusted her veil. ‘I’m sorry to say that I must shortly depart. There is no sign of the thief, and my betrothed is waiting for me.’ The snow fell more thickly now, flecking her black hair and clothes.

  ‘You never did tell me who your betrothed is.’

  Jana looked faintly embarrassed. ‘You recall I told you that he taught me much? I meant that literally. He is… was… my master at the Academy. Our relationship is forbidden by law. I thought that if I volunteered for this mission and succeeded, our indiscretions might be overlooked. But I have failed.’

  ‘You know,’ Kayne said, ‘there ain’t no shame in failing. There ain’t no shame in being afraid. Someone once told me to master fear. Turn it into a weapon.’

  ‘My body is my weapon,’ Jana said, though she sounded a lot less certain than when they had first met. She was still young, Kayne reminded himself. She might speak six languages and be a master of Unity and an agent of the one of the Confederation’s most powerful Magelords, the man her people revered as Wizard-Emperor, but she was still learning the truth of who she was.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Seems to me you can keep your fear closer than anyone. Turn it into your sword and your shield and your armour. Make it a thing nothing is able to pierce.’

  Jana appeared to consider his words. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I wish you good luck. I would like to help you in your war, but I have to bring word to the Emperor. The gholam must be stopped.’

  Kayne nodded and bid his final farewell to the Jade Islander. He saw Taran sitting on the snow, staring out at nothing in particular. He’d intended to leave the man in peace, but the haunted look on the ex-Warden’s face was so tragic he couldn’t help but go to him.

  ‘Carver’s band are heading north to join the army once they’re done recruiting here,’ Kayne said. ‘You going with them?’

  ‘I got a mind to.’

  ‘You looking to die?’

  ‘I should’ve died at Red Valley. Never could beat my own demons. Figure I might as well die fighting the other kind. The easier kind. Maybe I’ll see my daughter again before the end. Maybe not
. Don’t think she’d care much either way.’

  ‘Your daughter. That was your answer at Red Valley, when I asked you the same question you asked me.’

  ‘Aye,’ Taran said. ‘I remember.’

  ‘What was her name again? You know I ain’t ever been good with names.’

  Taran looked up at him. ‘Yllandris,’ he said.

  Several seconds passed before Kayne’s greatsword fell from his nerveless fingers and he sank to his knees in the snow.

  The Truth of Iron

  The blizzard was growing stronger, the biting cold working its way into his armour and setting his teeth to chattering even with the thick cloak wrapped tight around him and the hood pulled down. He hated winter. He hated this country. Gods, how he hated this country.

  Why did I come back?

  It didn’t matter any more. He was leaving, heading back to civilization, the Duke and his men be damned. If they discovered him, why, he would kill them. He was a knight. Let those worthless curs learn why he had once earned the name the Sword Lord.

  Somehow he had made it past the enemy line. The Greenmen were camped and ready to march on Heartstone, but like the rank amateurs they were they had left holes big enough for him to ride straight through. They hadn’t tried to stop him. No doubt they had simply mistaken the cloaked rider for one of their own. He smiled behind his visor. Only a few more miles and the Greenwild beckoned. Soon he would be free of this hellish place, never to return.

  A sudden gust of wind buffeted him with snow. His horse snorted and tried to shy away from the storm and Sir Meredith cursed, tugging viciously at the beast’s reins. If the blizzard got any worse it would be near impossible to see more than a few feet in front of his face. As luck would have it, a little further on a lone farmhouse emerged from the swirling snow. The light from within was inviting, and the knight reined in his horse and led it inside the small stables at the side of the house. Then he went to rap on the door.

  It opened to reveal an old man with a crown of white hair falling around a balding pate and a walking stick clutched tightly in one unsteady hand. He squinted through bleary eyes at the knight, who had little patience for such an inspection while he stood there in the freezing snow.

  ‘Who are you?’ Sir Meredith demanded, trying not to let his chattering teeth show.

  ‘Name’s Seb,’ said the grandfather. He appeared to hesitate for a moment, and then he shuffled aside and pointed indoors with his stick. ‘It’s no evening to be out riding. You come in out of the cold and I’ll get Drenna to bring you some warm stew.’

  Sir Meredith grunted and entered the hearth chamber, taking a seat by the fire. A moment later a younger woman, likely the old man’s daughter judging by her homely features, came and stood next to him, a steaming clay bowl grasped uncertainly in her hands. Sir Meredith lowered his hood and removed his helmet, placing it carefully down on the floor.

  ‘Give it here then, woman. Don’t stand there gawking.’

  The woman handed over the bowl. Sir Meredith stared down at the contents with a deep frown. ‘Where’s the spoon?’ he demanded. ‘Do you expect me to bury my face in this inedible filth like some farmyard animal? Fetch me some wine!’

  ‘We… we don’t have any wine. My husband has some mead in the back. I… I can bring you some, if it pleases you.’

  Sir Meredith gave a sharp nod, watching the wench’s swaying hips as she disappeared into the other room. She returned with a tankard of mead, spilling some on the floor with her shaking hand. He snatched it off her and raised it to his lips, taking a long swallow.

  ‘Gah!’ He spat the foul liquid all over the shocked woman, then hurled the clay mug across the room where it shattered against the far wall. ‘Are you trying to poison me, you stupid bitch?’

  There was a tapping sound from over near the door. It was the old man, Seb, his walking stick beating a furious rhythm. ‘That’s no way for a guest to behave, now. You’ve got some nerve, coming in here and speaking to my daughter like that. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’

  Sir Meredith was on his feet in a flash. He stormed across to the old man, who raised his stick in a pathetic defensive gesture. The knight tore it from his grasp and struck the fool across the side of the head, knocking him to the floor.

  ‘Papa!’ Seb’s daughter rushed across to them, but a quick backhand from Sir Meredith sent her sprawling too.

  He was breathing hard beneath his armour now, the old rage prodding at the blackness inside him. They dared disrespect him, this family of sheep-fuckers? As if Shranree’s barbs hadn’t been enough. As if the way the King had humiliated him back on the hill hadn’t been enough. He was tired of being treated with contempt. It was time to administer some harsh lessons.

  He took a step towards the sobbing woman, but just then a small face peeked out from behind another doorway and a small boy made to dash into the room. ‘Mama,’ he cried, but a hand reached out to stop him and a pale-faced man stepped forward.

  ‘Leave here,’ he pleaded, his voice trembling. ‘Please. We’ve done nothing to you. My Drenna was only trying to make you feel welcome in our home.’

  ‘Make me feel welcome,’ Sir Meredith echoed, his eyes not leaving the boy. ‘This is how you a welcome a knight? By feeding him goat shit and pisswater?’

  The man of the house, if he could even be called that, began to stutter a reply, but Sir Meredith held up a hand and cut him off. ‘You’re a coward. Your wife is an ugly cow. Maybe your father-in-law had some balls years ago, but they’re as shrivelled as the rest of him now. Come here, boy.’

  ‘No,’ the father said, his voice a ragged whisper. ‘Please.’

  ‘Don’t beg. It makes you sound even more wretched than you are.’

  ‘What… what are you going to do to him?’

  Sir Meredith smiled humourlessly. ‘I fail to see how that should concern you. Worry about the few seconds you and your wife have remaining to you instead. I might let this child live – but I can make no guarantees.’

  A long moment of terrified silence followed his words.

  And then from outside there came the sound of booted feet crunching on snow. It was the only sound besides the crackling of the hearth and Drenna’s sobs.

  A voice called out. An older man’s voice, proud but uncertain. ‘Sorry to bother you, but I don’t s’pose I could borrow that horse you got tied up in the stables over yonder? And if you got something to drink I’d be mighty grateful.’

  A shadow emerged from the doorway, and the light of the hearth illuminated the newcomer. He was tall and powerfully built, a little diminished by age but still in good fighting shape. Bright blue eyes peered out from a bearded face covered in the grime of countless days of travel. They were slightly puffy, as if he had recently been crying.

  Sir Meredith’s top lip curled in contempt. ‘That horse belongs to me. There is nothing for you here, barbarian.’

  The grizzled old warrior took another step into the house. He wore a leather hauberk, Sir Meredith saw, and the hilt of some godforsaken savage’s greatsword poked out above his shoulder. On the floor near the door, the old man gasped softly.

  ‘I said there is nothing for you here,’ Sir Meredith barked. His gauntleted hand came to rest on the hilt of the sabre at his belt. But as the warrior looked around the room, and his jaw tightened, and his blue eyes grew as clear and hard as a glacier on the coldest winter morning, the knight felt the briefest moment of unease.

  ‘Everything all right?’ the newcomer said slowly and deliberately. The woman at Sir Meredith’s feet let out a small sob, and her husband over near the other door made a strangled sound. The old warrior met his eyes for the briefest of moments. Then he nodded, and his scarred hands rose slowly to the hilt of his greatsword.

  ‘I warned you,’ Sir Meredith snapped. He drew his sabre and it whispered from its sheath like the promise of death. ‘You could have walked out of here, old fool. Now you’re just another corpse. A backwater savage whose faith in
your legends was sadly misplaced. I am Sir Meredith, a knight of Tarbonne, champion of the Circle, known as the Sword Lord. My sabre was forged by Dranthe, the finest smith in the Shattered Realms. Who are you?’

  ‘No one important.’

  Sir Meredith snorted at that. ‘At least you know your place.’

  The old warrior had his greatsword in his hands now. ‘Let me show you what happens when a barbarian meets a true knight,’ Sir Meredith declared. But those blue eyes didn’t waver. If anything they grew colder, and as Sir Meredith strode forward to meet this veteran he wondered idly who he was.

  It hardly mattered, of course. He was a champion of the Circle. He had killed a hundred men. He was a knight.

  He feinted and then launched a blinding chain of attacks, displaying perfect form, a masterful display of swordsmanship that would have made the Masters weep.

  He didn’t recall what happened next. All he knew was that somehow he was on the floor in a broken heap. He couldn’t move his arms or legs. But he could feel: half a dozen spots on his body screaming in agony where the dripping steel above him had found the gaps in his armour and cut his flesh to ribbons. The bearded face looked down at him, and he might have been staring into the gaze of the Reaver himself.

  ‘How…’ he tried to ask, but when he opened his mouth all that emerged was a thick bubble of blood. His killer turned and sheathed his greatsword. Then the stranger reached down and, with a gentleness that seemed impossible for a man so skilled at taking lives, helped the woman of the house to her feet.

  Sir Meredith’s eyes felt terribly heavy now, and as he turned his head to find a more comfortable position to die he saw Seb watching him.

  ‘You asked who he was,’ the old man said as he went to retrieve his walking stick. ‘That man there, I’ll tell you who he is.’

  Seb’s words seemed to reach him from very far away. ‘That man… is the Sword of the North…’

  The Wanderer

  The traveller ghosted through the grey and deserted streets, sweeping eyes suffused with crimson over the multitude of corpses lining the avenues, piled high against burned-out buildings that still smoked gently in the pre-dawn gloom. The blood of those who were unburned called to him, but he ignored it. There would be time to sate his hunger later. The journey had been arduous and depleted much of his power, yet the Master would suffer no delay.